CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY FROM Woodford Patterson PR 42OO.FI2T" "''"^""•l' Library Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tlie Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013442631 ROBERT BROWNING From a pholograpJi lakoi by Messrs. 1-^j-adcUe ■%• Young in iS6l OXFORD EDITION POEMS OF ROBERT BROWNING CONTAINING DRAMATIC LYRICS, DRAMATIC ROMANCES MEN AND WOMEN, DRAMAS, PAULINE, PARACELSUS CHRISTMAS-EVE AND EASTER-DAY, BORDELLO AND DRAMATIS PERSONAE HENRY FROWDE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS LONDON, NEW YORK, TORONTO AND MELBOURNE 1912 NOTE This volume includes (1) the contents of the three- volume edition of Browning's poems published in 1863 ; (2) Pauline, taken from the first edition (1833) ; (3) the contents of the second edition of the 1864 volume entitled Dramatis Personae ; (4) two short poems, a Sonnet and Ben Karshook's Wisdom, not reprinted by Browning in any collected edition of his poems ; and (5) Orpheus and Eurndice, which appeared first in the Royal Academy ,Cata Qg^g £qj. jgQ4 ^ fg^ obvious misprints have been \ooriJcted, and the ' elucidatory headings ' to Sordello, V*"ah fijst appeared in the edition of 1863, have been dAcarded, in accordance with Browning's own omission of them in the final edition of his poems (1889). No other alterations have been made in the text. [Dedication to the three volumes of 1863.] I DEDICATE THESE VOLUMES TO MY OLD FRIEND JOHN FORSTER, GLAD AND GRATEFUL THAT HE WHO, FROM THE FIE3T PITBLICATION OF THE VARIOUS POEMS THEY INCLDBE, HAS BEEN THEIR PROMPTEST AND STAUNCHEST HELBfSR, SHOULD SEEM EVEN NEARER TO ME NOW THAN THIRTY YEARS AGO. London, April 21, 1863 CONTENTS LYRICS PAGE Cavalier Tunes. I. Marching Along I II. Give a Rouse . . . . . 1 III. Boot and Saddle 2 The Lost Leader ... . . 2 ' How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix ' . 3 Through the Metidja to Abd-el-Kadr . . . . 4 Nationality in Drinks ... , . 5 Garden Fancies. I. The Flower's Name ... ... 5 II. SlBRANDUS ScHAPNABURQBNSIS . , 6 Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister , . . .7 -The Laboratory . 8 The Confessional . . . , 9 Ckistina . . .... . 10 The Lost Mistress .... . . 11 Earth's Immortalities . 11 Meeting at Night 12 Parting at Morning ..... ... 12 Song . . ....... 12 A Woman's Last Word . 12 Evelyn Hope 13 Love among the Ruins . 14 A Lovers' Quarrel . . .... 15 Up at a Villa — Down in the City 17 A Toccata of Galuppi's . 18 Old Pictures in Florence 20 ' De Gustibus — ' . ... .25 Home-Thoughts, from Abroad 25 Home-Thoughts, from the Sea 26 Saul ...... 26 My Star . .... 33 By the Fire-side . 33 VI CONTENTS PAGE Any Wife to Any Husband . 37 Two in the Campaqna . 40 Misconceptions .... .... 41 A Seebnadb at the Villa 41 One Way of Love . . 42 Another Way of Love ■ . 42 A Peetty Woman 42 Respectability .... . . .44 Love in a Life . ... ... 44 Life in a Love . 44 In Three Days . 44 In a Year . ... 45 Women and Roses ... 46 Before ... 47 After . . 48 The Guardian-Angel — a Picture at Fang .... 48 Memorabilia 49 Popularity 49 Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha 50 ROMANCES Incident of the French Camp 53 The Patriot — An Old Story 53 ^My Last Duchess — Feerara 54 Count Gismond — Arx in Provence 55 The Boy and the Angel 57 Instans Tyeannus ... .58 Mesmerism . . 59 The Glove 60 Time's Revenges 63 The Italian in England 64 The Englishman in Italy — Piano di Sorrento . 65 In a Gondola 69 Waring . ... .... 72 The Twins . . . ... 75 A Light Woman ... . . 75 The Last Ride Together . . .76 The Pied Piper of Hamelin ; a Child's Story . . 78 The Flight of the Duchess . . 82 A Grammarian's Funeral ... 96 CONTENTS vii PAGE Johannes Agbioola in Meditatioit ... .98 The Heretic's Teagedy — A Middle-Age Interlude . 98 Holy-Cross Day ... .100 Pbotus ... . -103 sThe Statue and the Bust . . 104 Porphyria's Lover . 107 Childe Eoland to the Dark Tower came ' . . . 108 MEN, AND WOMEN 'Transcendentalism:' a Poem in Twelve Books . .112 How IT Strikes a Contemporary . , . 113 Artemis Prologizes . . .115 An Epistle Containing the Strange Medical Experience op Karshish, the Arab Physician. . 117 PiCTOE lONOTUS ... . 122 Era Lippo Lippi . . . 123 Andrea del Sarto . .130 Saint Praxbd's Church . ... 134 Bishop Blougeam's Apoloov . . 136 Cleon . . ■ . • 153 RUDEL TO THE LadY OF TbIPOH 158 One Word More . 159 Sonnet . .... 163 Ben Karshook's Wisdom 163 Orpheus and Eurvdice — a Picture by Leighton . . . 163 TRAGEDIES AND OTHER PLAYS PippA Passes — a Drama . .... King Victor and King Charles— a Tragedy The Return oe the Druses — a Tragedy A Blot in the 'Scutcheon — a Teaoedy' . Colombe's Birthday — a Play^ . LuRiA — A Tragedy .... . . A Soul's Tragedy In a Balcony — a Scene Strafford — a Tragedy 164 190 220 252 277 312 343 359 374 Vlll CONTENTS ^Pauline ... "Paracelsus Chwstmas-Eve and Easter-Day sordello PAGE . 415 432 , 499 527 DRAMATIS FERSONAE Jambs Lee ... 619 Gold Hair : a Story of Pornio 624 The Worst of it ... . ... 627 Dis Alitee Visum; or. Lb Byron de Nos Jours . 629 Too Late . . ... 631 Abt Voolee ... ... 634 ■Rabbi Ben Ezra 636 A Death in the Desert . ... 639 Caliban upon Sbtebos ; or, Natural Theology in the Island 650 Confessions . 6S5 May and Death ... 656 "Prospice . 656 Youth and Art . . 657 A Face . . 658 ,A Likeness . . ... 658 -Mr. Sludge, ' The Medium ' . .... 659 Apparent Failure 685 Epilogue . . ........ 686 Note to Paracelsus . Index to First Lines 694 POEMS (1833-1864) BY ROBERT BROWNING In this Volume [pp. 1-162 of this edition] are collected and redistributed the pieces first published in 1842, 1845, and 1855, respectively, under the titles of 'Dramatic Lyrics,' 'Dramatic Romances,' and 'Men and Women.' Part of these were inscribed to my dear friend John Kenyon: I hope the whole may obtain the honour of an association with his memory. R. B. [1863.] LYRICS CAVALIER TUNES ' I. Marching Along I Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing : And, pressing a troop unable to stoop And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop. Marched them along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. n God for King Charles I Pym and such To the Devdl that prompts 'em their treasonous paries ! Cavaliers, up ! Lips from the cup. Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup Till you're — [Chorus] Marching along, fifty-score Great-hearted gentlemen, sing- ing this song. in Hampden to Hell, and his obsequies' knell Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well ! England, good cheer 1 Rupert is near ! Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here (Chorus] Marching along, fifty-score Great-hearted gentlemen, sing- ing this song ? Then, God for King Charles ! Pym and his snarls To the Devil that pricks on such pesti- lent carles ! Hold by the right, you double your might ; So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight, (Chorus] March we along, fifty-score strong. Great-hearted genilemen, sing- ing this song ! II. Give a Rouse I King Charles, and who'll do him right now ? King Charles, and who 's ripe for fight now ? Give a rouse : here 's, in Hell's despite now. King Charles I 1 Such Poems as the maiority in this volume [pp. 1-1132 of this edition] might also come properly the majority miu _ ^^^^.y^v , -houRh often Lyric in expression, mine. — E. B. xpressioD, not CAVALIER TUNES Who gave me the goods that went since ? Who raised me the house that sank once ? Who helped me to gold I spent since ? Who found me in wine you drank once ? (Chonis} King Charles, and who'll do him right now ? King Charles, and who ' s ripe for fight now ? Give a rouse : here 's in Hell's despite now. King Charles ! Ill To whom used my boy George quaff else. By the old fool's side that begot him ? For whom did he cheer and laugh else, While Noll's damned troopers shot him ? (Chorus) King Charles, and who'll do him right now ? King Charles, and who 'sripe for fight now ? Give a rouse : here 's, in Hell's despite now. King Charles I III. Boot and Saddle Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ! Rescue ray Castle, before the hot day Brightens to blue from its silvery grey, {Chorus) Boot, saddle, to horse, and away I II Kide past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; Many 's the friend there, will listen and pray 'God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay — (Chorus) Boot, saddle, to horse, and away I ' III Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay. Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Round- heads' array : Who laughs, ' Good fellows ere this, by my fay, (Chorus) Boot,, saddle, to horse, and Who ? My wife Gertrude ; that, honest and gay. Laughs when you talk of surrendering, 'Nay! I've better counsellors; what counsel they ? (Chorus), Boot, saddle, to horse, and away THE LOST LEADER Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat- Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us. Lost all the others she lets us devote ; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver. So much was theirs who so little allowed : How all our copper had gone for his service ! Rags — were they purple, his heart had been proud ! We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die I Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us. Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they watch from their graves ! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen. He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! We shall march prospering, — not thro' his presence ; Songs may inspirit us, — not from his lyre; Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his quiescence. Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire : Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more. THE LOST LEADER One task more declined, one more foot- path untrod. One more triumph for devils and sorrow for angels. One wrong more to man, one more insult to God ! Life's night begins : let him never come back to us ! There would be doubt, hesitation and pain. Forced prilise on our part — the glimmer of twilight. Never glad confident morning again ! Best fight on well, for we taught him, — strike gallantly. Menace our heart ere we master his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us. Pardoned in Heaven, the first by the throne I ■ HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX ' [16-] I I SPKANO to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirok galloped, we galloped all three ; ' Good speed ! ' cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew ; ' Speed ! ' echoed the wall to us gallop- ing through ; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest. And into the midnight we galloped abreast. Not a word to each other : we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place ; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight. Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuokled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit. Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 'Twas moonset at starting ; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear ; At Boom, a, great yellow star came out to see ; At Diitfeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be ; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime. So Joris broke silence with, ' Yet there is time ! ' IV At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun. And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past. And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last. With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. V And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ; And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance ! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in gallop- ing on. VI By Hasselt, Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, ' Stay spur ! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault 's not in her. We'll remember at Aix ' — for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees. And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank. As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff ; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white. And 'Gallop,' gasped Joris, 'for Aix is in sight ! ' VIII 'How they'll greet us!' — and all in a moment his roan Boiled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; And there was my Koland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate. With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim. And with circles of red for his eye- sockets' rim. IX Then I cast loose my buffooat, each holster let fall. Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all. Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear. Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer ; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good. Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground ; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine. Which (the burgesses voted- by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. THROUGH THE METIDJA TO ABD- EL-KADR 1842 I As I ride, as I ride. With a full heart for my guide. So its tide rocks my side. As I ride, as I ride. That, as I were double-eyed. He, in whom our Tribes confide. Is descried, ways untried As I ride, as I ride. II As I ride, as I ride To our Chief and his Allied, Who dares chide my heart's pride As I ride, as I ride ? Or are witnesses denied — Through the desert waste and wide Do I glide unespied As I ride, as I ride ? in As 1 ride, as I ride. When an inner voice has cried. The sands slide, nor abide (As I ride, as I ride) O'er each visioned homicide That came vaunting (has he lied ?) To reside — where he died. As I ride, as I ride. IV As I ride, as I ride. Ne'er has spur my swift horse plied. Yet his hide, streaked and pied, As I ride, as I ride. Shows where sweat has sprung and dried, — Zebra-footed, ostrioh-thighed — How has vied stride with stride As I ride, as I ride ! V As I ride, as I ride. Could I loose what Fate has tied. Ere I pried, she should hide (As I ride, as I ride) All that 's meant me — satisfied When the Prophet and the Bride Stop veins I'd have subside As I ride, as I ride ! NATIONALITY IN DRINKS NATIONALITY IN DRINKS I My heart sank with, our Claret-flask, Just now, beneath the heavy sedges That serve this pond's black face for mask ; And still at yonder broken edges Of the hole, where up the bubbles glisten, After my heart I look and listen. II Our laughing little flask, compell'd Thro' depth to depth more bleak and shady ; As when, both arms beside her held. Feet straightened out, some gay French lady Is caught up from life's light and motion. And dropped into death's silent ocean ! Dp jumped Tokay on our table. Like a pygmy castle-warder, Dwarfish to see, biit stout and able, Arms and accoutrements all in order ; And fierce he looked North, then, wheeling South, Blew with his bugle a challenge to Drouth, Cooked his flap-hat with the tosspot- feather. Twisted his thumb in his red moustache. Jingled his huge brass spurs together. Tightened his waist with its Buda sash. And then, with an impudence nought could abash. Shrugged his hump-shoulder, to tell the beholder. For twenty such knaves he should laugh but the bolder : And so, with his sword-hilt gallantly jutting, And dexter-hand on his haunch abut- ting, Went the little man. Sir Ausbrueh, strutting ! Here 's to Nelson's memory ! 'Tis the second time that I, at soa. Eight off Cape Trafalgar here. Have drunk it deep in British Beer. Nelson for ever — any time Am I his to command in prose or rhyme! Give me of Nelson only a touch, And I save it, be it little or much : Here ' s one our Captain gives, and so Down at the word, by George, shall it go ! He says that at Greenwich they point the beholder To Nelson's coat, ' still with tar on the shoulder. For he used to lean with one shoulder digging. Jigging, as it were, and zig-zag-zigging Up against the mizen-rigging ! GARDEN FANCIES I. The Flowek's Name I Heke's the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while since : Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince ! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned. As back with that murmur the wicket swung ; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned. To feed and forget it the leaves among. II Down this side of the gravel-walk She went while her robe's edge brushed the box : And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk- white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you noble roses, I know ; But yonder, see, where the rock- plants lie ! Ill This flower she stopped at, finger on lip. Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim ; Till she gave me, with pride to make no shp. Its soft meandering Spanish name: GARDEN FANCIES What a name ! was it love, or praise ? Speech half-asleep, or song half- awake ? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake. IV Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell. Fit you each with his Spanish phrase ; But do not detain me now ; for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground. And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found. V Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not. Stay as you are and be loved for ever ! Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not. Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never ! For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle. Twinkling the audacious leaves be- tween. Till round they turn and down they nestle — Is not the dear mark still to be seen ? VI Where I find her not, beauties vanish ; Whither I follow her, beauties flee; Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June's twice June since she breathed it with me ? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces. Treasure my lady's lightest footfall — Ah, you may flout and turn up youri Roses, you are not so fair after all ! II. SiBKANDUS SCHAFNABUBGEKSIS I Plague take all your pedants, say I ! He who wrote what I hold in my hand. Centuries back was so good as to die, Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land; This, that was a book in its time. Printed on paper and bound in leather. Last month in the white of a matin- prime Just when the birds sang all together. Into the garden I brought it to read. And under the arbute and laurustine Read it, so help me grace in my need, From title-page to closing line. Chapter on chapter did I count. As a curious traveller counts Stone- henge ; Added up the mortal amount : And then proceeded to my revenge. Yonder 's a plum-tree with a crevice An owl would build in, were he but For a lap of moss, like a fine pont-levis In a castle of the middle age. Joins to a lip of gum, pure amber ; When he'd be private, there might he spend Hours alone in Ms lady's chamber : Into this crevice I dropped our friend. rv Splash, went he, as under he ducked, — I knew at tbe bottom rain-drip- pings stagnate ; ISText a handful of blossoms I plucked To bury him with, my bookshelf's magnate ; Then I went indoors, brought out -i loaf, Half a cheese, and a bottle of Chablis ; Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais. V Now, this morning, betwixt the moss And gum that locked our friend in limbo, A spider had spun his web across. And sat in the midst with arms akimbo : So, I took pity, for learning's sake. And, de profundis, accentibus laetis, Cantaie I quoth I, as I got a rake. And up I fished his delectable trea- tise. GARDEN FANCIES Here you have it, dry in the sun, j With all the binding all of a blister, 1 And great blue spots where the ink has run. And reddish streaks that wink and' glister I O'er the page so beautifully yellow : j Oh, well have the droppings played] their tricks ! Did he guess how toadstools grow, this fellow ? Here's one stuck in his chapter six! VII How did he like it when the live creatures Tickled- and toused and browsed him all over. And worm, slug, eft, with serious features. Came in, each one, for his right of trover ? — When the water-beetle with great blind deaf face Made of her eggs the stately deposit, And the newt borrowed just so much of! the preface As tiled in the top of his black wife's closet ? VIII All that life and fun and romping. All that frisking and twisting and coupling, While slowly our poor friend's leaves! were swamping ' And clasps were cracking and covers: suppling ! As if you had carried sour John Knox To the play-house at Paris, Vienna or Munich, Fastened him into a front-row box, And danced off the ballet with trousers and tunic. IX Come, old martyr ! What, torment i enough is it ? Back to my room shall you ta)ke your sweet self ! Good-bye, mother-beetle ; husband-eft, sufficit / See the snug niche I have made on my shelf. A.'a book shall prop you up, B.'s shall cover you, Here's C. to be' grave with, or D. to be gay, And with E. on each side, and F. right over you. Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment- day ! SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER I Gr-b-b — there go, my heart's abhor- rence ! Water your damned flower-pots, do t If hate killed men. Brother Lawrence, God's blood, would not mine kill you i What ? your myrtle-bush wants trim- ming ? Oh, that rose has prior claims — Needs its leaden vase filled brimming ? Hell dry you up with its flames ! II At the meal we sit together : Salve tibi ! I must hear Wise talk of the kind of -weather. Sort of season, time of year : Not a plenteous cork-crop : scarcely Dare we hope oak-gaUs, I dovht : What's the Latin name for 'parsley'? What's the Greek name for Swine's Snout ? in Whew ! We'll have our platter bur- nished. Laid with care on our own shelf ! With a fire-new spoon we're furnished. And a goblet for ourself. Rinsed like something sacrificial Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps — Marked with L. for our initial ! (He-he ! There his lily snaps !) IV Saint, forsooth ! While brown Dolores Squats outside the Convent bank, With Sanohicha, telling stories. Steeping tresses in the tank, Blue-blaok, lustrous, thick like horse- hairs, — Can't I see his dead eye glow. Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's J (That is, if he'd let it show !) SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER When he finishes refection. Knife and fork he never lays Cross-wise, to my recollection. As do I, in Jesu's praise. I, the Trinity illustrate, Drinking watered orange-pulp — In three sips the Arian frustrate ; While he drains his at one gulp '. Oh, those melons ! If he 's able We're to have a feast ; so nice ! One goes to the Abbot's table. All of us get each a slice. How go on your flowers ? None double? Not one fruit-sort can you spy ? Strange ! — And I, too, at such trouble, Keep them close-nipped on the sly ! There 's a great text in Galatians, Once you trip on it, entails Twenty-nine distinct damnations, One sure, if another fails : If I trip him just a-dying, Sure of Heaven as sure as can be. Spin him round and send him flying Off to Hell, a Manichee ? Or, my scrofulous French novel On grey paper with blunt type ! Simply glance at it, you grovel Hand and foot in Belial's gripe : If I double down its pages At the woeful sixteenth print. When he gathers his greengages. Ope a sieve and slip it in't ! Or, there 's Satan ! — one might venture Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave Such a flaw in the indenture As he'd miss till, past retrieve. Blasted lay that rose-acacia We're so proud of ! Hy, Zy, Sine . . . 'St, there 's Vespers ! Plena gratid Ave, Virgo I Gr-r-r — you swine ! THE LABORATORY [ancien regime] I Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly. May gaze thro' these faint smokes curl- ing whitely. As thou pliest thy trade in this devil's- smithy — Which is the poison to poison her, prithee ? He is with her ; and they know that I know Where they are, what they do : they believe my tears flow While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear Empty church, to pray God in, for them ! — I am here. Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste, Pound at thy powder, — I am not in haste ! Better sit thus, and observe thy strange things. Than go where men wait me and dance at the King's. That in the mortar — you call it a gum ? Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come ! And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue. Sure to taste sweetly, — ^is that poison too ? Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures, What a wild crowd of invisible plea- sures r To carry pure dea,th in an earring, a casket, A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree-basket ! THE LABORATORY Soon, at the King's, a mere lozenge tq give And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live ! , But to light a pastille, and Elise, with her head And her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop dead ! Quick — is it finished ? The colour's too grim ! Why not soft like the phial's, enticing and dim ? Let it brighten her drink, let her turii it and stir, I And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer ! -vm What a drop ! She 's not little, no minion like me — That's why she ensnared him: this never will free The soul from those masculine eyes, — say, 'no !' To that pulse's magnificent come-and- go- IX Tor only last night, as they whispered, I brought My own eyes to bear on her so, that I thought Could I keep them one half minute fixed, she would fall. Shrivelled ; she fell not ; yet this does it all ! X . Not that I bid you spare her the pain ! Let death be' felt and the proof remain ; Brand, burn up, bite into its grace — He is sure to remember her dying face ! Is it done ? Take my mask off ! 'Nay, be not morose It kills her, and this prevents seeing it '.close: The delicate droplet, my whole for- tune's fe8< — ■ If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me ? Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill, You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth ii you will ! But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings Ere I know it — next moment I dance at the King's ! THE CONFESSIONAL [SPAIN] I It is a lie — their Priests, their Pope, Their Saints, their ... . all they fear. or hope Are lies, and lies — there ! through my door And ceiling, there ! and walls and floor. There, Ues, they lie — shall still be hurled Till spite of them I reach the world ! n You think Priests just and holy men ! Before they put me in this den I was a human creature too. With flesh and blood like one of you, A girl that laughed in beauty's pride Like lilies in your world outside. Ill I had a lover — shame avauut ! This poor wrenched body, grim and gaunt. Was kissed all over till it burned. By lips the truest, love e'er turned His heart's own tint : one night they kissed My soul out in a, burning mist. IV So, nest day when the accustomed train Of things grew round my sense again, ' That is a sin,' I said : and slow With downcast eyes to church I go. And pass to the confession-chair. And tell the old mild father there. But when I falter Beltran's name, 'Ha?' 'quoth the father; 'much .1 blame 3 10 THE CONFESSIONAL The sin ; yet wherefore idly grieve ? Despair not, — strenuously retrieve ! Nay, I will turn this love of thine To lawful love, almost divine. VI For he is young, and led astray, This Beltran, and he schemes, men say. To change the laws of church and state ; So, thine shall be an angel's fate, Who, ere the thunder breaks, should roll Its cloud away and save his soul. VII For, when he lies upon thy breast. Thou may'st demand and be possessed Of all his plans, and next day steal To me, and all those plans reveal, That I and every priest, to purge His soul, may fast and use the scourge.' That father's beard was long and white. With iove and truth his brow seemed bright ; I went back, all on fire with joy. And, that same evening, bade the boy. Tell me, as lovers should, heart-free, Something to prove his love of me. IX He told me what he would not tell For hope of Heaven or fear of Hell ; And I lay listening in such pride ! And, soon as be had left my side, Tripped to the church by morning-light To save his soul in his despite. X I told the father all his schemes, Who were his comrades, what their dreams ; ' And now make haste,' I said, ' to pray The one spot from his soul away ^ To-night he comes, but not the same Will look !' At night he never came. XI Nor next night : on the after-morn, I went forth with a strength new-born. The church was empty ; something drew My steps into the street ; I knew It led me to the market-place': Where, lo, on high, the father's face ! That horrible black scaffold drest, That stapled block . . . God sink the rest ! That head strapped back, that blind- ing vest. Those knotted hands and naked breast. Till near one busy hangman pressed. And, on the neck these arms caressed. . . . No part in aught they hope or fear ! No Heaven with them, no Hell ! — and here, No Earth, not so much space as pens My body in their worst of dens But shall bear God and Man my cry. Lies — Ues, again — and still, they lie ! CBISTINA She should never have looked at me If she meant I should not love her I There are plenty . . . men, you call such, I suppose . . . she may discover All her soul to, if she pleases. And yet leave much as she found them: But I'm not so, and she knew it When she fixed me, glancing round them. II What ? To fix me thus meant nothing ? Biit I can't tell (there's my weak- ness) What her look said ! — no vile cant, sure. About 'need to strew the bleakness Of some lone shore with its pearl-seed, That the sea feels ' — no ' strange yearning That such souls have, most to lavish Where there 's chance of least return- ing.' Ill Oh, we're sunk enough here, God knows ! But not quite so sunk that moments, Sure tho' seldom, are denied us, When the spirit's true endowments CRISTINA 11 Stand out plainly from its false ones, And apprise it if pursuing Or the right way or the wrong way, To its triumph or undoing. IV There are flashes struck from mid- nights, There are fire-flames noondays kindle, Whereby piled-up honours perish. Whereby swoln ambitions dwindle. While just this or that poor impulse Which for once had play unstified Seems the sole work of a lifetime That away the rest have trifled. V Doubt you if, in some such moment, As she fixed me, she felt clearly. Ages past the soul existed. Here an age 'tis resting merely, And hence fleets again for ages. While the true end, sole and single. It stops here for is, this love-way. With some other soul to mingle ? Else it loses what it lived for And eternally must lose it ; Better ends may be in prospect. Deeper blisses (if you choose it) But this life's end and this love-bliss Have been lost here. Doubt you whether This she felt as, looking at me. Mine and her souls rushed together. Oh, observe ! Of course, next moment. The world's honours, in derision. Trampled out the light for ever : Never fear but there 's provision Of the Devil's to quench knowledge Lest we walk the earth in rapture ! — Making those who catch God's secret Just so much more prize their cap- ture. VIII Such am I : the secret 's mine now ! She has lost me, I have gained her ; Her soul 's mine : and thus, grown perfect, I shall pass my life's remainder. Life will just hold out the proving Both our powers, alone and blended ; And then, come the next life quickly ! This world's use will have been ended. THE LOST MISTRESS I All 's over, then : does truth sound bitter As one at first believes ? Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter About your cottage eaves ! II And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that, to-day ; One day more bursts them open fully — You know the red turns grey. in To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest ? May I take your hand in mine ? Mere friends are we, — well, friends the merest Keep much that I'll resign : IV For each glance of that eye so bright and black. Though I keep with heart's endea- vour, — Your voice, when you wish the snow- drops back. Though it stay in my soul for ever ! — V Yet I will but say what mere friends say. Or only a thought stronger ; I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer ! EARTH'S IMMORTALITIES FAME See, as the prettiest graves will do in tiine. Our poet's wants the ^freshness of its prime : 12 EARTH'S IMMORTALITIES Spite of the sexton's browsing horse, the sods Have struggled through its binding osier-rods ; Headstone and half-sunk footstone lean awry. Wanting the brick-work promised by- and-by ; How the minute grey lichens, plate o'er plate. Have softened down the crisp-cut name and date ! So, the year's done with ! (Love me for ever !) All March begun with, April's endeavour ; May-wreaths that bound me June needs must sever ; Now snows fall round me. Quenching June's fever — {Love me for ever !) MEETING AT NIGHT The grey sea and the long black land ; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep. As I gain the cove with pushing prow. And quench its speed in the slushy sand. II Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach ; Three fields to cross till a farm appears ; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match. And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fearsj Than the two hearts beating each to each ! PARTING AT MOBNING Round the cape of a sudden came the sea. And the sun looked over the mountain's rim : And straight was a path of gold for him. And the need of a world of men for me. SONG I Nay but you, who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress ? Holds earth aught^speak truth — above her ? Aught like this tress, see, and this tress. And this last fairest tress of all, So fair, see, ere I let it fall ? II Because, you spend your lives in prais- ing; To praise, you search the wide world over : So, why not witness, calmly gazing. If earth holds aught — speak truth — above her ? Above this tress, and this I touch But cannot praise, I love so much ! A WOMAN'S LAST WORD I Let 's contend no more. Love, Strive nor weep : All be as before. Love, — Only sleep ! n What so wild as words are ? I and thou In debate, as birds are. Hawk on bough ! ni See the creature stalking While we speak ! Hush and hide the talking. Cheek on cheek ! What so false as truth is. False to thee ? Where the serpent's tooth is, Shun the tree — Where the apple reddens Never pry — Lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I ! A WOMAN'S LAST WORD 13 VI Be a god and hold me With a charm ! Be a man and fold me With thine arm ! VII Teach me, only teach, Love ! As I ought I will speak thy speech. Love, Think thy thought— VIII Meet, if thou require it, Both demands. Laying flesh and spirit In thy hands. IX That shall be to-morrow Not, to-night : I must bury sorrow Out of sight : X — Must a little weep. Love, (Foolish me !) And so fall asleep. Love, Loved by thee. EVELYN HOPE Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; She plucked that piece' of geranium- flower. Beginning to die too, in the glass ; Little has yet been changed, I think : The shutters are shut, no light may pass Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. , II Sixteen years old when she died I Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name ; It was not her time to love ; beside. Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares. And now was quiet, now astir. Till God's hand beckoned unawares, — And the sweet white brow is all of her. Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope ? What,, your soul was pure and true, JThe good stars met in your horoscope. Made you of spirit, fixe and dew — And, just because I was thrice as old And our paths in the world diverged so wide, lEach was nought to each, must I be I told ? We were fellow mortals, nought I beside ? IV No, indeed ! for God above j Is great to grant, as mighty to make, 'And creates the love to reward the love : I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! Delayed it may be for more lives yet, I Through worlds I shall traverse, not I a few : jMuch is to learn and much to forget I Ere the time be come for taking you. !But the time will come, — at last it will, ' When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, j I shall say, In the lower earth, in the years long ! still. That body and soul so pure and gay ? Why your hair was ' amber, I shall divine, And your mouth of your own gera- nium's red — And what you would do with me, in fine. In the new life come in the old one's stead. ! I have lived, I shall say; so much since then. Given up myself so many times, Gained me the gains of various men, j Ransacked, the ages, spoiled the ; climes ; Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full ' scope. Either I missed or. itself missed me : And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! What is the issue ? let us see ! 14 EVELYN HOPE I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ! My heart seemed full as it could hold- There was place and to spare for the frank young smile And the red young mouth and the hair's young gold. So, hush, — I will give you this leaf to keep — See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. There, that is our secret ! go to sleep ; You will wake, and remember, and understand. LOVE AMONG THE EUINS I Whekb the quiet-coloured end of even- ing smiles Miles and miles On the solitary pastures where our sheep Half-asleep Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, . stray or stop As they crop — n Was the site once of a city great and gay, (So they say) Of our country's very capital, its prince Ages since Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far Peace or war. Ill Now — the country does not even boast a tree. As you see. To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills From the hills Intersect and give a name to, (else they run Into onej IV Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires Up like fires O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall Bounding all. Made of marble, men might march on nor be prest. Twelve abreast. And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass Never was ! Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads And embeds Every vestige of the city, guessed alone. Stock or stone — Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe Long ago ; Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame Struck them tame ; And that glory and that shame alike, the gold Bought and sold. Now, — the single little turret that remains On the plains. By the caper overrooted, by the gourd Overscored, While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks Through the chinks — Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time Sprang sublime. And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced As they raced. And the monarch and his minions and his dames Viewed the games. IS And I know, while thus the quiet- coloured eve Smiles to leave LOVE AMONG THE RUINS 15 To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece In such peace. And the slopes and rills in undistin- guished grey Melt away — X That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair Waits me there In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul For the goal. When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb TiU I come. But he looked upon the city, every side. Far and wide. All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades' Colonnades, All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, — and then. All the men 1 XII When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand. Either hand On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace Of my face, Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and Each on each. xin In one year they sent a million fighters forth South and North, And they built their gods a brazen pillar high As the sky. Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force — Gold, of course. Oh, heart ! oh, blood that freezes, blood that burns ! Earth's returns For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin ! Shut them in. With their triumphs and their glories and the rest. Love is best ! A LOVERS' QUARREL I Oh, what a dawn of day ! How the March sun feels like May ! All is blue again After last night's rain. And the South dries the hawthorn- spray. Only, my Love 's away ! I'd as lief that the blue were grey. II Runnels, which rillets swell. Must be dancing down the dell With a foamy head On the beryl bed Paveu smooth as a hermit's cell ; Each with a tale to tell. Could my Love but attend as well. Ill Dearest, three months ago ! When we lived blocked-up with snow, — When the wind would edge In and in his wedge. In, as far as the point could go — Not to our ingle, though, Where we loved each the other so ! IV Laughs with so little cause ! We devised games out of straws. We would try and trace One another's face In the ash, as an artist draws ; Free on each other's flaws. How we chattered like two church daws ! v What's in the 'Times'?— a scold At the Emperor deep and cold ; He has taken a bride To his gruesome side. That 's as fair as himself is bold : There they sit ermine-stoled. And she powders her hair with gold. 16 A LOVERS' QUARREL Fancy the Pampas' sheen ! Miles and miles of gold and green Where the sunflowers blow In a solid glow, And to break now and then the screen — Black neck and eyeballs keen, tJp a wild horse leaps between ! VII Try, will our table turn ? Layi your hands there light, and yearn Till the yearning slips Thro' the finger-tips In a fire which a few discern. And a very few feel burn. And the rest, they may live and learn ! vin Then we would up and pace, For a change, about the place. Each with arm o'er neck : 'Tis our quarter-deck, We are seamen in woeful case. Help in the ocean*space ! Or, if no help, we'll embrace. See, how she looks now, , drest In a sledging-cap and vest ! 'Tis a huge fur cloak- Like a reindeer's yoke Falls the lappet along, the breast : Sleeves for her arms to rest. Or to hang, as my Love likes best. Teach me to flirt a fan As the Spanish ladies can. Or I tint your Up With a burnt stick's tip And you turn into such a man ! Just the two spots that span Half the bill of the young male swan. Dearest, three months ago When the mesmerizer Snow With his hand's first sweep Put the earth to sleep ! 'Twas a time when the heart could show AU — how was earth to know, 'Neath the mute hand's to-and-fro 1 ©earest, three months ago When we loved each other so. Lived and loved the same ' Till an evening came |When a shaft from the Devil's bow j Pierced to our ingle-glow. And the friends were friend and foe ! I xm iNot from the heart beneath — I'Twas a bubble born of breath, 1 Neither sneer nor vaunt. Nor reproach, nor taunt. See a word, how it severeth ! Oh, power of life and death In the tongue, as the Preacher saith ! I XIV Woman, and will you cast For. a word, quite oflf at last ! Me, your own, your You, — Since, as truth is true, I was You all the happy Past — Me do you leave aghast With the memories We amassed. ?, Love, if you knew the light That your soul casts in my sight. How I look to you For the pure and true. And the beauteous and the right, — Bear with a moment's spite When a mere mote threats the white ! What of a hasty word ? Is the fleshly heart not stirred By a worm's pin-prick Where its roots are quick ? See the eye, by a fly's-.foot blurred — Ear, when a straw is heard Scratch the brain's coat of curd I XVII Foul be the world or fair More or less, how can I care ? j 'Tis the world the same For my praise or blame, And endurance is easy there. Wrong in the one thing raro— Oh, it is hard to bear I A LOVERS' QUARREL 17 xvin Here 'a the spring back or close, When the almond-blossom blows ; In that minor third There is none but the ouokoo knows : Heaps of the guelder-rose ! I must bear with it, I suppose. XIX Could but November come, Were the noisy birds struck dumb At the warning slash Of his driver's-lash — I would laugh like the valiant Thumb Facing the castle glum And the giant's fee-faw-fum ! XX Then, were the world well stript Of the gear wherein equipped We can stand apart, Heart dispense with heart In the sun, with the flowers unnipped, — Oh, the world's hangings ripped. We were both in a bare-walled crypt ! XXI Each in the crypt would cry 'But one freezes here ! and why ? When a heart as chill At my own would tliriU Back to life, and its fires out-fly 'I Heart, shall we live or die ? The rest, . . . settle it by and by !' XXII So, she'd efface the score, And forgive me as before. It is twelve o'clock : I shall hear her knock In the worst of a storm's uproar, I shall pull her through the door, I shall have her for evermore ! UP AT A VILLA— DOWN IN THE CITY (As Distinguished by an Itaxjan Peeson of Quality) I Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare. The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square ; Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there ! Something, to see, by Bacchus, some- thing to hear, at least ! There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast ; While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast. Well now, look at our villa ! stuck like the horn of a bull iJust on a mountain's edge as bare as the creature's skull. Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull ! — I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair 's turned wool. But the city, oh the city — the square with the houses ! Why ? They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there 's something to take the eye ! Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry ! You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by ; Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high ; And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly. What of a villa ? Though winter be over in March by rights, 'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well oft the heights : You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze, And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint grey olive-trees. Is it better in May, I ask you ? you've summer all at once ; In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns ! 'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well. The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red belli Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell. 18 UP AT A VILLA— DOWN IN THE CITY Is it ever hot in the square ? There 's a fountain to spout and splash ! In the shade it sings and springs ; in the shine such foam-bows flash On the horses with curling fish-taila, that prance and paddle and pash Round the lady atop in the conch — $fty gazers do not abash, Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash ! AH the year long at the villa, nothing 's to see though you linger, . Except yon cypress that points like Death's lean lifted forefinger. Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn and mingle, Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is slu-ill. And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill. Enough of the seasons, — I spare you the months of the fever and chill. Ere opening your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin : No sooner the bells leave off, than the diligence rattles in : You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth ; Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. At the post-ofiSoe such a scene-picture — ^the new play, piping hot ! And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot. Above it, behold the archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes. And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's ! Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome, and Cicero, 'And moreover,' (the sonnet goes rhym- ing,) ' the skirts of Saint Paul has reached. Having preached us those six Lent lectures more unctuous than ever he preached.' Noon strikes, — here sweeps the proces- sion ! our Lady borne smiling and smart With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart ! Bang, whang, whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootte the fife ; No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life. But bless you, it's dear — it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate. They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate It's a horror to think of. Aiid so, the villa for me, not the city ! Beggars can scarcely be choosers : but still — ah, the pity, the pity ! Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals. And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles ; One, he carries » flag up straight, and another a cross with handles. And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals : Bang, whang, whang goes the drum, tooUe-te-tooUe the fife. Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in UJEe ! A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S 1 Oh, Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find ! I can hardly misconceive you ; it would prove me deaf and blind ; But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind ! Here you come with your old music, and here 's all the good it brings. A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S 19 What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the kings, Where St. Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings ? Ay, because the sea 's the street there ; and 'tis arched by . . . what you call . . . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival : I was never out of England — it 's as if I saw it all ! Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May ? Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say ? Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red, — On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed. O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head ? Well, (and it was graceful of them) they'd break talk o£E and afford — She, to bite her mask's black velvet, he, to finger on his sword. While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord ? What ? Those lesser thirds so plain- tive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh. Told them something ? Those suspen- sions, those solutions — 'Must we die ?' Those commiserating sevenths — 'Life might last ! we can but try !' vm 'Were you happy ?' — 'Yes.' — 'And are you still as happy ?' — 'Yes. And you?' — 'Then, more kisses !' — 'Did / stop them, when » million seemed so few?' Hark ! the dominant's persistence, till it must be answered to ! So an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say ! 'Brave Galuppi ! that was music ! good alike at grave and gay ! I can always leave off talking, when I hear a master play.' Then they left you for their pleasure : till in due time, one by one. Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone. Death came tacitly and took them where they never see the sun. But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve. While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve, In you come with your cold music, till I creep thro' every nerve. Yes, you, Uke a ghostly cricket, creak- ing where a house was burned — 'Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned ! The soul, doubtless, is immortaJ — where a soul can be discerned. Yours for instance, you know physics, something of geology. Mathematics are your pastime ; souls shall rise in their degree ; Butterflies may dread extinction, — you'll not die, it cannot be ! As for Venice and its people, merely bom to bloom and drop. Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop : What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop ? 20 A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S 'Dust and ashes!' So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold. Dear dead women, with such hair, too — what 's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms ? I feel chilly and grown old. OLD^ PICTURES IN FLORENCE 1 The morn when first it thunders in March, The eel in the pond gives a leap, they say: As I leaned and looked over the aloed arch Of the villa-gate, this warm March day. No flash suapt, no dumb thunder rolled In the valley beneath where, white and wide And washed by the morning's water-gold, Florence lay out on the mountain side. River and bridge and street and square Lay mine, as much at my beck and call. Through the live translucent bath of air, As the sights in a magic crystal ball. And of all I saw and of all I praised. The most to praise and the best to see. Was the startling bell-tower Giotto raised : But why did it more than startle me ? Giotto, how, with that soul of yours. Could you play me false who loved you so ? Some slights if a certain heart endures Yet it feels, I would have your fellows know ! r faith, I perceive not why I should care To break a silence that suits them best, But the thing grows somewhat hard to bear When I find a Giotto join the rest. On the arch where olives overhead Print the blue sky with twig.and leaf, (That sharp-curled leaf which they never shed) 'Twixt the aloes, I used to lean in chief. And mark through the winter after^ noons. By a gift God grants me now and then, In the mild decline of those suns like moons. Who walked in Florence, besides her They might chirp and chaffer, come and go For pleasure or profit, her men aUve — ,My business was hardly with them, I I trow, ' But with empty cells of the human hive; — With the chapter-room, the cloister- porch. The church's apsis, aisle or nave. Its crypt, one fingers along with a torch. Its face, set full for the sun to shave. Wherever a fresco peels and drops. Wherever an outline weakens and wanes Till the latest life in the painting stops. Stands One whom each fainter pulse- tick pains ! One, wishful each scrap should clutch i the brick. Each tinge not wholly escape the plaster, — A lion who dies of an ass's kick, The wronged great soul of an ancient Master. VII For oh, this world and the wrong i4 does ! . They, are safe in Heaven with theip backs to it, iThe Michaels and Bafaels, you hum and buzz Bound the works of, you of the little wit ! OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE 21 Do their eyes contract to the earth's old scope. Now that they see God face to face, And have all attained to be poets, I hope? 'Tis their holiday now, in any case. vni Much they reck of your praise and you ! But the wronged great souls — can they be quit Of a world where their work is all to do, Where you style them, you of the Uttle wit, Old Master This and Early the Other, Not dreaming that Old and New are fellows : A younger succeeds to an elder brother. Da Vincis derive in good time from DeUos. IX And here where your praise might yield returns. And a handsome word or two give help, Here, after your kind, the mastiS girns And the puppy pack of poodles yelp. What, not a word for Stefano there, Of brow once prominent and starry, Called Nature's Ape and the world's despair For his peerless painting ? (see Vasari.) X There stands the Master. Study, my friends. What a man's work comes to ! so he plans it. Performs it, perfects it, makes amends For the toiling and moiling, and then, sic transit I Happier the thrifty blind-folk labour. With upturned eye while the hand is busy. Not sidling a glance at the coin of tjieir neighbour ! 'Tis looking downward that makes one dizzy. XI 'If you knew their work you would deal your dole.' May I take upon me to instruct you ? When Greek Art ran and reached the goal. Thus much had the world to boast in fructu — The truth of Man, as by God first spoken. Which the actual generations garble. Was re-uttered, and Soul (which Limbs betoken) And Limbs (Soul informs) made new in marble. So, you saw yourself as you wished you ■ were, As you might have been, as you cannot be ; Earth here, rebuked by Olympus there : And grew content in your poor With your little power, by those statues' godhead. And your Uttle scope, by their eyes' full sway. And your little grace, by their grace embodied. And your little date, by their forms that stay. XIII You would fain be kinglier, say, than I am ? Even so, you will not sit like Theseus. You'd fain be a model ? the Son of Priam Has yet the advantage in arms' and knees' use. You're wroth — can you slay your snake like Apollo ? You're grieved — still Niobe 's the grander ! You live — there 's the Racers' frieze to follow : You die — there 's the dying Alex- ander. So, testing your weakness by their strength. Your meagre charms by their rounded beauty. Measured by Art in your breadth and length. You learned — to submit is a mortal's duty. 22 OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE — WhenI say ' you' 'tis the common soul, The collective, I mean : the race of Man That receives life in parts to live in a whole, And grow here according to God's clear plan. XV Growth came when, looking your last on them all. You turned your eyes inwardly one fine day And cried with a start — What if we so small Be greater and grander the while than they ! Are they perfect of lineament, perfect of stature ? In both, of such lower types are we Precisely because of our wider nature ; For time, theirs — ours, for eternity. XVI To-day's brief passion limits their range ; It seethes with the morrow for us and more. They are perfect — how else ? they shall never change ; We are faulty — why not ? we have time in store. The Artificer's hand is not arrested With us — we are rough-hewn, no- wise polished : They stand for our copy, and, once invested With all they can teach, we shall see them abolished. XVII 'Tis a life-long toil till our lump be leaven — The better! what's come to perfec- tion perishes. Things learned on earth, we shall prac- tise in Heaven. Works done least rapidly. Art most cherishes. Thyself shall afford the example, Giotto ! Thy one work, not to decrease or diminish. Done at a stroke, was just (was it ilot ?) '0!' Thy great Campanile is still to finish. XVIII Is it true that we are now, and shall be hereafter. But what and where depend on life's minute ? Hails heavenly cheer or infernal laughter Our first step out of the gulf or in it ? Shall Man, such step within his en- deavour, Man's face, have no more play and action Than joy which is crystallized for ever, Or grief, an eternal petrifaction ? XIX On which I conclude, that the early painters. To cries of 'Greek Art and what more wish you !' — Replied, 'To become now self-acquain- ters. And paint man, man, whatever the issue ! Make new hopes shine through the flesh they fray. New fears aggrandize the rags and tatters : To bring the invisible full into play ! Let the visible go to the dogs — what matters ?' XX Give these, I exhort you, their guerdon and glory For daring so much, before they well did it. The first of the new, in our race's story. Beats the last of the old, 'tis no idle quiddit. The worthies began a revolution. Which if on earth you intend to acknowledge. Why, honour them nDw — (ends my allocution) Nor confer your degree when the folks leave college. XXI There 's a fancy some lean to and others hate — That, when this life is ended, begins New work for the soul in another state, Where it strives and gets weary, loses and wins ; OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE Where the strong and the weak, this world's congeries, Repeat in large what they practised in small. Through life after life in unlimited series ; Only the scale's to be changed, that 's all. XXII Yet I hardly know. When a soul has seen By the means of Evil that Good is best. And through earth and its noise, what is Heaven's serene, — When its faith in the same has stood the test — Why, the child grown man, you burn the rod. The uses of labour are surely done : There remaineth a rest for the people of God, And I have had troubles enough for one. XXIII But at any rate I have loved the season Of Art's spring-birth so dim and dewy. My sculptor is Nicolo the Pisan, And painter — who but Cimabue ? Nor ever was man of them all indeed. From these to Ghiberti and Ghir- landajo. Could say that he missed my critic- meed. So now to my special grievance — heigh ho ! XXIV Their ghosts now stand, as I said before, Watching each fresco flaked and rasped, Blocked up, knocked out, or white- washed o'er — No getting again what the church has grasped ! The works on the wall must take their chance ; 'Works never conceded to England's thick clime ! ' (I hope they prefer their inheritance Of a bucketful of Italian quick-lime.) When they go at length, with such a shaking Of heads o'er the old delusions, sadly Each master his way through the black streets taking. Where many a lost work breathes though badly — Why don't they bethink them of who has merited ? Why not reveal, while their pictures dree Such doom, that a captive's to be out- ferreted ? Why is it they never remember me ? XXVI Not that I expect the great Bigordi Nor Sandro to hear me, chivalric, bellicose ; Nor the wronged Lippino ; and not a word I Say of a scrap of Era Angelico's : But are you too fine, Taddeo Gaddi, To grant me a taste of your into- naco — Some Jerome that seeks the Heaven with a sad eye ? Not a churlish saint, Lorenzo Monaco? Could not the ghost with the close red cap. My PoUajolo, the twice a craftsman. Save me a sample, give me the hap Of a muscular Christ that shows the draughtsman ? No Virgin by him, the somewhat petty. Of finical touch and tempera crum- bly- Could not Alesso Baldovinetti Contribute so much, I ask him humbly ? Margheritone of Arezzo, With the grave-clothes garb and swaddling barret, (Why purse up mouth and beak in a pet so, You bald, old, saturnine, poll-clawed parrot ?) 24 OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE Not a poor glimmering Crucifixion, Where in the foreground kneels the donor ? If such remain, as ia my conviction. The hoarding it does you but little honour. They pass : for them the panels may thrill. The tempera grow alive and ting- lish— Their pictures are left to the mercies still Of dealers and stealers, Jews and the English, Who, seeing mere money's worth in their prize, Will sell it to somebody calm as Zeno At naked High Art, and in ecstasies Before some clay-cold, vile Carlino ! XXX No matter for these ! But Giotto, you, Have you allowed, as the town- tongues babble it, — Oh, never ! it shall not be counted true — That a certain precious little tablet Which Buonarroti eyed like a lover, — Was buried so long in oblivion's womb And, left for another than I to discover. Turns up at last ! and to whom ? — to whom ? XXXI I, that have haunted the dim San Spirito, (Or was it rather the Ognissanti ?) Patient on altar-steps planting a weary toe! Nay, I shall have it yet ! delur amartli ! My Koh-i-noor — or (if that's a plati- tude) Jewel of Giamschid, the Persian Soft's eye! So, in anticipative gratitude, What if I take up my hope and prophesy ? xxxii When the hour grows ripe, and a certain dotard Is pitched, no parcel that needs in- voicing. To the worse side of the Mont Saint Gothard, We shall begin by way of rejoicing ; None of that shooting the sky (blank cartridge), Nor a civic guard, all plumes and > lacquer. Hunting Radetzky's soul like a partridge Over Morello with squib and cracker. XXXIII This time we'll shoot better game and bag 'em hot — No mere display at the stone of Dante, But a kind of sober Witana-gemot (Ex : 'Casa Guidi,' qiiod videos ante) Shall ponder, once Hreedom restored to Florence, How Art may return that departed with her. Go, hated house, go each trace of the Loraine's, And bring us the days of Orgagna hither ! XXXIV How we shall prologuize, how we shall perorate. Utter fit things upon art and his- tory- Feel truth at blood-heat and the false at a zero rate. And make of the want of the age no mystery ! Contrasting the fructuous and sterile eras. Show, monarchy ever its uncouth cub licks Out of the bear's shape into Chimae- ra's — While Pure Art's birth is still the republic's ! XXXV Then one shall propose in a speech (curt Tuscan, Expurgate and sober, with scarcely an 'iasimo,') To end now our half-told tale of Cam- buscan, OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE 25 And turn the Bell-tower's alt to cUtissimo : And fine as the beak of a young beo- . caccia The Campanile, the Duomo's fit ally, Shall soar up in gold full fifty braccia. Completing Florence, as Florence, Italy. XXXVI Shall I be alive that morning the scaffold Is broken away, and the long-pent fire, Like the golden hope of the world, unbaffled Springs from its sleep, and up goes the spire While, 'God and the People' plain for its motto. Thence the new tricolour flaps at the sky? At least to foresee that glory of Giotto And Florence together, the first am I ! ' DE GUSTIBUS— ' I YouE ghost will walk, you lover of trees, (If our loves remain) In an English lane. By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. Hark, those two in the hazel coppice — A boy and a girl, if the good fates please. Making love, say, — The happier they ! Draw yourseU up from the light of the moon, And let them pass, as they will too soon, With the beanflowers' boon. And the blackbird's tune. And May, and June ! What I love best in all the world. Is, a castle, precipice-encurled. In a gash of the wind-grieved Apen- nine. Or look for me, old fellow of mine. (If I get my head from out the mouth 0' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands. And come again to the land of lands) — In a searside house to the farther South, Where the baked cicalas die of drouth. And one sharp tree — 'tis a cypress — stands. By the many hundred years red-rusted, Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'er- crusted. My sentinel to guard the sands To the water's edge. For, what ex- pands Before the house, but the great opaque Blue breadth of sea without a break ? While, in the house, for ever crumbles Some fragment of the frescoed walls, From blisters where a scorpion sprawls. A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons. And says there's news to-day — the king Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing. Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling : — She hopes they have not caught the felons. Italy, my Italy ! Queen Mary's saying serves for me — (When fortune's malice Lost her, Calais) Open my heart and you will see Graved inside of it, 'Italy.' Such lovers old are I and she ; So it always was, so shall ever be ! HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD I Oh, to be in England Now that April 's there. And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware. That the lowest boughs and the brush- wood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf. While the chaflinch sings on the orchard bough In England — now ! 26 HOME-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows ! Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover ' Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge — That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over. Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture ! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew. All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower — Far brighter than this gaudy melon- flower ! HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North- West died away.; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay ; Bluish mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay ; In the dimmest North-East distance, dawned Gibraltar grand and gray ; 'Here and here did England help me : how can I help England ?' — say. Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray. While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. SAUL 1 Said Abner, 'At last thou art come ! Ere I tell, ere thou speak, Kiss my cheek, wish me well !' Then I wished it, :and did kiss his cheek. And he, 'Since the King, my friend, for thy countenance sent. Neither drunken nor eaten have we ; nor until from his tent Thou return with the joyful assurance the King liveth yet. Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet. , For out of the black mid-tent's 'silence, a spaoQ of three days. Not n, sound hath escaped to thy ser- vants, of prayer or of praise. To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended their strife. And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon life. n Yet now my heart leaps, beloved ! God's child, with His dew On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue Just broken to twine round thy harp- strings, as if no wild heat Were now raging to torture the desert !' ni Then I, as was meet. Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose on my feet. And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The tent was unlooped ; I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under I stooped ; Hands and knees on the slippery grass- patch, all withered and gone. That extends to the second enclosure, I groped my way on Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then once more I prayed. And opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraid. But spoke, 'Here is David, thy ser- vant ! ' And no voice replied. At the first I saw nought but the blackness ; but soon 1 descried A something more black than the blackness — the vast the upright Main prop which sustains the pavilion : and slow into sight Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all : Then a sunbeam, that burst thro' the tent-roof, showed Saul. IV He stood as erect as that tent-prop ; both arms stretched out wide SAUL 27 On the great cross-support in the centre, that goes to each side ; He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there, as, caught in his pangs And waiting his change, the king- serpent all heavily hangs, Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance come With the spring-time, — so agonized Saul, drear and stark, blind and dumb. V Then I tuned my harp, — took off the lilies we twine round its chords Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noontide — those sunbeams like swords ! And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one, So docile they come to the pen-door, till folding be done. They are wmte and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fed Where the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed ; And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star Into eve and the blue far above us, — so blue and so far ! VI ^Then the tune, for which quails on the oornland will each leave his mate^ To fly after the player ; then, what makes the crickets elate, Till for boldness they fight one another : and then, what has weight To set the quick jerboa a-musing out- side his sand house — There are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and ialf mouse ! God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear. To give sign, we and they are His children, one family here. vii Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, when! hand Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great hearts ex- pand And grow one in the sense of this world's life. — And then, the last song When the dead man is praised on his journey — 'Bear, bear him along With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets ! are balm-seeds not here To console us ? The land has none left such as he on the bier. Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother !' — And then, the glad chaunt Of the marriage, — first go the young maidens, next, she whom we vaunt As the beauty, the pride of our dwell- ing. — And then, the great march Wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an arch Nought can break ; who shall harm them, our friends ? — Then, the chorus intoned As the Levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned. But I stopped here — for here in the darkness, Saul groaned. And I paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened apart ; And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered — and sparkles 'gan dart From the jewels that woke in his turban at once with a start — All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies courageous at heart. So the head — but the body still moved not, still hung there erect. And I bent once again to my playing, •pursued it unchecked. As I sang,— IX 'Oh, our manhood's prime vigour ! no spirit feels waste. Not a muscle is stopped in its playing, nor sinew unbraced. Oh, the wild joys of living ! the leaping from rock up to rock — The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, — the cool silver shock Of the plunge in a pool's living water, — the hunt of the bear. And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair. 28 SAUL And the meal — the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust divine. And the looust's-flesh steeped in the pitcher ! the full draught of wine, And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well. How good is man's life, the mere Uving ! how fit to employ All the heart and the soul and the senses, for ever in joy ! Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whoseswordthoudidstguard When he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious reward ? Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up as men sung The low song of the nearly-departed, and heard her faint tongue Joining in while it could to the witness, 'Let one more attest, I have lived, seen God's hand thro' a lifetime, and all was for best ! ' Then they sung thro' their tears in strong triumph, not much— but the rest. And thy brothers, the help and the con- test, the working whence grew Such result as, from seething grape- bundles, the spirit strained true ! And the friends of thy boyhood — that boyhood of wonder and hope. Present promise, and wealth of the future beyond the eye's scope, — Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch ; a people is thine ; And all gifts, which the world offers singly, on one head combine ! On one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage (like the throe That, a-work in the rock, helps its labour and lets the gold go) High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning it, — all Brought to blaze on the head of one creature — King Saul ! ' And lo, with that leap of my spirit, — heart, hand, harp and voice. Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each bidding rejoice Saul's fame in the light it was made for — as when, dare I say. The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains through its array, And upsoareth the cherubim-chariot — 'Saul !' cried I, and stopped, And waited the thing that should follow. Then Saul, who hung propped By the tent's cross-support in the centre, was struck by his name. Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons goes right to the aim. And some mountain, the last to with- stand her, that held (he alone. While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a broad bust of stone A year's snow bound about for a breast- plate, — leaves grasp of the sheet ? Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously down to his feet. And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive yet, your mountain of old. With his rents, the successive bequeath- ings ,of ages untold- Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and scar Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest — all hail, there they are ! Now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nest Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green on its crest For theirf ood in the ardours of summer ! One long shudder thrilled All the tent till the very air tingled, then sank and was stilled At the King's self left standing before me, released and aware. What was gone, what remained ? all to traverse 'twixt hope and de- spair; Death was past, life not come : so he waited. Awhile his right hand Held the brow, helped the eyes left too vacant forthwith to remand To their place what new objects should enter : 'twas Saul as before. I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any more Than by slow pallid sunsete in autumn, ye watch from the shore. SAUL 29 At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean — a. sun's slow decline Over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and entwine Base with base to knit strength more intense : so, arm folded in arm O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided. What spell or what charm, (For, awhile there was trouble within me) what next should I urge To sustain him where song had restored him ? — Song filled to the verge His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that it yields Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty ! Beyond, on what fields. Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eye And bring blood to the lip, and com- mend them the cup they put by ? He saith, 'It is good' ; still he drinks not : he lets me praise life. Gives assent, yet would die for his own part. Then fancies grew rife Which had come long ago on the pastures, when round me the sheep Fed in silence — above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep ; And I lay in my hollow, and mused on the world that might lie 'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky : And I laughed — 'Since my days are ordained to be passed with my flocks. Let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the rocks. Dream the hfe I am never to mix with, and image the show Of mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly shall know ! Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that gains, And the prudence that keeps what men strive for.' And now these old trains Of vague thought came again ; I grew surer ; so, once more the string Of my harp made response to my spirit, as thus — 'Yea, my King,' I began — 'thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that spring From the mere mortal life held in common by man and by brute : In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears fruit. Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree, — how its stem trembled first Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler ; then safely outburst The fan-branches all round ; and thou mindedst when these too, in turn Broke ar bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect : yet more was to learn, Ev'n the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. Our dates shall we slight. When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow ? or care for the plight Of the palm's self whose slow growth produced them ? Not so ! stem and branch Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine shall staunch Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee such wine. Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for ! the spirit be thine ! By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoy More indeed, than at first when in- conscious, the life of a boy. Crush that life, and behold its wine running ! each deed thou hast done- Dies, revives, goes to work in the world ; until e'en as the sun Looking down on the earth, though clouds spoil him, though tempests- efface. Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must everywhere trace The results of his past summei>prime, — so, each ray of thy will. Every flash of thy passion and prowess,. long over, shall thrill 30 SAUL Thy whole people the countless, with ardour, till they too give forth A like cheer to their sons, who in turn, fill the South and the North With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in the Past ! But the license of age has its limit ; thou diest at last : As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height. So with man — so his power and his beauty for ever take flight. No ! again a long draught of my soul- wine ! look forth o'er the years — Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual ; begin with the seer's ! Is Saul dead ? in the depth of the vale make his tomb — bid arise A grey mountain of marble heaped four- square, till, built to the skies. Let it mark where the great First King slumbers : whose fame would ye know ? Up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall go In great characters cut by the scribe, — Such was Saul, so he did ; With the sages directing the work, by the populace chid, — For not half, they'll affirm, is com- prised there ! Which fault to amend, In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall spend (See,, in tablets 'tis level before them) their praise, and record With the gold of the graver, Saul's story, — the statesman's great word Side by side with the poet's sweet com- ment. The river's a^wave With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when prophet^winds rave : So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part In thy being ! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou art !' And behold while I sang . . . But Thou who didst grant me that day. And before it not seldom hast granted Thy help to essay Carry on and complete an adventure, — my Shield and my Sword In that act where my soul was Thy servant. Thy word was my word, — Still be with me, who then at the sum- mit of human endeavour And scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless as ever On the new stretch of Heaven above me — till, mighty to save. Just one lift of Thy hand cleared that distance — God's throne from man's grave ! Let me tell out my tale to its ending — my voice to my heart Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I took part. As this morning X gather the fragments, alone with my sheep. And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep ! For I wake in the grey dewy covert, while Hebron upheaves The dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and Kidron retrieves Slow the damage of yesterday's sun- shine. I say then, — my song While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and ever more strong Made a proffer of good to console him — he slowly resumed His old motions and habitudes kingly. The right hand replumed His black locks to their wonted com- posure, adjusted the swathes Of his turban, and see — the huge sweat that his countenance bathes, He wipes off with the robe ; and he girds now his loins as of yore. And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set before. He is Saul, ye remember in glory, — ere error had bent The broad brow from the daily com- munion ; and still, though much spent Be the life and the bearing that front you, the same, God did choose. To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never quite lose. SAUL 31 So sank he along by the tent-prop till, stayed by the pile Of his armour and war-cloak and garments, he leaned there awhile, And so sat out my singing, — one arm round the tent-prop, to raise His bent head, and the other hung slack — till I touched on the praise I foresaw from all men in all times, to the man patient there ; And thus ended, the harp falling for- ward. Then first I was 'ware That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast knees Which were thrust out on each side around me, like oak roots which please To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked up to know If the best I could do had brought solace : he spoke not, but slow Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with care Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow : thro' my hair The large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my head, with kind power — ■ All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower. Thus held he me there with his great eyes that scrutinized mine — And oh, all my heart how it loved him ! but where was the sign ? I yearned — 'Could I help thee, my father, inventing a bliss, I would add to that life of the Past, both the Future and this ; I would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence. As this moment, — had love but the warrant, love's heart to dispense !' XVI Then the truth came u pon me. No harp more— no song more ! outbroke- — SVII 'I have gone the whole round of Crea- tion : I saw and I spoke ! I, a work of God's hand for that pur- pose, received in my brain And pronounced dn the rest of His handwork — returned Him again His creation's approval or censure : I spoke as I saw. I report, as a man may of God's work — all's love, yet all's law ! Now I lay down the judgeship He lent me. Each faculty tasked To perceive Him, has gained an abyss,. where a dewdrop was asked. Have I knowledge ? confounded it shrivels at Wisdom laid bare. Have I forethought ? how purblind, how blank, to the Infinite Care ! Do I task any faculty highest, to image success ? I but open my eyes, — and perfection, no more and no less. In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is seen God In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod. And thus looking within and around me, I ever renew (With that stoop of the soul which in bending upraises it too) The submission of Man's nothing- perfect to God's All-Complete, As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to His feet ! Yet with all this abounding experience, this Deity known, I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own. There's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink, I am fain to keep still in abeyance, (I laugh as I think) Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I worst E'en the Giver in one gift. — Behold ! I could love if I durst ! But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake God's own speed in the one way of love : I abstain for love's sake. — What, my soul ? see thus far and no farther ? when doors great and small, Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appal ? In the least things, have faith, yet dis- trust in the greatest of all ? Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift, 32 SAUL That I doubt His own love can compete with it ? here, the parts shift ? Here, the creature surpass the Creator, the end, what Began ? — Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man, And dare doubt He alone shall not help him, who yet alone can ? Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, much less power. To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvellous dower Of the life he was gifted and filled with ? to make such a soul. Such a body, and then such an earth for insphering the whole ? And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears attest) These good things being given, to go on, and give one more, the best ? Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the height This perfection, — succeed with life's dayspring, death's minute of night? Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul, the mistake, Saul, the failure, the ruin he seems now, — and bid him awake From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set Clear and safe in new light and new life, — a new harmony yet To be run, and continued, and ended — who knows ? — or endure ! The man taught enough by life's dream, of the rest to make sure ; By the pain-throb, triumphantly win- ning intensified bliss. And the next world's reward and repose, by the struggles in this. XVIII 'I believe it! 'tis Thou, God, that givest, 'tis I who receive ; In the first is the last, in Thy will is my power to believe. All's one gift : Thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt to my prayer As I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms to the air. From Thy will, stream the worlds, life and nature, thy dread Sabaoth : / will ? — the mere atoms despise me ! why am I not loth To look that, even that in the face too ? why is it I dare Think but lightly of such impuissance ? what stops my despair ! This ; — 'tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would do! See the King — I would help him but cannot, the wishes fall through. Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to enrich, To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would — knowing which, I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak through me now 1 Would I suffer for him that I love ! So wouldst Thou — so wilt Thou ! So shall crown Thee the topmost, ineffablest, uttermost crown — And Thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor down One spot for the creature to stand in ! It is by no breath. Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salva- tion joins issue with death ! As Thy Love is discovered almighty, almighty be proved Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being Beloved ! He who did most, shall bear most ; the strongest shall stand the most weak. 'Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry for ! my flesh, that I seek In the Godhead ! I seek and I find it. Saul, it shall be A Face like my face that receives thee ; a Man like to me. Thou shalt love and be loved by, for ever : a Hand like this hand Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee I See the Christ stand t' I know not too well how I found my way home in the night. There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and to right. Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive, the aware — I repressed, I got through them as hardly, as strugglingly there, SAUL 33 As a runner beset by the populace famished for news — Life or death. The whole earth was awakened, hell loosed with her crews ; And the stars of night beat with emo- tion, and tingled and shot Out in fire the strong pain of pent knowledge : but I fainted not. For the Hand still impelled me at once and supported, suppressed All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and holy behest. Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth sank to rest. Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from eaj th — Not so much, but I saw it die oat in the day's tender birth ; In - the gathered intensity brought to 'the grey of the hills ; In the shuddering forests' new awe ; in the sudden wind-thrills ; In the startled wild beasts that bore off, each with eye sidling still Though averted with wonder and dread ; in the birds stiff and chill That rose heavily, as 1 approached them, made stupid with awe ! E'en the serpent that slid away silent, — he felt the new Law. The same stared in the white humid faces upturned by the flowers ; The same worked in the heart of the cedar, and moved the vine- bowers : And the little brooks witnessing mur- mured, persistent and low, With their obstinate, all but hushed voices — 'E'en so, it is so !' MY STAR All that I know Of a certain star. Is, it can throw (Like the angled spar) Now a dart of red, Now a dart of blue, Till my friends have said They would fain see, too. My star that dartles the red and the blue! Then it stops like a bird ; like a flower, hangs furled : They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. What matter to me if their star is a world ? Mine has opened its soul to me ; therefore I love it. BY THE FIRE-SIDE How well I know what I mean to do . When the long dark Autumn even- ings come, And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue ? With the music of all thy voices, dumb In life's November too ! II I shall be found by the fire, suppose, O'er a great wise book as beseemeth age. While the shutters flap as the cross- wind blows. And I turn the page, and I turn the page. Not verse now, only prose ! Ill Till the young ones whisper, finger on lip, ' There he is at it, deep in Greek : Now, then, or never, out we slip To cut from the hazels by the creek A mainmast for our ship !' IV I shall be at it indeed, my friends ! Greek puts already on either aide Such a branch-work forth as soon extends To a vista opening far and wide. And I pass out where it ends. V The outside-frame, like your hazel- trees — But the inside-archway narrows fast. And a rarer sort succeeds to these, And we slope to Italy at last And youth, by green degrees. 34 BY THE FIRE-SIDE I follow wherever I am led. Knowing so well the leader's hand : Oh, woman-country, wooed not wed. Loved all the more by earth's male- lands. Laid to their hearts instead ! Look at the ruined chapel again Half-way up in the Alpine gorge. Is that a tower, I point you plain. Or is it a mill, or an iron forge Breaks solitude in vain? VIII A turn, and we stand in the heart of things ; The woods are round us, heaped and dim ; From slab to slab how it slips and springs — The thread of water single and slim. Through the ravage some torrept brings ! IX Does it feed the little lake below ? That speck of white just on its marge Is Pella ; see, in the evening-glow. How sharp the silver spear-heads charge When Alp meets Heaven in snow. X On our other side is the straight-up rock ; And a path is kept 'twixt the gorge and it By boulder-stones where lichens mock The marks on a moth, and small ferns fit Their teeth to the polished block. XI Oh, the sense of the yellow mountain- flowers. And the thorny balls, each three in one. The chestnuts throw on our path in showers ! — For the drop of the woodland fruit's begun. These early November hours. That crimson the creeper's leaf across Like a splash of blood, intense, abrupt. O'er a shield else gold from rim to boss, And lay it for show on the fairy- cupped Elf-needled mat of moss, Xin , , By the rose-flesh mushrooms, un- divulged Last evening — nay, in to-day's first dew Yon sudden coral nipple bulged Where a freaked, fawn-coloured, flaky crew Of toad-stools peep indulged. XIV And yonder, at foot of the fronting ridge That takes the turn to a range beyond. Is the chapel reached by the one-arched bridge Where the water is stopped in a stagnant pond Danced over by the midge. XV The chapel and bridge are of stone alike, Blackish-grey and mostly wet ; Cut hemp-stalks steep in the narrow dyke. See here again, how the lichens fret And the roots of the ivy strike ! xvi Poor Uttle place, where its one priest comes On a festa-day, if he comes at all. To the dozen folk from their scattered homes. Gathered within that precinct small By the dozen ways one roams — xvn To drop from the charcoal-burners' huts,. Or climb from the hemp-dressers" low shed. Leave the grange where the woodman stores his nuts. Or the wattled cote where the fowlers.- spread Their gear on the rock's bare juts. BY THE FIRE-SIDE 35 XVIII It has some pretension too, this front. With its bit of fresco half-moon-wise Set over the porch, Art's early wont : 'Tis John in the Desert, I surmise. But has borne the weather's brunt — Not from the fault of the builder, though, For a pent-house properly projects Where three carved beams make a certain show. Dating — good thought of our archi- tect's — 'Five, six, nine, he lets you know. XX And all day long a bird sings there. And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times ; The place is silent and aware ; It has had its scenes, its joys and crimes. But that is its own affair. My perfect wife, my Leonor, Oh, heart my own, oh, eyes, mine too. Whom else could I dare look backward for. With whom beside should I dare pursue The path grey heads abhor ? For it leads to a crag's sheer edge with them ; Youth, flowery all the way, there stops — Not they ; age threatens and they contemn. Till they reach the gulf wherein youth drops. One inch from our life's safe hem ! xxin With me, youth led ... I will speak now. No longer watch you as you sit Reading by fire-light, that great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it, Mutely, my heart knows how — XXIV When, if I think but deep enough. You are wont to answer, prompt as rhyme ; And you, too, find without a rebuff The response your soul seeks many a time Piercing its fine flesh-stuff. XXV My own, confirm me ! If I tread This path back, is it not in pride To think how little I dreamed it led To an age so blest that by its side Youth seems the waste instead ? XXVI My own, see where the years conduct ! At first, 'twas something our two souls Should mix as mists do ; each is sucked , Into each now : on, the new stream ', rolls. Whatever rocks obstruct. XXVII Think, when our one soul understands The great Word which makes all things new — When earth breaks up and Heaven expands^ How will the change strike me and you In the House not made with hands ? XXVIII Oh, I must feel your brain prompt mine. Your heart anticipate my heart. You must be just before, in fine. See and make me see, for your part. New depths of the Divine ! XXIX But who could have expected this. When we two drew together first Just for the obvious human bliss. To satisfy life's daily thirst With a thing men seldom miss ? XXX Come back with me to the first of all. Let us lean and love it over again — Let us now forget and now recall. Break the rosary in a pearly rain, And gather what we let fall ! 36 BY THE FIRE-SIDE XXXI What did I say ? — that a, small bird sings All day long, save when a brown pair Of hawks from the wood float with wide wings Strained to a bell ; 'gainst the noon- day glare You count the streaks and rings. XXXII But at afternoon or almost eve 'Tis better ; then the silence grows To that degree, you half believe It must get rid of what it knows, Its bosom does so heave. XXXIII Hither we walked, then, side by side. Arm in arm and cheek to cheek. And still I questioned or replied,. While my heart, convulsed to really speak, Lay choking in its pride. XXXIV Silent the crumbling bridge we cross. And pity and praise the chapel sweet. And care about the fresco's loss. And wish for our souls a like retreat. And wonder at the moss. XXXV Stoop and kneel on the settle under — Look through the window's grated square : Nothing to see ! for fear of plunder. The cross is down and the altar bare. As if thieves don't fear thunder. XXXVI We stoop and look in through the grate. See the little porch and rustic door. Head duly the dead builder's date. Then cross the bridge we crossed before. Take the path again — but wait ! XXXVII Oh moment, one and infinite ! The water slips o'er stock and stone ; The West is tender, hardly bright : How grey at once is the evening grown — One star, the chrysolite ! XXXVIII We two stood there with neve* a third. But each by each, as each knew well : The sights we saw and the sounds we heard. The lights and the shades made up a spell Till the trouble grew and stirred. ■ XXXIX Oh, the little more, and how much it is ! And the little less, and what worlds away ! How a sound shall quicken content to bliss. Or a breath suspend the blood's best play. And life be a proof of this ! XL Had she willed it, still had stood the screen So slight, so sure, 'twixt my love and her : I could fix her face with a guard between. And find her soul as when friends confer. Friends — lovers that might have been. XLI For my heart had a touch of the wood- land-time. Wanting to sleep now over its best. Shake the whole tree in the summer- prime. But bring to the last leaf no such test : 'Hold the last fast !' runs the rhyme. XLII For a chance to make your little much, To gain a lover and lose a friend. Venture the tree and a myriad such. When nothing you mar but the year can mend ! But a last leaf — fear to touch ! XLin Yet should it unfasten itself and fall Eddying down till it find your face At some slight wind — (best chance of all) Be your heart henceforth its dwelling- place You trembled to foresta! ! BY THE FIRE-SIDE 37 Worth how well, those dark grey eyea, — That hair so dark and dear, how worth That a man should strive and agonize, And taste a very hell on earth For the hope of such a prize ! Oh, you might have turned and tried a man, Set him a space to weary and wear A.nd prove which suited more your plan. His best of hope or his worst despair, yet end as he began. XLVI But you spared me this, like the heart you are. And filled my empty heart at a word. If you join two lives, there is oft a scar, They are one and one, with a shadowy third ; One near one is too far. XLVII A moment after, and hands unseen Were hanging the night around us fast ; But we knew that a bar was broken between Life and life : we were mixed at last In spite of the mortal screen. XLVIII The forests had done it ; there they stood ; We caught for a second the powers at play : They had mingled us so, for once and for good, Their work was done — we might go or stay. They relapsed to their ancient mood. How the world is made for each of us ! How all we perceive and know in it Tends to some moment's product thus, When a soul declares itself — to wit, By its fruit — the thing it does ! Be Hate that fruit or Love that fruit, It forwards the General Deed of Man, And each of the Many helps to recruit The life of the race by a general plan ; Each living his own, to boot. Ll I am named and known by that hour's feat ; There took my station and degree : So grew my own small life complete As nature obtained her best of me — One born to love you. Sweet ! LII And to watch you sink by the fire-side now Back again, as you mutely sit Musing by fire-light, that great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it Yonder, my heart knows how ! LIII So, the earth has gained by one man more, And the gain of earth must be Heaven's gain too. And the whole is well worth thinking o'er When the autumn comes : which I mean to do One day, as I said before. ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND I My love, this is the bitterest, that thou Who art all truth and who dost love me now As thine eyes say, as thy voice breaks to say — Shouldst love so truly and couldst love me still A whole long life through, had but love its will. Would death that leads me from thee brook delay ! I have but to be by thee, and thy hand Would never let mine go, nor heart withstand 38 ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND The beating of my heart to reach its place. When should I look for thee and feel thee gone ? When cry for the old comfort and find none ? Never, I know ! Thy soul is in thy face. Oh, I should fade — 'tis willed so ! might I save. Gladly I would, whatever beauty gave Joy to thy . sense, for that was precious too. It is not to be granted. But the soul Whence the love comes, all ravage leaves that whole ; Vainly the flesh fades ; soul makes all things new. And 'twould not be because my eye grew dim Thou couldst not find the love there, thanks to Him Who never is dishonoured in the spark He gave us from His fire of fires, and bade Remember whence it sprang nor be afraid While that burns on, though all the rest grow dark. So, how thou wouldst be perfect, white and clean Outside as inside, soul and soul's demesne Alike, this body given to show it by ! Oh, three-parts through the worst of life's abyss. What plaudits from the next world after this, Couldst thou repeat a stroke and gain the sky ! Although thy love was love in very deed ? I know that nature ! Pass a festive day Thou dost not throw its relic-flower away Nor bid its music's loitering echo And is it not the bitterer to think That, disengage our hands and thou wilt sink Thou let'st the stranger's glove he where it fell ; If old things remain old things all is well, For thou art grateful as becomes man best : And hadst thou only heard me play one tune. Or viewed me from a. window, not so soon With thee would such things fade as with the rest. I seem to see ! we meet and part ; 'tis brief ; The book I opened keeps a folded leaf. The very chair I sat on, breaks the rank ; That is a portrait of me on the wall — Three lines, my face comes at so slight a call : And for all this, one little hour 's to thank. But now, because the hour through years was fixed. Because our inmost beings met and mixed. Because thou once hast loved me — wilt thou dare Say to thy soul and Who may list beside, 'Therefore she is immortally my bride. Chance cannot change my love, nor time impair. ' So, what if in the dusk of life that"* left, I, a tired traveller, of my sun bereft, ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND 39 Look from my path when, mimicking the same. The fire-fly glimpses past me, come and gone ? — Where was it till the sunset ? where anon It will be at the sunrise ! what's to blame ?' XI Is it so helpful to thee ? canst thou take The mimic up, nor, for the true thing's Bake, Put gently by such efforts at a beam ? Is the remainder of the way so long Thou need'st the little solace, thou the strong ? Watch out thy watch, let weak ones doze and dream ! ' — Ah, but the fresher faces ! Is it true,' Thou 'It ask, 'some eyes are beautiful and new ? Some hair, — how can one choose but grasp such wealth ? And if a man would press his lips to hps Fresh as the wilding hedge-rose cup there slips The dew-drop out of, must it be by stealth ? 'It cannot change the love still kept for Her, Much more than, such a picture to prefer Passing a day with, to a room's bare side : The painted form takes nothing she Yet, while the Titian's Venus lies at rest, A man looks. Once more, what is there to chide ?' So must I see, from where I sit and watch. My own self sell myself, my hand attach Its warrant to the very thefts from me — Thy singleness of soul that made me proud, Thy purity of heart I loved aloud. Thy man's-truth I was bold to bid God see ! XV Love so, then, if thou wilt ! Give all thou canst Away to the new faces — disentranced, (Say it and think it) obdurate no more, Ke-issue looks and words from the old mint. Pass them afresh, no matter whose the print Image and superscription once they bore ! Re-coin thyself and give it them to spend, — • It all comes to the same thing at the end. Since mine thou wast, mine art and mine shalt be. Faithful or faithless, sealing up the sum Or lavish of my treasure, thou must come Back to the heart's place here I keep for thee ! Only, why should it be with stain at all? Why must I, 'twixt the leaves of coronal, Put any kiss of pardon on thy brow ? Why need the other women know so much. And talk together, 'Such the look and such The smile he used to love with, then as now ! ' Might I die last and show thee ! Should I find Such hardship in the few years left behind. 40 ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND If free to take and light my lamp, and go Into thy tomb, and shut the door and sit Seeing thy face on those four sides of it The better that they are so blank, I know 1 XIX Why, time was what I wanted, to turn o'er Within my mind each look, get more and more By heart each word, too much to learn at first ; And join thee all the fitter for the pause 'Neath the low door-way's lintel. That were cause For lingering, though thou calledst, if I durst ! And yet thou art the nobler of us two : What dare I dream of, that thou canst not do. Outstripping my ten small steps with one stride ? I'll say then, here 's a trial and a task — Is it to bear ? — if easy, I'll not ask : Though love fail, I can trust on in thy pride. XXI Pride ? — when those eyes forestal the life behind The death I have to go through ! — when I find. Now that I want thy help most, all of thee ! What did I fear ? Thy love shall hold me fast Until the little minute's sleep is past And I wake saved. — And yet it will not be ! TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA I I WONDER do you feel to-day As I have felt, since, hand in hand, We sat down on the grass, to stray In spirit better through the land. This morn of Rome and May?. For me, I touched a thought, I know. Has tantalized me many times, (Like turns of thread the spiders throw Mocking across our path) for rhymes To catch at and let go. Help me to hold it ! First it left The yellowing fennel, run to seed There, branching from the brickwork's cleft. Some old tomb's ruin ; yonder weed Took up the floating weft. Where one small orange cup amassed Five beetles, — blind and green they grope Among the honey-meal : and last. Everywhere on the grassy slope I traced it. Hold it fast ! The champaign with its endless fleece Of feathery grasses everywhere ! Silence and passion, joy and peace. An everlasting wash of air- Rome's ghost since her decease. Such life there, through such lengths of hours. Such miracles performed in play, Such primal naked forms of flowers. Such letting Nature have her way While Heaven looks from its towers ! How say you ? Let us, O my dove,. Let us be unashamed of soul. As earth lies bare to heaven above I How is it under our control To love or not to love ? I would that you were all to me, You that are just so much, no more. Nor yours, nor mine, — nor slave nor free ! Where does the fault lie ? what the core Of the wound, since wound must be ? TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA 41 I would I could adopt your will. See with your eyes, and set my heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill At your soul's springs, — your part, my part In life, for good and ill. X No. I yearn upward, touch you close, Then stand away. I kiss your cheek. Catch your soul's warmth, — I pluck the rose And love it more than tongue can speak — Then the good minute goes. XI Already how am I so far Out of that minute ? Must I go Still like the thistle ball, no bar. Onward, whenever light winds blow, fixed by no friendly star ? XII Just when I seemed about to learn ! Where is the thread now T Off again ! The old trick ! Only I discern — Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn. MISCONCEPTIONS I This is a spray the Bird clung to. Making it blossom with pleasure, Ere the high tree-top she spi ung to. Fit for her nest and her treasure. Oh, what a hope beyond measure Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,— So to be singled out, built in, and sung to ! II This is a heart the Queen leant on. Thrilled in a minute erratic. Ere the true bosom she bent on. Meet for love's regal dalmatic. Oh, what a fancy ecstatic Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on — Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on ! c A SERENADE AT THE VILLA I That was I, you heard last night When there rose no moon at all. Nor, to pierce the strained and tight Tent of heaven, a planet small : Life was dead, and so was light. II Not a twinkle from the fly. Not a glimmer from the worm. When the crickets stopped their cry. When the owls forbore a term, You heard music ; that was I. Ill Earth turned in her sleep with pain. Sultrily suspired for proof : In at heaven and out again. Lightning ! — where it broke the roof. Bloodlike, some few drops of rain. IV What they could my words expressed, O my Love, my All, my One ! Singing helped the verses best. And when singing's best was done. To my lute I left the rest. V So wore night ; the East was gray, White the broad-faced hemlock- flowers ; There would be another day ; Ere its first of heavy hours Found me, I had past away. VI What became of all the hopes. Words and song and lute as well ? Say, this struck you — ' When life gropes Feebly for the path where fell Light last on the evening slopes, VII ' One friend in that path shall be To secure my steps from wrong ; One to count night day for me. Patient through the watches long. Serving most with none to see.' VIII Never say — as something bodes — 'So, the worst has yet a worse ! When life halts 'neath double loads, Better the task-master's curse Than such music on the roads ! 3 42 A SERENADE AT THE VILLA 'When no moon succeeds the sun. Nor can pierce the midnight's tent Any star, the smallest one, While some drops, where lightning went, Show the fiuall storm begun — X 'When the fire-fly hides its spot, When the garden-voices fail In the darkness thick and hot,^- Shall another voice avail. That shape be where these are not ? XI 'Has some plague a longer lease Proffering its help uncouth ? Can't one even die in peace ? As one shuts one's eyes on youth. Is that face the last one sees V XII Oh, how dark your villa was, Windows fast and bbdutate ! How the garden girudged me grass Where I stood — the iroh gate Ground its teeth tb let me pass i ONE WAY OF LOVE I All June I bound the rose in sheaves. Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves And strew them where Pauline may pass. She will not turn aside ? Alas ! Let them lie. Suppose they die ? The chaiioe was they might take her eye. n How many a month I strove to suit These stubborn fingera to the liite ! To-day I venture all I know. She will not hear my music ? So ! Break the string ; fold music's wing : Suppose Pauline had bade me sing ! Ill My whole life loilg I learned to love. This hour my utmost art I prove And speak my passidh. — Heaveii or , Hell ? She Will not give me Heaven ? 'Tis well ! Lose who tnay — ^I stiU cah say. Those who wlh Heavei, blest Are they ! ANOTHER WAY OF LOVE I June was not over. Though past the full. And the best of her roses Had yet to blow, When a man I know (But shall not discover, Since ears are dull. And time discloses) Turned kim and said with a Man's true air. Half sighing a smile in a yawn, as 't were, — 'If I tire of you* June, will she greatly care ?' II Well, Dear* in-doors with you ! Ttue, serene deadness Tries a man's temper. What's in the blossom June wears on her bosom ? Can it clear scores with you ? Sweetness and redness, Eudem semper ! Go, let me care for it greatly or slightly If June mends her bowers now, your hand left unsightly By plucking their roses>^^my Jutie Will do rightly, in And after, for pastime. If June be refulgent With flowers in completeness. All petals, no prickles, Dehcious as trickles Of wiile poured at mass-time,-^ And choose One indulgent To redness and sweetness : Or if, with experience of man and of spider, June use my June-lightning, the strong insect-ridderj And stop the fresh spinning.-^-i-why, June will consider. A PRETTY WOMAN I That faiWi'skin-dappled hair o! Ws, And the blue eye Dear tind dewy. And that infantine freih air of hers ! A PRETTY WOMAN 43 To think men cannot take you, Sweet, And enfold you. Ay, and hold you. And so keep you what they make you. Sweet ! m You like us for a glance, you know — For a word's sake. Or a sword's sake. All's the same, whate'er the chance, you know. IV And in turn we make you ours, we say— You and youth too. Eyes and mouth too. All the face composed of flowers, we say. V All's our Own, to make the most of. Sweet — Sing and say for. Watch and pray for. Keep a secret or go boast of. Sweet ! VI But for loving, why, you would Hot, Sweet, Though we prayed you. Paid you, brayed you In a mortar — for you could not. Sweet 1 VII So, we leave the sweet face fondly there : Be its beauty Its sole duty ! Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there ! vm And while the face lies quiet there. Who shall wonder That I ponder A conclusion ? I will try it there. • IX As, — why must one, for the love for- gone. Scout mere liking ? Thunder-striking Earth, — the Heaven, we looked above for, gone ! Why with beauty, needs there money be — Love with liking ? Crush the fly-king In his gauze, because no honey-bee ? XI May not liking be so simple-sweet, If love grew there 'T would undo there All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet ? XII Is the creature too imperfect, say ? Would you mend it And so end it ? Since not all addition perfects aye ! XIII Or is it of its kind, perhaps. Just perfection — Whence, rejection Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps ? XIV Shall we burn up, tread that face at once Into tinder. And so hinder Sparks from kindling all the place at once ? XV Or else kiss away one's soul on her ? Your love-fancies ! — A sick man sees Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her ! XVI Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rbse, — Plucks a mould-flower For his gold flower. Uses fine things that efface the rose : XVII Rosy rubies make its cup more rose. Precious metals * Ape the petals, — Last, some old king locks it up, morose ! XVIII Then, how grace a rose ? I know a way ! Leave it, rather. Must you gather ? Smell, kiss, wear it — at last, throw away ! 44 RESPECTABILITY RESPECTABILITY I Dear, had the world in its caprice Deigned to proclaim 'I know you both, Have recognized your plighted troth. Am sponsor for you : live in peace !' — How many precious months and years Of youth had passed, that speed so fast. Before we found it out at last, I'he world, and what it fears ? How much of priceless life were spent With men that every virtue decks, And women models of their sex. Society's true ornament, — Ere we dared wander, nights like this. Thro' wind and rain, and watch the Seine, And feel the Boulevart break again To warmth and light and bliss ? I know ! the world proscribes not love ; Allows my finger to caress Your Up's contour and downiness. Provided it supply a glove. The world's good word ! — the Institute ! Guizot receives Montalembert ! Eh ? down the court three lampions flare — Put forward your best foot ! LOVE IN A LIFE I Room after room, I hunt the house through • We inhabit together. Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her. Next time, herself ! — not the trouble behind her Left in the curtain, the couch's per- fume ! As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew : Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather. Yet the day wears. And door succeeds door ; I try the fresh fortune — Range the wide house from the wing to the centre. Still the same chance ! she goes out as I enter. Spend my whole day in the quest, — who cares ? But 'tis twilight, you see, — with such suites to explore. Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune ! LIFE IN A LOVE Escape me ? Never — Beloved ! While I am I, and you are you, So long as the world contains us both. Me the loving and you the loth. While the one eludes, must the other pursue. My life is a fault at last, I fear : It seems too much like a fate, indeed Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed. But what if I fail of my purpose here ? It is but to keep the nerves at strain. To dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall. And baffled, get up and begin again, — So the chace takes up one's life, that 's all. While, look but once from your farthest bound At me so deep in the dust and dark. No sooner the old hope drops to ground Than a new one, straight to the self- same mark, I shape me — Ever Removed ! IN THREE DAYS I So, I shall see her in three days And just one night, but nights are short. Then two long hours, and that is morn. See how I come, unchanged, unworn ! IN THREE DAYS 45 Feel, where my life broke off from Once his love grown chill. thine. Mine may strive — How fresh the splinters keep and Bitterly we re-embrace. fine, — Single still. Only a touch and we combine ! II n Too long, this time of year, the days ! Was it something said, Something done. Vexed him ? was it touch of hand. But nights — at least the nights are short. Turn of head ? As night shows where her one moon is, Ahand's-breadth of pure light and bliss. Strange ! that very way Love begun : I as little understand So life's night gives my lady birth And my eyes hold her ! what is worth Love's decay. Ill When I sewed or drew, The rest of heaven, the rest of earth ? Ill loaded curls, release your store Of warmth and scent as once before I recall The tingling hair did, lights and darks How he looked as if I sung, Outbreaking into fairy sparks. — Sweetly too. When under curl and curl I pried If I spoke a word. After the warmth and scent inside. First of all Thro' lights and darks how manifold — Up his cheek the colour sprung. The dark inspired, the light controlled ! Then he heard. As early Art embrowned the gold. IV IV Sitting by my side. What great fear, should one say. At my feet, 'Three days So he breathed the air I breathed. That change the world, might change Satisfied ! as well I, too, at love's brim Your fortune ; and if joy delays, Touched the sweet : Be happy that no worse befell.' I would die if death bequeathed What small fear, if another says. Sweet to him. 'Three days and one short night beside May throw no shadow on your ways ; v But years must teem with change un- 'Speak, I love thee best !' tried. He exclaimed. With chance not easily defied. 'Let thy love my own foretell,' With an end somewhere undescried.' I confessed : No fear ! — or if a fear be born 'Clasp my heart on thine This minute, it dies out in scorn. Now unblamed. Fear ? I shall see her in three days Since upon thy soul as well And one night, now the nights are Hangeth mine !' short. Then just two hours, and that is morn. VI Was it wrong to own, m A YEAR Being truth ? Why should all the giving prove I His alone ? Never any more I had wealth and ease. While I live. Beauty, youth — Need I hope to see his face Since my lover gave me love. As before. I gave these. 46 IN A YEAR VII That was all I meant, — To be just. And the passion I had raised. To content. Since he chose to change Gold for dust, If I gave him what he praised Was it strange ? VIII Would he loved me yet, On and on. While I found some way undreamed — Paid my debt ! Gave more life and more. Till, all gone, He should smile 'She never seemed Mine before. IX 'What— she fait the while. Must I think ? Love 's so different with us men,' He should smile. 'Dying for my sake — White and pink ! Can't we touch these bubbles then But they break !' X Dear, the pang is brief. Do thy part. Have thy pleasure. How perplext Grows belief ! Well, this cold clay clod Was man's heart. Crumble it — and what comes next ? Is it God ? WOMEN AND ROSES I I DREAM of a red-rose tree. And which of its roses three Is the dearest rose to me ? II Round and round, like a dance of snow In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go Floating the women faded for ages. Sculptured in stone, on the poet's pages. Then follow women fresh and gay. Living and loving and loved to-day. Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens. Beauties unborn. And all, to one cadence. They circle their rose on my rose tree. in Dear rose, thy term is reached. Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached : Bees pass it unimpeached. IV Stay then, stoop, since I cannot climb. You, great shapes of the antique time ! How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you. Break my heart at your feet to please you ? Oh, to possess, and be possessed ! Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid breast ! But once of love, the poesy, the passion, Drink once and die ! — In vain, the same fashion, They circle their rose on my rose tree. v Dear rose, thy joy 's undimmed ; Thy cup is ruby-rimmed. Thy cup's heart nectar-brimmed. VI Deep as drops from a, statue's plinth The bee sucked in by the hyacinth, So will I bury me while burning. Quench like him art a plunge my yearn- . ™S' Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips ! Fold me fast where the cincture slips. Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure ! Girdle me once ! But no— in their old measure They circle their rose on my rose tree. VII Dear rose without a thorn. Thy bud 's the babe unborn : First streak of a new morn. vni Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear ! What 's far conquers what is near. WOMEN AND ROSES 47 Roses will bloom nor want beholders, Sprung from the dust where our own flesh moulders What shall arrive with the cycle's change ? A novel grace and a beauty strange. I will make an Eve, be the artist that began her. Shaped her to his. njind ! — Alas ! in like manner They circle their rose pn my rose tree. BEFORE Let them fight it out, friend ! things have gone too far. God must judge the couple ! leave them as they are — Whichever one 's the guiltless, to his glory, And whichever one the guilt's with to my story. n Why, you would not bid men, sunk in such a slough, Strike no arm out further, stick and stink as now. Leaving right and wrong to settle the embroilment. Heaven with snaky Hell, in torture and entoilment ? Who's the culprit of them? How must he conceive God — the queen he caps to, laughing in his sleeve, "Tis but decent to profess oneself beneath her : Still, one must not be too much in earnest, either !' Better sin the whole sin, sure that God observes. Than go live his life out ! life will try his nerves. When the sky which noticed all, makes no disclosure. And the earth keeps up her terrible composure. Let him pace at pleasure, past the walls of rose. Pluck their fruits when grape-trees graze him as he goes. For he gins to guess the purpose of the garden. With the sly mute thing beside, there, for a warden. What's the leopard-dog-thing, constant at his side, A leer and lie in every eye of its obse- quious hide ? When will come an end to all the mock obeisance, And the price appear that pays for the misfeasance ? VII So much for the culprit. Who 's the martyred man ? Let him bear one stroke more, for be sure he can ! He that strove thus evil's lump with good to leaven. Let him give his blood a* last and get his Heaven ! All or nothing, stake it ! trusts he God or no ? Thus far and no farther ? farther ? be it so ! Now, enough of your chicane of prudent pauses, Sage provisos, sub-intents and saving- clauses ! IX Ah, ' forgive ' you bid him ? While God's champion lives, Wrong shall be resisted : dead, why, he forgives. But you must not end my friend ere you begin him ; Evil stands not crowned on earth, while breath is in him ! Once more — Will the wronger, at this last of all. Dare to say, 'I did wrong,' rising in his fall? 48 BEFORE No ? — Let go, then ! both the fighters to their places ! While I count three, step you back as many paces ! AFTER T^KE the cloak from his face, and at first Let the corpse do its worst. How he lies in his rights of a man ! Death has done all death can. And, absorbed in the new life he leads. He recks not, he heeds Nor his wrong nor my vengeance — both strike On his senses alike. And are lost in the solemn and strange Surprise of the change. Ha, what avails death to erase His offence, my disgrace ? I would we were boys as of old In the field, by the fold : His outrage, God's patience, man's scorn Were so easily borne. I stand here now, he lies in his place : Cover the face. THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL A PICTURE AT FANO Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave That child, when thou hast done with him, for me ! Let me sit all the day here, that when eve Shall find performed thy special ministry And time come for departure, thou, suspending Thy flight, may'st see another child for tending. Another still, to quiet and retrieve. Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more. From where thou standest now, to where I gaze, — And suddenly my head is covered o'er With those wings, white above the child who prays Now on that tomb — and I shall feel thee guarding Me, out of all the world ; for me, 'dis- carding Yon Heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door ! Ill I would not look up thither past thy head Because the door opes, like that child, I know. For I should have thy gracious face instead. Thou bird of God ! And wilt thou bend me low Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together. And lift them up to pray, and gently tether Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread ? IV If this was ever granted, I would rest My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast. Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands. Back to its proper size again, and smoothing Distortion down till every nerve had soothing. And all lay qaiet, happy and supprest. V How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired ! I think how I should view the earth and skies And sea, when once again my brow was bared After thy healing, with such difierent eyes. THE GUARDIAN ANGEL 49 0, world, as God has made it ! all is beauty : And knowing this, is love, and love is duty. What further may be sought for or declared ? VI Guercino drew this angel I saw teach (Alfred, dear friend !) — that little child to pray. Holding the little hands up, each to each Pressed gently, — with his own head turned away Over the earth where so much lay before him Of work to do, though Heaven was opening o'er him. And he was left at Fano by the beach. VII We were at Fano, and three times we went To sit and see him in his chapel there. And drink his beauty to our soul's content — My angel with me too : and since I care For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power And glory comes this picture for a dower. Fraught witha pathos so magnifloeut), VIII And since he did not work so earnestly At all times, and has else endured some wrong — I took one thought his picture struck from me. And spread it out, translating it to song. My Love is here. Where are you, dear old friend ? How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end ? This is Ancona, j'onder is the sea. MEMORABILIA I Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you ? And did you speak to him again ? How strange it seems, and new ! But you were living before that, And you are living after. And the memory I started at — My starting moves your laughter ! Ill I crossed a moor, with a name of its own And a use in the world no doubt. Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 'Mid the blank miles round about : IV For there 1 picked up on the heather And there I put inside my breast A moulted feather, an eagle-feather — Well, I forget the rest. POPULARITY Stand still, true poet that you are ! I know you ; let me try and draw you. Some night you'll fail us : when afar You rise, remember one man saw you. Knew you, and named a star ! 11 My star, God's glow-worm ! Why extend That loving hand of His which leads you. Yet locks you safe from end to end Of this dark world, unless He needs you— Just saves your light to spend ? Ill His clenched Hand shall unclose at last, I know, and let out all the beauty : My poet holds the Future fast, Accepts the coming ages' duty. Their Present for this Past. IV That day, the earth's feast-master's brow Shall clear, to God the chalice raising ; 'Others give best at first, but Thou Forever set'st our table praising, Keep'st the good wine till now !' 50 POPULARITY Meantime, I'll draw you as you stand, With few or none to watch and wonder : I'll say — a fisher, on the sand By Tyre the Old, with ocean-plunder, A netful, brought to land. VI Who has not heard how Tjrrlan shells Enclosed the blue, that dye of dyes Whereof one drop worked miracles. And coloured like Astarte's eyes Raw silk the merchant sells .? And each bystander of them all Could criticize, and quote tradition How depths of blue sublimed some pall — To get which, pricked a. king's ambition ; Worth sceptre, crown and ball. VIII Yet there's the dye, in that rough mesh. The sea has only just o'er- whispered ! Live whelks, each lip's beard dripping fresh. As if they still the water's lisp heard Through foam the rock-weeds thresh. IX Enough to furnish Solomon Such hangings for his cedar-house. That, when gold-robed he took the throne In that abyss of blue, the Spouse Might swear his presence shone X Most like the centre-spike of gold Which burns deep in the blue-bell's womb. What time, with ardours manifold. The bee goes singing to her groom, Drunken and overbold. Mere conchs ! not fit for warp or woof ! Till cunning comes to pound and squeeze And clarify, — refine to proof The liquor filtered by degrees. While the world stands aloof. And there's the extract, flasked and fine. And priced and saleable at last ! And Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes and Nokes combine To paint the Future from the Past, Put blue into their line. XIII Hobbs hints blue, — straight he turtle eats : Nobbs prints blue, — claret crowns his cup : Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats, — Both gorge. Who fished the mures up ? What porridge had John Keats ? MASTER HUGUES OF SAXE- GOTHA I Hist, but a word, fair and soft ! Forth and be judged. Master Hugues ! Answer the question I've put you so oft— What do you mean by your moun- tainous fugues ? See, we're alone in the loft, — II I, the poor organist here, Hugues, the composer of note^— Dead, though, and done with, this many a year : Let's have a colloquy, something to quote. Make the world prick up its ear ! Ill See, the church empties ?ipace : Fast they extinguish the lights — Hallo there, sacristan ! five minutes' grace ! Here s a crank pedal wants setting to rights. Baulks one of holding the base. IV See, our huge house of the sounds. Hushing its hundreds at once. Bids the last loiterer back to his bounds ! — Oh, you may challenge them, not a response Get the church-saints on their rounds 1 MASTER HUGUES OF SAXB-GOTHA 51 (Saints go their rounds, who shall doubt ? — March, with the moon to admire. Up nave, down chancel, turn transept about, Supervise all betwixt pavement and spire. Put rats and mice to the rout — VI Aloys and Jurien and Just — Order things back to their place. Have a sharp eye lest the candlesticks rust. Bub the church-plate, darn the sacrament-lace, Clear the desk- velvet of dust.) VII Here's your book, younger folks shelve ! Played I not off-hand and runningly. Just now, your masterpiece, hard number twelve ? Here's what should strike, — could one handle it cunningly : Help the axe, give it a helve ! vni Page after page as I played. Every bar's rest, where one wipes Sweat from one's brow, I looked up and surveyed. O'er my three claviers, yon forest of pipes Whence you still peeped in the shade. IX Sure you were wishful to speak, You, with brow ruled like a score, Yes, andeyes buried in pits on each cheek, like two great breves as they wrote them of yore Each side that bar, your straight beak ! Sure you said — 'Good, the mere notes ! Still, oouldst thou take my intent. Know what procured me our Company's votes — Masters being lauded and sciolists shent. Parted the sheep from the goats !' Well then, speak up, never flinch ! Quick, ere my candle's a snuff — Burnt, do you see ? to its uttermost inch — I believe in you, but that's not enough : Give my conviction a clinch ! XII First you deliver your phrase —Nothing propound, that I see. Fit in itself for much blame or much praise — Answered no less, where no answer needs be : Off start the Two on their ways ! XIII Straight must a Third interpose. Volunteer needlessly help — In strikes a Fourth, a Fifth thrusts in his nose. So the cry's open, the kennel's a-yelp. Argument's hot to the close ! XIV One dissertates, he is candid ; Two must discept, — has distin- guished ; Three helps the couple, if ever yet mail did; Four protests ; Five makes a dart at the thing wished : Back to One, goes the case bandied. XV One says his say with a difference — More of expounding, explaining ! All now is wrangle, abuse and vocifer- anoe — Now there 's a truce, all 's subdued, self-restraining — Five, though, stands out all the stiffer hence. XVI One is incisive, corrosive ; Two retorts, nettled, curt, crepitant ; Three makes rejoinder, expansive, ex- plosive ; Four overbears them all, strident and strepitant : Five . . . O Danaides, Sieve ! 52 MASTER HUGUES OF SAXE-GOTHA Now, they ply axes and crowbars ; Now, they prick pins at a tissue Fine as a skein of the casuist Escobar's 'Worked on the bone of a lie. To what issue ? Where is our gain at the Two-bars ? xvni Est fuga, volvitur rota ! On we drift. Where looms the dim port ? One, Two, Three, Four, Five, contribute their quota — Something is gained, if one caught but the import — Show it us, Hugues of Saxe-Gotha ! XIX What with afiSrming, denying. Holding, risposting, subjoining. All's like ... it 's like . . . for an instance I'm trying . . . There ! See our roof, its gilt mould- ing and groining Under those spider-webs lying ! XX So your fugue broadens and thickens, Greatens and deepens and lengthens. Till one exclaims — 'But where's music, the dickens ? Blot ye the gold, while your spider- web strengthens — Blacked to the stoutest of tiokens ?' I for man's effort am zealous : Prove me such censure's unfounded ! Seems it surprising a lover grows jealous — Hopes 'twas for something his organ- pipes sounded, Tiring three boys at the bellows ? Is it your moral of Life ? Such a web, simple and subtle, .Weave we on earth here in impotent strife. Backward and forward each throw- ing his shuttle. Death ending aU with a knife ? XXIII Over our heads Truth and Nature — StiU our life's zigzags and dodges. Ins and outs, weaving » new legis- lature — God's gold just shining its last where that lodges. Palled beneath Man's usurpature ! XXIV So we o'ershroud stars and roses. Cherub and trophy and garland. Nothings grow something which quietly closes Heaven's earnest eye, — not a glimpse of the far land Gets through our comments and glozes. Ah, but traditions, inventions, (Say we and make up a visage) So many men with such various inten- tions Down the past ages must know more than this age ! Leave the web all its dimensions ! XXVI Who thinks Hugues wrote for the deaf. Proved a mere mountain in labour ? Better submit — try again — what 's the clef 7 'Faith, it's no trifle for pipe and for tabor — Four flats, the minor in F. xxvn Friend, your fugue taxes the finger : Learning it once, who would lose it ? Yet all the while a misgiving will linger. Truth's golden o'er us although we refuse it — Nature, thro' dust-clouds we fling her ! XXVIII Hugues ! I advise tiMa poena (Counterpoint glares like a Gorgon) Bid One, Two, Three, Four, Five, clear the arena ! Say the word, straight I unstop the Full-Organ, Blare out the mode Palestrirm. MASTER HUGUSS OF SAXE-GOTHA 53 XXIX While in the roof, if I'm right there, . . . Lo, you, the wick in the socket ! Hallo,you sacristan.show us a light there! Down it dips, gone like a rocket ! What, you want, do you, to come unawares. Sweeping the church up for first mora ing-prayers. And find a poor devil has ended his cares At the foot of your rotten-runged rat- riddled stairs ? Do I carry the moon in my pocket ? ROMANCES INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP I You know, we French stormed Ratis- bon : A mile or so away On a little mound. Napoleon Stood on our storming-day ; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how. Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind. TI Just as. perhaps he mused 'My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,' — Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping ; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound. Ill Then off there flung in smiling joy. And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy : You hardly could suspect — (So tight he kept his lips compressed. Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. IV 'Well,' cried he, 'Emperor, by God's grace We've got you Batisbon ! The Marshal's in the market-place. And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him !' The Chief's eye flashed ; his plans Soared up again like fire. v The Chief's eye flashed ; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes : 'You're wounded !' 'Nay,' his sol- dier's pride Touched to the quick, he said : 'I'mkilled,Sire! ' And his Chief beside. Smiling the boy fell dead. THE PATRIOT AN OLD STORY I It was roses, roses, all the way. With myrtle mixed in my path like mad : The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway. The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A year ago on this very day ! II The air broke into a mist with bells. The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. Had I said, 'Good folk, mere noise repels — But give me your sun from yonder skies !' They had answered, 'And afterward, what else ?' 54 THE PATRIOT Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun To give it my loving friends to keep ! Nought man could do, have I left undone : And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run. IV There's nobody on the house-tops now — Just a palsied few at the windows set ; For the best of the sight is, all allow. At the Shambles' Gate-^or, better yet. By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. v I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind ; And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds. For they fling, whoever has a mind. Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. VI Thus I entered, and thus I go ! In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. 'Paid by the World, — what dost thou owe Me ?* God might question : now in- stead, 'Tis God shall repay ! I am safer so. MY LAST DUCHESS PEEBARA That's my last Duchess painted on the wall. Looking as if she were alive ; I call That piece a wonder, now : Fra Pan- dolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her ? I said 'Fra Pandolf ' by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured coun- tenance. The depth and passion of its earnest glance. But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain 1 have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst. How such a glance came there ; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not Her husband's' presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek : per- Fra Pandolf chanced to say 'Her mantle laps Over my Lady's wrist too much,' or 'Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along het throat;' such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling Up that spot of joy. She had A heart . . . how shall I say ? ... too soon made glad. Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 't was all one ! My favour at her breast. The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace — all and each Would draw from her alike the approv- ing speech. Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good ; but thanked Somehow ... I know Hot how ... as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hnndred-years-Old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling ? Even had you skill In speech — (which I have not)— to make your will MY LAST DUCHESS 55 Quite clear to such an one, andsay 'Just this Or that in you disgusts me ; here you miss, Orthereexceed themark' — and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her trits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, — E'en then would be some stooping, and I chuse Never to stoop. Oh, Sir, she smiled, no doubt. Whene'er I passed her ; but who passed without Much the same smile ? This grew ; I gave commands ; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if aUve. Will't please you rise ? We'll meet The company beloWj then. I repeat. The Count your Master's known munifi- cence Is ample warrant that no just pretence Of mine for dowry will be disallowed ; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my. object. Nay, we'll go Together down. Sir ! Notice Neptune, thoughj Taming a sea-horse, thought a ratity. Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me. COUNT GISMOND AIX IN PROVENCE Christ God, who savefet man, save most Of men Count Gismondwho saved me! Count Gauthier, when he chose his post, Chose time and place and company To suit it : when he struck at length My honour 'twas with all his strength. n And doubtlessly ere he could draw All points to one, he must have schemed ! That miserable roDtniftg saw Few half so happy as I seemfed, While being dressed in Queen's array To give our Tourney prize iiway. I thought they loved me, did me gi'aoe To please themselves ; 'twas all their deed ; God makes, or fair or foul, our face ; If showing mine so caused to bleed My Cousins' hearts, they should have dropped A word, and straight the play had stopped. IV They, too, so beauteous ! Each a queen By virtue of her brow and breast ; Not needing to be crowned, I mean, As I do. E'en when I was dressed. Had either of them spoke^ instead Of glancing sideways with still head ! v But no : they let me laugh, and sing My birthday-song quite through, adjust The last rose in my garland, fling A last look on the mirror, trust My arms to each an arm of theirs. And so descend the castle-stairs — And come out on the morning-troop Of merry friends who kissed my cheek. And called me Queen, and made me stoop Under the canopy — (a streak' That pierced it, of the outside sun. Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun) — VII And they could let me take my state And foolish throne amid applause Of all come there to celebrate My Queen's-day— Oh, Ithinkthe cause Of much was, they forgot no crowd Makes up for parents in their shroud ! Howe'er that be, all eyes were bent Upon me, when my cousins cast Theirs down ; 'twas time I should pre- sent The victor's crown, but . . . there, 'twill last No long time . . . the old mist again Blinds me as then it did. How vain ! 56 COUNT GISMOND See ! Gismond's at the gate, in talk With his two boys : I can proceed. Well, at that moment, who should stalk Forth boldly (to my face, indeed) But Gauthier, and he thundered 'Stay !' And allstayed. ' Bring no crowns, I say ! X Bring torches ! Wind the penance- sheet About her ! Let her shun the chaste. Or lay herself before their feet ! Shall she, whose body I embraced A night long, queen it in the day ? For Honour's sake no crowns, I say !' XI I ? What I answered ? As I live, I never fancied such a thing As answer possible to give. What says the body when they spring Some monstrous torture-engine's whole Strength on it ? No more says the soul. XII Till out strode Gismond ; then I knew That I was saved. I never met His face before, but, at first view, I felt quite sure that God hath set Himself to Satan ; who would spend A minute's mistrust on the end ? He strode to Gauthier, in his throat Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth With one back-handed blow that wrote In blood men's verdict there. North, South, East, West, I looked. The lie was dead. And damned, and truth stood up instead. XIV This glads me most, that I enjoyed The heart of the joy, with my con- tent In watching Gismond unalloyed By any doubt of the event : God took that on Him — I was bid Watch Gismond for my part : I did. Did I not watch him while he let His armourer just brace his greaves. Rivet his hauberk, on the fret The while ! His foot . . . my memory leaves No least stamp out, nor how anon He pulled his ringing gauntlets on. XVI And e'en before the trumpet's sound Was finished, prone lay the false Knight, Prone as his lie, upon the ground : Gismond flew at him, used no sleight Of the sword, but open-breasted drove. Cleaving till out the truth he clove. XVII Which done, he dragged him to my feet And said 'Here die, but end thy breath In full confession, lest thou fleet From my first, to God's second death ! Say, hast thou Med ?' And, 'I have lied To God and her,' he said, and died. XVIII Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked — What safe my heart holds, though no word Could I repeat now, if I tasked My powers for ever, to a third Dear even as you are. Pass the rest Until I sank upon his breast. XIX Over my head his arm he flung Against the world ; and scarce I felt His sword (that dripped by me and swung) A little shifted in its belt : For he began to say the while How South our home lay many a mile. XX So 'mid the shouting multitude We two walked forth to never more Return. My Cousins have pursued Their life, untroubled as before I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling- place God lighten ! May his soul find grace 1 COUNT GISMOND 5T Our elder boy has got the clear Great brow ; tho' when his brother's black Full eye shows scorn, it . . . Gismond here ? And have you brought my tercel back ? I just was telling Adela How many birds it struck since May. THE BOY AND THE ANGEL Morning, evening, noon and night, 'Praise God,' sang Theocrite. Then to his poor trade he turned. By which the daily meal was earned. Hard he laboured, long and well ; O'er his work the boy's curls fell : But ever, at each period. He stopped and sang, 'Praise God.' Then back again his curls he threw. And cheerful turned to work anew. Said Blaise, the listening monk, 'Well done ; I doubt not thou art heard, my son : As well as if thy voice to-day Were praising God, the Pope's great way. This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome Praises God from Peter's dome.' Said Theocrite, 'Would God that I Might praise Him, that great way, and die!' Night passed, day shone. And Theocrite was gone. With God a day endures alway, A thousand years are but a day. God said in Heaven, 'Nor day nor night Now brings the voice of my delight.' Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth. Spread his wings and sank to earth ; Entered in flesh, the empty cell. Lived there, and played the craftsman well ; And morning, evening, noon and night, Praised God in place of Theocrite. And from a boy, to youth he grew : The man put off the stripling's hue : The man matured and fell away Into the season of decay : And ever o'er the trade he bent, And ever hved on earth content. (He did God's will ; to him, all one If on the earth or in the sun.) God said, 'A praise is in mine ear ; There is no doubt in it, no fear : So sing old worlds, and so New worlds that from my footstool go. Clearer loves sound other ways : I miss my little human praise.' Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell The flesh disguise, remained the cell. 'Twas Easter Day : he flew to Rome, And paused above Saint Peter's dome. In the tiring-room close by The great outer gallery. With his holy vestments dight, Stood the new Pope, Theocrite : And all his past career Came back upon him clear. Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, Till on his life the sickness weighed ; And in his cell, when death drew near. An angel in a dream brought cheer : And rising from the sickness drear He grew a priest, and now stood here. To the East with praise he turned. And on his sight the angel burned. 'I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell. And set thee here ; I did not well. Vainly I left my angel-sphere. Vain was thy dream of many a I'ear. Thy voice's praise seemed weak ; it dropped — Creation's chorus stopped ! Go back and praise again The early way, while I remain. With that weak voice of our disdain, Take up Creation's pausing strain. 58 THE B0\ Ajnu i±ij<; Ai\»jfjuij Back to the cell and poor employ : Become the craftsman and the boy !' Theocrite grew old at home ; A new Pope dwelt in Peter's Dome. One vanished as the other died : They sought God side by side. INSTANS TYRANNUS I Of the million or two, more or less, I rule and possess, One man, for some cause undefined, Was least to my mind. II I struck him, he grovelled of course — For, what was his force ? I pinned him to earth with my weight And persistence of hate : And he lay, would not moan, would not curse. As his lot might be worse. in 'Were the object less mean, would he stand At the swing of my hand ! For obscurity helps him and blots The hole where he squats.' So I set my five wits on the stretch To inveigle the wretch. All in vain ! gold and jewels I threw. Still he couched there perdue. I tempted his blood and his flesh, Hid in roses my mesh. Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth : Still he kept to his filth ! IV Had he kith now or kin, were access To his heart, did I press — Just a son or a mother to seize J No such booty as these ! Were it simply a jEriend to pursue 'Mid my million or two, Who could pay me in person or pelf What he owes me himself. No ! I could not but smile through my chafe : For the fellow lay safe As his mates do, the midge and the nit, — Through minuteness, to wit. Then a humour more great took its place At the thought of his face. The droop, the low cares of the mouth. The trouble uncouth 'Twixt the brows, all that air one- is fain To put out of its pain — And, 'no !' I admonished myself, 'Is one mocked by an elf, Is one baflBed by toad or by rat ? The gravamen's in that ! How the lion, who crouches to suit His back to my foot. Would admire that I stand in debate ! But the Small turns the Great If it vexes you, — that is the thing ! Toad or rat vex the King ? Though I waste half my realm to unearth Toad or rat, 'tis well worth !' So, I soberly laid my last plan To extinguish the man. Round his creep-hole, with never a break Ran my fires for his sake ; Over-head, did my thunder combine With my under-ground mine : Till I looked from my labor content To enjoy the event. When sudden . . . how think ye, the end ? Did I say 'without friend ?' Say xatiier, from marge to blue marge The whole sky grew his targe With the sun's self for visible boss, While an Arm ran across Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast Where the wretch was safe prest ! Do you see ? just my vengeance com- plete. The man sprang to his feet. Stood erect, caught at God's skirts, and prayed ! . — So, 7 was afraid ! MESMEEISM 59 MESMERISM All I believed is true ! I am able yet All I want to get By a method as strange as new : Dare I trust the same to you ? If at night, when doors are shut, And the wood-worm picks, And the death-watch ticks, And the bar has a flag of smut. And a oat 's in the water-butt — And the socket floats and flares, And the house-beams groan. And a foot unknown Is surmised on the garret-stairs. And the locks slip unawares — And the spider, to serve his ends. By a sudden thread. Arms and legs outspread. On the table's midst descends. Comes to find, God knows what friends ! — If since eve drew in, I say, I have sat and brought (So to speak) my thought To bear on the woman away. Till I felt my hair turn grey — Till I seemed to have and hold. In the vacancy 'Twixt the wall and me. From the hair-plait's chestnut-gold To the foot in its muslin fold — Have and hold, then and there. Her, from head to foot, Breathing and mute. Passive and yet aware. In the grasp of my steady stare — Hold and have, there and then. All her body and soul That completes my Whole, All that women add to men. In the clutch of my steady ken — IX Having and holding, till I imprint her fast On the void at last As the sun does whom he will By the calotypist's skill — X Then, — if my heart's strength serve. And through all and each Of the veils I reach To her soul and never swerve. Knitting an iron nerve — XI Commanding that to advance And inform the shape Which has made escape And before my countenance Answers me glance for glance^ XII I, still with a gesture fit Of my hands that best Do my soul's behest. Pointing the power from it. While myself do steadfast sit — XIII Steadfast and still the same On my object bent. While the hands give vent To my ardour and my aim And break into very flame — XIV Then, I reach, I must believe. Not her soul in vain. For to me again It reaches, and past retrieve Is wound in the toils I weave — And must follow as I require. As befits a thrall. Bringing flesh and all. Essence and earth-attire. To the source of the tractile fire- 60 in jiiOiYiJirtiHiVi Till the house called hers, not mine, With a growing weight Seems to suffocate If she break not its leaden line And escape from its close confine — XVII Out of doors into the night ! On to the maze Of the wild wood-ways. Not turning to left nor right From the pathway, blind with sight — xvm • Making thro' rain and wind O'er the broken shrubs, 'Twixt the stems and stubs. With a still, composed, strong mind. Not a care for the world behind — S*ifter and still more swift, As the crowding peace Doth to joy increase In the wide blind eyes uplift. Thro' the darkness and the drift ! XX While I — to the shape, I too Feel my soul dilate Not a whit abate And relax not a gesture due. As I see my belief come true. XXI For, there ! have I drawn or no Life to that lip ? Do my fingers dip In a flame which again they throw On the cheek that breaks a-glow ? xxn Ha ! was the hair so first ? What, unfiUeted, Made alive, and spread Through the void with a rich outburst. Chestnut gold-interspersed ? XXIII Like the doors of a casket-shrine. See, on either side, Her two arms divide Till the heart betwixt makes sign, Take me, for I am thin© I XXIV ' Now — now' — the door is heard t Hark, the stairs ! and near — Nearer — and here — 'Now I' and at call the third She enters without, a word. XXV On doth she march and on To the fancied shape ; It is, past escape. Herself, now : the dream is done And the shadow and she are one. XXVI First I will pray. Do Thou That ownest the soul. Yet wilt grant control To another, nor disallow For a time, restrain me now ! xxvn I admonish me while I may. Not to squander guilt. Since require Thou wilt At my hand its price one day ! What the price is, who can say ? THE GLOVE (Peter Ronsaed loquitur.) 'Heigho,' yawned one day King Francis, 'Distance all value enhances ! When a man's busy, why, leisure Strikes him as wonderful pleasure : 'Faith, and at leisure once is he ? Straightway he wants to be busy. Here we ' ve got peace ; and aghast I ' m Caught thinking war the true pastime ! Is there a reason in metre ? Give us your speech, master Peter! ' I who^ if mortal dare say so. Ne'er am at loss with my Naso, 'Sire,' I replied, 'joys prove cloudlets. Men are the merest Ixions' — Here the King whistled aloud, 'Let 'a . . . Heigho ... go look at our lions ! ' Such are the sorrowful chances If you talk fine to King Francis. And so, to the courtyard proceeding. Our company, Francis was leading. Increased by new followers tenfold Before he arrived at the penfold ; THE GLOVI! 61 Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen At sunset the western horizoni And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the' foremost With the dame he professed to adore most — Oh, what a face ! One by fits eyed Her, and the horrible pitside ; Por the penfold surrounded a hollow Which led where the eye scarce dared follow, And shelved to the chamber secluded Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded. The King hailed his keeper, an Arab As glossy and black as a scarab. And bade him make sport and at once stir Up and out of his den the old monster. They opened a hole in the wire-work Across it, and dropped there a firework, And fled : one's heart's beating re- doubled ; A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled. The blackness and silence so utter. By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter ; Then earth in a sudden contortion Gave out to our gaze her abortion ! Such a brute ! Were I friend Clement Marot (Whose experience of nature's but narrow. And whose faculties move in no small mist When he versifies David the Psalmist) I should study that brute to describe you lUum Juda Leonern de Tribu ! One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy To see the black mane, vast and heapy, The tail in the air stiff and straining. The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning, As over the barrier which bounded His platform, and us who surrounded The barrier, they reached and they rested On the space that might stand him in best stead : For who knew, he thought, what the amazement, The eruption of clatter and blaze meant. And if, in this minute of wonder, No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder, Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered. The lion at last was delivered ? Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead ! And you saw by the flash on his fore- head. By the hope in those eyes wide and steady, He was leagues in the desert already, Driving the flocks up the mountain, Or oatlike couched hard by the fountain To waylay the date-gathering negress : So guarded he entrance or egress. ' How he stands ! ' quoth the King : 'we may well swear, (No novice, we've won our spurs else- where. And so can afford the confession,)' We exercise wholesome discretion In keeping aloof from his threshold ; Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold, Their first would too pleasantly purloin The visitor's brisket or surloin : But who's he would prove so fool- hardy ? Not the best man of Marignan, pardie! ' The sentence no sooner was uttered. Than over the rails a glove fluttered, Fell close to the lion, and rested : The dame 'twas, who flung it and jested With life so, De Lorge had been wooing For months past ; he sat there pur- suing His suit, weighing out with nonchal- ance Fine speeches like gold from a balance. Sound the trumpet, no true knight 's a tarrier ! De Lorge made one leap at the barrier, Walked straight to the glove, — while the lion Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sa-pphire. And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir,— Picked it up, and as calmly retreated. Leaped back where the lady was seated. 62 THE GLOVE And full in the face of its owner Flung the glove. 'Your heart's queen, you dethrone her ? So should I! ' — cried the King — "twas mere vanity. Not love, set that task to humanity !' Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing. Not so, I ; for I caught an expression In her brow's undisturbed self-posses- sion Amid the Court's scoffing and merri- ment, — As if from no pleasing experiment She rose, yet of pain not much heedful So long as the process was needful, — As if she had tried in a crucible. To what ' speeches like gold ' were re- ducible. And, finding the finest prove copper. Felt the smoke in her face was but proper ; To know what she had not to trust to. Was worth all the ashes and dust too. She went out 'mid hooting and laugh- ter ; Clement Marot stayed ; I followed after. And asked, as a grace, what it all meant ? If she wished not the rash deed's recalment ? 'For I' — so I spoke — 'am a Poet : Human nature, — behoves that I know itl' She told me, 'Too long had I heard Of the deed proved alone by the word : For my love — what De Lorge would not dare ! With my scorn — what De Lorge could compare ! And the endless descriptions of death He would brave when my lip formed a breath, I must reckon as braved, or, of course, Doubt his word — and moreover, per- force. For such gifts as no lady could spurn. Must offer my love in return. When I looked on your lion, it brought : All the dangers at once to my thought, Encountered by all sorts of men, Before he was lodged in his den, — From the poor slave whose club or bare hands Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands. With no King and no Court to applaud. By no shame, should he shrink, over- awed. Yet to capture the creature made shift. That his rude boys might laugh at the gift, — To the page who last leaped o'er the fence Of the pit, on no greater pretence Than to get back the bonnet he dropped. Lest his pay for a week should be stopped. So, wiser I judged it to make One trial what "death for my sake'' Really meant, while the power was yet mine. Than to wait until time should define Such a phrase not so simply as I, Who took it to mean just " to die." The blow a glove gives is but weak : Does the mark yet discolour my cheek ? But when the heart suffers a blow. Will the pain pass so soon, do you know ?' I looked, as away she was sweeping. And saw a youth eagerly keeping As close as he dared to the doorway ; No doubt that a noble should more weigh His life than befits a plebeian ; And yet, had our brute been Nemean — (I judge by a certain calm fervour The youth stepped with, forward to serve her) — He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn If you whispered ' Friend, what you 'd get, first earn! ' And when, shortly after, she carried Her shame from the Court, and they married. To that marriage some happiness, maugre The voice of the Court, I dared augur. THE GLOVE 63 For De Lorge, he made women with men vie, Those in wonder and praise, these in envy ; And in short stood so plain a. head taller That he wooed and won . . . how do you call her ? The Beauty, that rose in the sequel To the King's love, who loved her a week well. And 'twas noticed he- never would honour De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her) With the easy commission of stretching His legs in the service, and fetching His wife, from her chamber, those straying Sad gloves she was always mislaying. While the King took the closet to chat in, — But of course this adventure came pat in. And never the King told the story. How bringing a glove brought such glory. But the wife smiled — 'His nerves are grown firmer : Mine he brings now and utters no murmur!' Venienti occurrite morho ! With which moral I drop my theorbo. TIME'S REVENGES I've a Friend, over the sea ; I like him, but he loves me. It all grew out of the books I write ; They find such favour in his sight That he slaughters you with savage looks Because you don't admire my books : He does himself though, — and if some vein Were to snap to-night in this heavy brain. To-morrow month, if I lived to try. Round should I just turn quietly. Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand Till I found him, come from his foreign land, To be my nurse in this poor place. And make my broth and wash my face And light my fire, and, all the while. Bear with his old good-humoured smile That I told him 'Better have kept away Than come and kill me, night and day. With, worse than fever's throbs and shoots. The creaking of his clumsy boots.' I am as sure that this he would do. As that Saint Paul's is striking Two. And I think I had rather . . . woe is me ! — Yes, rather see him than not see. If lifting a hand would seat him there Before me in the empty chair To-night, when my head aches indeed. And I can neither think nor read Nor make these purple fingers hold The pen ; this garret 's freezing cold ! And I've a Lady — There he wakes. The laughing fiend and prince of snakes Within me, at her name, to pray Fate send some creature in the way Of my love for her, to be down-torn Upthrust and outward-borne So I might prove myself that sea Of passion which I needs must be ! Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaint And my style infirm and its figures faint. All the critics say, and more blame yet. And not one angry word you get ! But, please you, wonder I would put My cheek beneath that Lady's foot Bather than trample under mine The laurels of the Florentine, And you shall see how the Devil spends A fire God gave for other ends ! I tell you, I stride up and down This garret, crowned with love's best crown. And feasted with love's perfect feast. To think I kill for her, at least. Body and soul and peace and fame. Alike youth's end and manhood's aim, — So is my spirit, as flesh with sin. Filled full, eaten out and in. 64 TIME'S REVENGES With the face of her, the eyes of her, The lips, the little chin, the stir Of shadow round her mouth ; and she — I'll tell you, — calmly would decree That I should roast at a slow fire. If that would compass her desire And make her one whom they invite To the famous ball to-morrow night. There may be Heaven ; there must be Hell; Meantime, there is our Earth here — well! THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND That second time they hunted me From hill to plain, from shore to sea, jAnd Austria, hounding far and wide jHer blood-hounds through the country- side ■ IBseathed hot and instant on my trace, — Jl made six days a hiding-place 'Qfrthftt dry green old aqueduct '.Whwe I and Charles, when boys uave fjaJuoked ' Thetfirs-flies from the roof above, jBrighti' , Holds thrice the weight of water in itself Resolved into a subtler element. And yet the vulgar call the sphere first full Up to the visible height — and after, void ; Not knowing air's more hidden pro- perties. And thus our soul, misknown, cries out to Zeus To vindicate his purpose in our life — WhyStayweon the earth unless to grow? Long since, I imaged, wrote the fiction out. That he or other God, descended here And, once for all, showed simultane- ously What, in its nature, never can be shown Piecemeal or in succession ; — showed, I say, The worth both absolute and relative CLEON 155 Of all his children from the jbirth of time, J. ' 11 I u-V His instruments for all appointed work. I now go on to image, — might we hear The judgment which should give the due to each. Show where the labour lay and where the ease. And prove Zeus' self, the latent, every- where ! This is a dream. But no dream, let us hope. That years and days, the summers and the springs Follow each other with unwaning powers ; The grapes which dye thy wine, are richer far Through culture, than the wild wealth of the rock ; The suave plum than the savage-tasted drupe ; The pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet ; The flowers turn double, and the leaves turn flowers ; That young and tender crescent-moon, thy slave. Sleeping upon her robe as if on clouds, Refines upon the women of my youth. What, and the soul alone deteriorates ? I have not chanted verse like Homer's, no — Nor swept string like Terpander, no — nor carved And painted men like Phidias and his friend : I am not great as they are, point by point : ' But I have entered into sympathy With these four, running these into one soul, Who, separate, ignored each others' arts. Say, is it nothing that I know them all ? The wild flower was the larger — I have dashed Rose-blood upon its petals, pricked its cup's Honey with wine, and driven its seed to fruit. And show a better flower if not so large. I stand, myself. Refer this to the gods Whose gift alone it is ! which, shall I dare (All pride apartj upon the absurd pre- text That such a gift by chance lay in my hand. Discourse of hghtly or depreciate ? It might have fallen to another's hand — what then 1 I pass too surely : let at least truth And next, of what thou foUowest on to ask. This being with me ^s I declare, O king. My works, in all these varicoloured kinds. So done by me, accepted so by men— Thou askest if (my soul thus in men's hearts) I must not be accounted to attain The very crown and proper end of life. Inquiring thence how, now life closeth up, I face death with success in my right hand: Whether I fear death less than dost thyself The fortunate of men. ' For ' (writest thou) ' Thou leavest much behind, while I leave nought : Thy life stays in the poems men shall sing. The pictures men shall study ; while my life. Complete and whole now in its power and joy. Dies altogether with my brain and arm. Is lost indeed ; since, what survives myself ? The brazen statue that o'erlooks my grave. Set on the promontory which I named. And that — some supple courtier of my heir Shall use its robed and sceptred arm, To fix the rope to, which best drags it down. I go, then : triumph thou, who dost not go!' 156 CLEON Nay, thou art worthy of hearing my whole mind. Is this apparent, when thou turn'st to muse Upon the scheme of earth and man in chief. That admiration grows as knowledge grows ? That imperfection means perfection hid. Reserved in part, to grace the after- _____ time ! If, in the morning of philosophy, Ere aught had been recorded, aught perceived. Thou, with the light now in thee, couldst have looked On all earth's tenantry, from worm to bird, Ere man had yet appeared upon the stage— Thou wouldst have seen them perfect, and deduced The perfectness of others yet unseen. Conceding which, — had Zeus then questioned thee ' Shall I go on a step, improve on this. Do more for visible creatures than is done ? ' Thou wouldst have answered, ' Ay, by making each Grow conscious in himself — by that alone. All 's perfect else : the shell sucks fast the rock, The fish strikes through the sea, the snake both swims And slides, the birds take flight, forth range the beasts, Til Llife's mec hanics can no further go — And all this joy in natural life, is put, Like fire from oil Thy finger into each, So exquisitely perfect is the same. But 'tis pure fire — and they mere matter are ; yt, tina t,}ipm Ti^j, |iicjrif. ; and BO I choose For man. Thy last pffemeditated work (If I might add a glory to the scheme) " That a third thing should stand apart from both, A quality arise within the soul. Which, intro-active, made to supervise And feel the force it has may view itself. And so be happy.' Man might live at first The animal life : but is there nothing more ? In due time, let him critically learn How he hves ; and, the more he gets to know Of his own life's adaptabilities. The more joy-giving will his life become. The man who hath this quaUty, is best*. But thou, king, hadst more reason- ably said : ' Let progress end at once, — man make no step Beyond the natural man, the better beast. Using his senses, not the sense of sense.' I n man there 's failure, only since h e left The lower and inconscious torm s oT life, ^ft fin''"'^ '^* "1 ftfi Yance , the"75naETing plain A spirit might grow conscious of that life, And, by new lore so added to the old. Take each step higher over the brute's head. This grew the only life, the pleasure- house. Watch-tower and treasure-fortress of the soul. Which whole surrounding flats of. natural life Seemed only fit to yield subsistence to ; A tower that crowns a country. But alas ! The soul now climbs it just to perish there. For thence we have discovered ('tis no dream — We know this, which we had not else perceived) ThHiti tharpi ' s a world of capability For iov. spread round abo ut us^meant JOTjE^T Inviting us ; and still the soul c raves ..aJL- ' — =» And still the flesh replies. ' Take no iot more Than "ere thou climbedst the tower to look abroad ! Nay, so much less, as that fatigue has brought CLEON 157 Deduction to it.' We struggle — fain to enlarge Our bounded physical recipiency. Increase our power, supply fresh oil to life. Repair the waste of age and sickness. No, ^ It skills not : life 's inadequate to jo y. As the soul sees joy, tempting iue to take. They praise a fountain in my garden here Wherein a Naiad sends the water-bow Thin from her tube ; she smiles to see it rise. What if I told her, it is just a thread From that great river which the hills shut up. And mock her with my leave to take the same ? The artificer has given her one small tube Past power to widen or exchange — - what boots iTo know she might spout oceans if she I could ? Iphe cannot lift beyond her first thin . thread, aAnd so a man can use but a man's io;^ While he sees ijoST. Is it, for Zeus to boiSi ' See, man, how happy I live, and despair — That I may be still happier — for thy use ! ' If this were so, we could not thank our Lord, As hearts beat on to doing: 'tis not so — Malice it is not. Is it carelessness ? Still, no. If care — where is the sign, I ask — And get no answer : and agree in sum, king, with thy profound discourage- ment. Who seest the wider but to sigh the more. Most progress is most failure ! thou sayest well. The last point now : — ^thon dost except a case — Holding joy not impossible to one With artist-gifts — to such a man as I— Who leave behind me hving works indeed ; For, such a poem, such a painting lives. What ? dost thou verily trip upon a word, (Vinfonn d the accurate view o f whatioyis (Caught somewhat clearer by my eyes than thine) With feeling joy ? confound tha Ir^^n w- And showing how to live (my faculty) With iictually uving ;— ^TTtherwise Where is the artist's vantage o'er the king ? Because in my great epos I display How divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can act — Is this as though I acted ? if I paint. Carve the young Phoebus, am I there- fore young ? Methinks I'm older that I bowed my- self The many years of pain that taught me art ! Indeed, to know is something, and to piuve How alMMg beauty might be enjoyed, 13 more : ' — — But, knowingnought, to enjoy is some- tningtool Yon rower with the moulded muscles there Lowering the sail, is nearer it than I. I can write love-odes — t hy fair slave 's an ode. ' I get to femgot love, when grown t oo grey ifov bei ng belovea : she luius to th at young man. The muscles all a-ripple on his back. 1 toow the joy of kingship : well— thon art king ! ^ ' But,' sayest thou — (and I marvel, I repeat, ' To find thee tripping on a mere word) ' what Thou writest, paintest, stays : that does not die : Sappho survives, because we sing her And Aeschylus, because we read his plays ! ' 158 CLEON Why, if they live still, let them come and take Thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup. Speak in my place. Thou diest while I survive ? Say rather that mv fate is deadlier stiU . ]h this, that every day my sense of loy Grows more acute, my soul (intensinei TtyjTnjygr gnri ingight] mfrrr rnliirc;nt3, mo EO lioon j While every day my hairs fall more and more. My hand shakes, and the heavy years increase — The horror quickening stiU from year to year. The p.nnsummation coming past escape. W'"" T Rha.ii irnnw most, ana yei least emoy— When all my works wherein I prove my worth. Being present still to mock me in men's mouths, Alive still, in the phrase of such as thou, I, I, the feeling, thinking, acting man. The man who loved his life so ove r- much, _ S hall sleep in my urn. It is so horrible. J dajej „ _, Sfime future state revealed to us by ' Zeuat "^ Unlinjt eSin capability • fpirjoyT lis this is in deauTTT'ir j^' —To seek which, theKoy-hungSlforces us : ^ ^ That, stung by straitness of our life, made strait On purpose to make sweet the life at large — Freed by the throbbing impulse we call death We burst there as the worm into the fly, Wh(J, while a worm still, wants his wings. But, no ! Zeus has not yet revealed it ; and, alas. He must have done so, were it possible ! Live long and happy, and in that thought die, ■Glad for what was. Farewell. And foi the rest. I cannot tell thy messenger aright Where to deliver what he bears of thine To one called Paulus — we have heard his fame Indeed, if Christus be not one with him — I know not, nor am troubled much to know. Thou canst not think a mere barbarian Jew, As Paulus proves to be, one circum- cised. Hath access to a secret shut from us ? Thou wrongest our philosophy, king. In stooping to inquire of such an one. As if his answer could impose at all. He writeth, doth he ? well, and he may write. Oh, the Jew findeth scholars ! certain slaves Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ ; And (as I gathered from a bystander) Their doctrines could be held by no sane man. EUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOU I I KNOW a Mount, the gracious Sun perceives First when he visits, last, too, when he leaves The world ; and, vainly favoured, it repays The day-long glory of his steadfast gaze By no change of its large calm front of snow. And underneath the Mount, a Flower I know. He cannot have perceived, that changes ever At his approach ; and, in the lost endeavour To live his life, has parted, one by one, With all a flower's true graces, for the grace Of being but a foolish mimic sun, With ray-like florets round a disk-like face. Men nobly call by many a name the Mount As over many a land of theirs its large RUDEL TO THE LADY OP TRIPOLI 159 Calm front of snow like a triumphal targe Is reared, and still with old names, fresh ones vie. Each to its proper praise and own account : Men call the Flower, the Sunflower, sportively. Oh, Angel of the East, one, one gold look Across the waters to this twilight nook, —The far sad waters. Angel, to this nook ! Dear Pilgrim, art thou for the East indeed ? Go ! Saying ever as thou dost pro- ceed, That I, French Rudel, choose for my device A sunflower outspread like a sacrifice Before its idol. See ! These inexpert And hurried fingers could not fail to hurt The woven picture ; 'tis a woman's skill Indeed ; but nothing bafiled me, so, ill Or well, the work is finished. Say, men feed On songs I sing, and therefore bask the On my flower's breast as on a platform broad : But, as the flower's concern is not for these But solely for the sun, so men applaud In vain this Rudel, he not looking here But to the East — the East ! Go, say this, Pilgrim dear ! ONE WORD MOREi TO B. B. B. London, September, 1855 1 There they are, my fifty men and women Naming me the fifty poems finished ! Take them. Love, the book and me together : Where the heart lies, let the brain he also. Rafael made a century of sonnets, Made and wrote them in a certain volume Dinted with the silver-pointed pencil Else he only used to draw Madonnas : These, the world might view — but One, the volume. Who that one, you ask ? Your heart instructs you. Did she live and love it all her life- time ? Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets. Die, and let it drop beside her pillow Where it lay in place of Rafael's glory, Rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving — Cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's, Rafael's cheek, her love iad turned a poet's ? You and I would rather read that volume, (Taken to his beating bosom by it) Lean and Ust the bosom-beats of Rafael, Would we not ? than wonder at Madonnas — Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno, Her, that visits Florence in a vision. Her, that 's left with lilies in the Louvre — Seen by us and all the world in circle. You and I will never read that volume. Guido Reni, like his own eye's apple Guarded long the treasure-book and loved it. Guido Reni dying, all Bologna Cried, and the world cried too, ' Ours — the treasure ! ' I Suddenly, as rare things will, itvanished. 1 Originally appended to the collection of Poems called • Men and "Women,' the greater jiortion of which has now been, more correctly, distributed under the other titles of this volume. 160 ONE WORD MORE Dante once prepared to paint an angel : Whom to please ? You whisper ' Beatrice.' While he mused and traced it and retraced it, (Peradventure with a pen corroded Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for, When, his left-hand i' the hair o' the wicked. Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma. Bit into the live man's flesh for parch- ment. Loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle. Let the wretch go festering through Florence) — Dante, who loved well because he hated. Hated wickedness that hinders loving, Dante standing, studying his angel, — In there broke the folk of his Inferno. Says he—' Certain people of impor- tance ' (Such he gave his daily, dreadful line to) ' Entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet.' Says the poet — ' Then I stopped my painting.' You and I would rather see that angel. Painted by the tenderness of Dante, Would we not ?— than read a fresh Inferno. You and I will never see that picture. While he mused on love and Beatrice, While he softened o'er his outlined angel. In they broke, those ' people of impor- tance : ' We and Bice bear the loss for ever. What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's picture ? This : no artist lives and loves, that longs not Once, and only once, and for One only, (Ah, the prize !) to find his love a language Fit and fair and simple and sufficient — Using nature that 's an art to others, Not, this one time, art that 's turned his nature. Ay, of all the artists living, loving. None but would forego his proper dowry, — Does he paint ? he fain would write a poem, — Does he write ? he fain would paint a picture. Put to proof art alien to the artist's. Once, and only once, and for One only, S J to be the man and leave the artist. Gain the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow. IX Wherefore ? Heaven's gift takes earth's abatement ! He who smites the rock and spreads the water. Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him. Even he, the minute makes immortal Proves, perchance, his mortal in the minute. Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing. While he smites, how can he but remember, So he smote before, in such a peril. When they stood and mocked — ' Shall smiting help us ? ' When they drank and sneered — ' A stroke is easy ! ' When they wiped their mouths and went their journey. Throwing him f orthanks — ' But drought was pleasant.' Thus old memories mar the actual triumph ; Thus the doing savours of disrelish ; Thus achievement lacks a gracious somewhat ; O'er-importuned brows becloud the mandate, Carelessness or consciousness, the ges- ture. ONE WORD MORE 161 For he bears an ancient wrong about him, Sees and knows again those phalanxed faces. Hears, yet one time more, the 'customed prelude — ' How shouldst thou, of all men, smite, and save us ? ' Guesses what is like to prove the sequel — ' Egypt's flesh-pots — nay, the drought was better.' Oh, the crowd must have emphatic warrant ! Theirs, the Sinai-forehead's cloven brilliance, Right-arm'srod-sweep,tongue'simperial fiat. Never dares the man put off the prophet. Did he love one face from out the thousands, (Were she Jethro's daughter, white and wifely. Were she but the Aethiopian bond- slave,) He would envy yon dumb patient camel. Keeping a reserve of scanty water Meant to save his own life in the desert ; Ready in. the desert to deliver (Kneeling down to let his breast be opened) Hoard and life together for his mistress. I shall never, in the years remaining. Paint you pictures, no,' nor carve you statues. Make you music that should all-express me ; So it seems : I stand on my attain- ment. This of verse alone, one life allows me ; Verse and nothing else have I to give you. Other heights in other lives, God willing — All the gifts from all the heights, your own. Love ! Yet a semblance of resource avails us — Shade so finely touched, love's sense must seize it. Take these lines, look lovingly and nearly. Lines I write the first time and the last time. He who works in fresco, steals a haii- brush. Curbs the liberal hand, subservient proudly. Cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little. Makes a strange art of an art familiar. Fills his lady's missal-marge with flowerets. He who blows thro' bronze, may breathe thro' silver. Fitly serenade a slumbrous princess. He who writes, may write for once, as I do. XIV Love, you saw me gather men and women. Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy. Enter each and all, and use their service. Speak from every mouth, — the speech, a poem. Hardly shall I tell my joys and sorrows Hopes and fears, belief and disbeliev- ing : I am mine and yours — the rest be all men's, Karshook, Cleon, Norbert and the fifty. Let me speak this once in my true person. Not as Lippo, Roland or Andrea, Though the fruit of speech be just this sentence — Pray you, look on these my men and women. Take and keep my fifty poems finished ; Where my heart lies, let my brain lie also ! Poor the speech ; be how I speak, for all things. XV Not but that you know me ! Lo, the moon's self ! Here in London, yonder late in Florence, G 162 ONE WORD MORE Still we find her face, the thrioe-trans- figured. Curving on a sky imbrued with colour. Drifted over Fiesole by twiUght, Came she, our new crescent of a hair's- breadth. Full she flared it, lamping Sammin- iato, Rounder 'twixt the cypresses apd rounder. Perfect till the nightingales applauded. Now, » piece of her old self, impo- verished. Hard to greet, she traverses the house- roofs. Hurries • with unhandsome thrift of silver. Goes dispiritedly, glad to finish. What, there 's nothing in the moon note- worthy ? Nay — for if that moon could love a mortal. Use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy) AU her magic ('tis the old sweet my- thos) She would turn a, new side to her mortal. Side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steersman — "Blank to Zoroaster on his terrace. Blind to Galileo on his turret. Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats — • him, even ! Think, the wonder of the moonstruck mortal — When she turns round, comes again in heaven. Opens out anew for worse or better ? Proves she like some portent of an ice- berg Swimming full upon the ship it founders. Hungry with huge teeth of splintered crystals ? Proves she as the paved-work ' of a sapphire Seen by Moses when he climbed the mountain ? Moses, Aaron, Nadab and Abihu Climbed and saw the very God, the Highest, Stand upon the paved-work of a, sapphire. Like the bodied heaven in his clear- ness Shone the stone, the sapphire of that paved-work. When they ate and drank and saw God also ! What were seen ? None Jmows, none ever shall know. Only this is sure — the sight were other, Not the moon's same side, bom late in Florence, Dying nowimpoverishedhere in London. God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures i Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with. One to show a woman when he loves her. xvui This I say of me, but think of you. Love ! This to you — yourself my moon of poets ! Ah, but that 's the world's side, there 'a the wonder. Thus they see you, praise you, think they know you. There, in turn I stand with them and praise you. Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it. But the best is when I gUde from out them. Cross a step or two of dubious twi- light, Come out on the other side, the novel Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of. Where I hush and bless myself with silence. Oh, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas, Oh, their Dante of the dread Inferno, Wrote one song — and in my brain I sing it. Drew one angel — borne, see, on my bosom ! E. B. SONNET 163 [The two following poems were not reprinted by Browning in any collected edition of his works. The Sonnet was written on August 17, 1834, and pub- lished in The. Monthly Sepository, 1834. Ben Karshook's Wisdom was written in April, 1854, and published in The Keep- sake, 1856.] SONNET Eyes, calm beside thee, (Lady, could'st thou know !) May turn away thick with fast- gathering tears : I glance not where all gaze : thrilling and low Their passionate praises reach thee — my cheek wears Alone no wonder when thou passest by ; Thy tremulous lids bent and suffused reply To the irrepressible homage which doth glow On every lip but mine : if in thine ears Their accents Unger — and thou dost recall Me as I stood, still, guarded, very pale. Beside each Totarist whose lighted brow Wore worship hke an aureole, ' O'er them all My beauty,' thou wilt murmur, ' did prevail Save that one only : ' — Lady, could'st thou know ! BEN KARSHOOK'S WISDOM I ' Would a man 'scape the rod ? ' Rabbi Ben Karshook saith, ' See that he turn to God The day before his death.' ' Ay, could a man inquire When it shall come ! ' I say. The Rabbi's eye shoots fire — ' Then let him turn to-day ! ' Quoth a young Sadducee : ' Reader of many rolls. Is it so certain we Have, as they tell us, souls ? ' ' Son, there is no reply ! ' The Rabbi bit his beard : ' Certain, a soul have I — We may have none,' he sneered. Thus Karshook, the Hiram's-Hammer, The Right-hand Temple-column, Taught babes in grace their grammar. And struck the simple, solemn. [The following poem first appeared in the Royal Academy Catalogue for 1864 and was reprinted in the 1865 Selections, and in later editions of Dramatis Personae.} ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE A PICTURE BY LBIGHTON But give them me, the mouth, the eyes, the brow ! Let them once more absorb me ! One look now Will lap me round for ever, not to pass Out of its light, though darkness lie beyond : Hold me but safe again within the bond Of one immortal look ! All woe that was, Forgotten, and all terror that may be Defied, — no past is mine, no future : look at me ! 164 TRAGEDIES AND OTHER PLAYS PIPPA PASSES A DRAMA I DEDICATE MY BEST INTENTIONS, IN THIS POEM, ADMIRINGLY TO THE AUTHOK OF ' ION,' AFFECTIONATELY TO ME. SERJEANT TALFOURD. London, 1841. New Year's Day at Asolo in the Tkevisan. a large, mean, airy chamber. A girl, Pippa, from the silk-mills, springing out of bed. Day! Faster and more fast. O'er night's brim, day boils at last ; Boils, pure goldjO'ertheoloud-cup'sbrim Wiiere spurting and supprest it lay— For not a froth-flake touched the rim Of yonder gap in the solid gray Of the eastern cloud, an hour away ; But forth one wavelet, then another, curled, Till the whole sunrise, notto be supprest. Rose, reddened, and its seething breast Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world. Oh, Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee, A mite of my twelve-hours' treasure. The least of thy gazes or glances, (Be they grants thou art bound to, or gifts above measure) One of thy choices,or oneof thy chances, (Be they tasks God imposed thee, or freaks at thy pleasure) — My Day, if I squander such labour or leisure. Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me ! Thy long blue solemn hours serenely flowing. Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and good — Thy fitful sunshine-minutes, coming, going. As if earth turned from work in game- some mood — R.B. All shall be mine ! But thou must treat me not As the prosperous are treated, those who live At hand here, and enjoy the higher lot. In readiness to take what thou wilt give. And free to let alone what thou ref,usest ; For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usest Me, who am only Pippa, — old-year's sorrow. Cast off last night, will come again to- morrow — Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall borrow Sufficient strength of thee for new-year's . sorrow. All other men and women that this earth Belongs to, who all days alike possess. Make general plenty cure particular dearth. Get more joy, one way, if another, less: Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven, — Sole light that helps me through the year, thy sun's ! Try, now ! Take Asolo's Four Happiest Ones — And let thy morning rain on that superb Great haughty Ottima ; can rain disturb Her Sebald's homage ? All the while thy rain Beats fiercest on her shrub-house win- dow-pane. He will but press the closer, breathe more warm PIPPA PASSES 165 Against her cheek ; how should she mind the storm ? And, morning past, if mid-day shed a gloom O'er Jules and Phene, — what care bride and groom Save for their dear selves ? 'Tis their marriage-day ; And while they leave church, and go home their way. Hand clasping hand, — within each breast would be Sunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee ! Then, for another trial, obscure thy eve -With mist, — will Luigi and his mother grieve — The Lady and her child, unmatched, forsooth, She in her age, as Luigi in his youth, For true content ? The cheerful town, warm, close. And safe, the sooner that thou art morose. Receives them ! And yet once again, outbreak In storm at night on Monsignor, they make Such stir about, — whom they expect from Rome To visit Asolo, his brothers' home. And say here masses proper to release A soul from pain, — what storm dares hurt his peace ? Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to ward Thy thunder off, nor want the angels' guard ! But Pippa — just one such mischance would spoil Her day that lightens the next twelve- month's toil At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil ! And here I let time slip for nought ! Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam — caught With a single splash from my ewer ! You that would mock the best pursuer. Was my basin over-deep ? One splash of water ruins you asleep. And up, up, fleet your brilliant bits Wheeling and counterwheeling. Reeling, broken beyond healing — Now grow together on the ceiling ! That will task your wits ! Whoever quenched fire first, hoped to see Morsel after morsel flee As merrily, as giddily . . . Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on. Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple ? Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon ? New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes' nipple, Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird's poll ! Be sure if corals, branching 'neath the ripple Of ocean, bud there, — fairies watch unroll Such turban-flowers ; I say, such lamps disperse Thick red flame through that dusk green universe ! I am queen of thee, floweret ; And each fleshy blossom Preserve I not — (safer Than leaves that embower it. Or shells that embosom) — From weevil and chafer ? Laugh through my pane, then ; solicit the bee ; Gibe him, be sure ; and, in midst of thy glee. Love thy queen, worship me ! — Worship whom else ? For am I not, this day, Whate'er I please ? What shall I please to-day ? My. morning, noon, eve, night — how spend my day ? To-morrow I must be Pippa who winds silk. The whole year round, to earn just bread and milk : But, this one day, I have leave to go. And play out my fancy's fullest games ; I may fancy all day — and it shall be so — That I taste of the pleasures, am called by the names Of the Happiest Four in our Asolo ! See ! Up the Hill-side yonder, through the morning. 166 PIPPA PASSES Some one shall love me, as the world calls love : I am no less than Ottima, take warning ! The gardens, and the great stone house above, And other house for shrubs, all glass in front. Are mine ; where Sebald steals, as he is wont. To court me, while old Luca yet reposes ; And therefore, tiHthe shrub-house door uncloses, I . . . what, now ? — give abundant cause for prate About me — Ottima, I mean — of late. Too bold, too confident she'll still face down The spitefuUest of talkers in our town-^ How we talk in the little town below ! But love, love, love — there's better love, I know ! This foolish love was only day's first offer ; I choose my next love to defy the scoffer : For do not our Bride and Bridegroom sally Out of Possagno church at noon ? Their house looks over Orcana valley — Why should not I be the bride as soon As Ottima ? For I saw, beside. Arrive last night that little bride — Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flash Of the pale, snow-pure cheek and black bright tresses. Blacker than all except the black eye- lash; I wonder she contrives those lids no dresses ! — So strict was she, the veil Should cover close her pale Pure cheeks — a bride to look at and scarce touch, Scarce touch, remember, Jules ! — for are not such Used to be tended, flower-like, every feature. As if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature ? A soft and easy life these ladies lead ! Whiteness in us were wonderful indeed. Oh, save that brow its virgin dim- ness. Keep that foot its lady primness. Let those ankles never swerve From their exquisite reserve. Yet have to trip along the streets like me. All but naked to the knee ! How will she ever grant her Jules a bliss So startling as her real first infant kiss ? Oh, no— not envy, this ! — Not envy, sure ! — for if you gave me Leave to take or to refuse. In earnest, do you think I'd choose That sort of new love to enslave me ? Mine should have lapped me round from the beginning ; As little fear of losing it as wiiming ! Lovers ' grow cold, men learn to hate their wives, And only parents' love can last our lives. At eve the son and mother, gentle pair, dommune inside our Turret ; what prevents My being Luigi ? while that mossy lair Of lizards through the winter-time, is stirred Witheach to each i mparting sweet intents For this new-year, as brooding bird to bird — (For I observe of late, the evening walk Of Luigi and his mother, always ends Inside our ruined tiuret, where they talk. Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than friends) — Le(v,me be cared about, kept out of harm. And schemed for, safe in love as with a charm ; Let me be Luigi ! If I only knew What was my mother's face — my father, too i Nay, if you come to that, best love of all Is God's ; then whv not have God's love befall Myself as, in the Palace by the Dome, Monsignor ?— who to-night will bless the home Of his dead brother ; and God will bless in turn That heart which beats, those eyes which mildly burn PIPPA PASSES 167 With love for all men : I, to-night at least, Would be that holy and beloved priest ! Now wait ! — even I already seem to share In God's love : what does New-year's hymn declare ? What other meaning do these verses bear ? All service ranks the same with God : If now, as formerly He trod Paradise, His presence fills Our earth, each only as God loiUs Can work — God's puppets, best and worst. Are we ; there is no last nor first. Say not ' a small event I ' Why ' smaU ? ' Costs it more pain than this, ye call A ' great event,' should come to pass. Than that ? XJntwine me from the mass Of deeds which make up life, one deed Power shall fall short in, or exceed I And more of it, and more of it ! — oh, yes — I will pass by, and see their happiness. And envy none — being just as great, no doubt. Useful to men, and dear to God, as they ! A pretty thing to care about So mightily, this single holiday ! But let the sun shine ! Wherefore repine ? — With thee to lead me, Day of mine, Down the grass-path grey with dew. Under the pine-wood, bUnd with boughs. Where the swallow never flew As yet, nor cicala dared carouse — Dared carouse ! [SAe enters the street. I. — MoENiNO. Up the HUl-side, in- side the Shrub-house. Luca's Wife, Ottima, and her Paramour the German Sebald. Seb. [sings.'] Let the watching lids vdnkl Day 's Orblaze with eyes, think — Deep i?ito the night, drink ! Otti. Night ? Such may be your, Rhine-land nights,. perhaps ; But this blood-red beam through the shutter's chink, — We call such light, the morning's : let us see ! Mind how you grope your way, though ! How these tall Naked geraniums straggle ! Push the lattice Behind that frame ! — Nay, do I bid you ? — Sebald, It shakes the dust down on me ! Why, of course The slide-bolt catches. — Well, are you content. Or must I find you something else to spoil ? Kiss and be friends, my Sebald ! Is it , full morning ? Oh, don't speak then ! Seb. Ay, thus it used to be ! Ever your house was, I remember, shut Till mid-day — I observed that, as I strolled On mornings through the vale here : country girls Were noisy, washing garments in the brook, Hinds drove the slow white oxen up the hills. But no, your house was mute, would ope no eye ! And wisely — you were plotting one thing there, Nature, another outside : I looked up — Rough white wood shutters, rusty iron bars, Silent as death, blind in a flood of light. Oh, I remember ! — and the peasants laughed And said, ' The old man sleeps with the young wife.' This house was his, this chair, this window — his ! Otti. Ah, the clear morning ! I can see St. Mark's : That black streak is the belfry. Stop : Vicenza Should lie . . ; There 's Padua, plain enough, that blue ! Look o'er my shoulder, follow my finger. Sd>. Morning ? 168 PIPPA PASSES It seems to me a night with a sun added. Where 's dew ? where 's freshness? That bruised plant, I bruised In getting through the lattice yestereve, Droops as it did. See, here 's my elbow's mark In the dust on the sill. Otti. Oh shut the lattice, pray ! Seb. Let me lean out. I cannot scent blood here. Foul as the mom may be. There, shut the world out ! How do you feel now, Ottima ? There, curse The world and all outside ! Let us throw off This mask : how do you bear yourself ? Let 's out With all of it ! Olti. Best never speak of it. Seb. Best speak again and yet again of it. Till words cease to be more than words. ' His blood,' For instance — let those two words mean ' His blood ' And nothing more. Notice, I'll say them now, ' His blood.' Otti. Assuredly if I repented The deed— Seb. Repent ? who should repent, or why? What puts that in your head ? Did I once say That I repented ? Otti. No, I said the deed — Seb. ' The deed,' and ' the event ' — just now it was ' Our passion's fruit ' — the devil take such cant ! Say, once and always, Luca was a wittol, I am his cut-throat, you are — Otti. Here is the wine ; I brought it when we left the house above, And glasses too — wine of both sorts. Black ? white, then ? Seb. But am not I his cut-throat ? What are you ? Otti. There, trudges on his business from the Duomo BenettheCapuchin, with his brown hood And bare feet — always in one plaee at church. Close under the stone wall by the south entry. I used to take him for a brown cold piece Of the wall's self, as out of it he rose To let me pass— at first, I say, I used — Now, so has that dumb figure fastened on me, I rather should account the plastered wall A piece of him, so chilly does it strike. This, Sebald ? Seb. No — the white wine — the white wine ! Well, Ottima, I promised no new year Should rise on us the ancient shameful way. Nor does it rise : pour on ! To your black eyes ! Do you remember last damned New Year's day ? Otti. You brought those foreign prints. We looked at them Over the wine and fruit. I had to scheme To get him from the fire. Nothing but saying His own set wants the proof-mark, roused him up To hunt them out. Seb. 'Faith, he is not alive To fondle you before my, face ! Otti. Do you Fondle me, then ! who means to take your life For that, my Sebald ? Seb. Hark you, Ottima, One thing's to guard against. We'll not make much One of the other — that is,not make more Parade of warmth, childish officious coil. Than yesterday — as if, Sweet, I sup- Proof upon proof was needed now, now first. To show I love you — yes, still love you — love you In spite of Luca and what 's come to him — Sure sign we had him ever in our thoughts. White sneering old reproachful face and all! PIPPA PASSES 169 We'll even quarrel, Love, at.tiines, as if We still could lose each other, were not tied .i . . .. By this — conceive you ? Otti. Love ! Seb. Not tied so sure ! Because though I was wrought upon, have struck His insolence back into him — am I So surely yours ?— therefore, forever yours ? Oiti. Love, to he wise, (one counsel pays another) Should we have — months ago — when first we loved. For instance that May morning we two stole Under the green ascent of sycamores — If we had come upon a thing like that Suddenly . . . iSeb. ' A thing ' — there again — ' a thing ! ' OUi. Then, Venus' body, had we come upon My husband Luca Gaddi's murdered corpse Within there, at his couch-foot, covered closer Would you have pored upon it ? Why persist ' In poring now upon it? For 'tis here As much as therein the deserted house : You cannot rid your eyes of it. For me, Now he is dead I hate i him. worse — I hate ... Dare you stay here ? I would go back and hold His two dead hands, and say, I hate you worse Luca, than . . . Seb. Off, off ; take your hands off mine ! lis the hot evening — ofE I oh, morning, isit ? Otti. There 's one thing must be done; you know what thing. Come in and help to carry. We may sleep Anywhere in the whole wide house to- night. Sei. What would comfe, think you, if we let him lie Just as he is ? Let him lie there until G The angels take him : -he is turned by this OfE from his face, beside, as you will see. Otti. This dusty pane might serve for looking-glass. Three, four — four grey hairs ! Is it so you said A plait of hair should wave across my neck ? No — this way ! Seb. Ottima, I would give your neck. Each splendid shoulder, both those breasts of yours, ■• That this were undone ! KiUing ? — Kill the world So Luca lives again ! — ay, lives to sputter His fulsome dotage on you — yes, and feign Surprise that I returned at eve to sup, When all the morning I was loitering here — Bid me dispatch my businessandbegone. I would . . . Otti. See ! Seb. No, I'll finish ! Do you think I fear to speak the bare trtth once for all? All we have talked of is, at bottom, fine Tosuffer — there 's arecompenseinguilt; One must be venturous and fortunate : What is one young for, else ? In age we'll sigh O'er the wild,' reckless, wicked days flown over ; Still, we have lived .' The vice was in its place. But to have eaten Luoa's tread, have worn His clothes, have felt his money swell my purse — Do lovers in romances sin that way ? Why, I was starving when I used to call And teach you music, starving while you plucked me These flowers to smell ! Otti. My poor lostfriend ! Seb. He gave me Life, nothing less : what if he did re- proach My perfidy, and threaten, and do mor6 — Had he no right ? What was to wonder at? 170 PIPPA PASSES He sat by us at taile quietly — Why must you lean across till our cheeks touched ? Could he do less than make pretence to strike me ? 'Tis not for the crime's sake — I'd com- mit ten crimes Greater, to have this crime wiped out, undone ! And you — 0, how feel you ? feel you for me ? Otti. Well, then, I love you better now than ever. And best (look at me while I speak to you)— Best for the crime ; nor do I grieve, in truth. This mask, this simulated ignorance. This affectation of simplicity, Falls off our crime ; this naked crime of ours May not, now, be looked over : look it down, then ! Great ? let it be great ; but the joys it brought. Pay they or no its price ? Come : they- or it ! Speak not ! The Past, would you give up the Past Such as it is, pleasure and crime to- gether ? Give up that noon I owned my love for you ? The garden's silence ! even the single bee Persisting in his toil, suddenly stopt ; And where he hid you only could surmise By some campanula's chalice set a- swing : Who stammered — ' Yes, I love you 1 ' Seb. And I drew Back ; put far back your face with both my hands Lest you should grow too full of me — your face So seemed athirst for my whole soul and body! Otti. And when I ventured to receive you here. Made you steal hither in the mornings — Seb. When I used to look up 'neath the shrub-house here. Till the red fire on its glazed windows To a yellow haze ? Otti. Ah — my sign was, the sun Inflamed the sere side of yon chestnut- tree Nipt by the first frost. Seb. You would always laugh At my wet boots : I had to stride thro' grass Over my ankles. Otti. Then our crowning night! Seb. The July night ? OUi. The day of it too, Sebald ! When the heaven's pillars seemed o'er- bowed with heat. Its black-blue canopy seemed let des- cend Close on us both, to weigh down each to each. And smother up all life except our life. So lay we tiU the storm came. Seb. How it came ! Otti. Buried in woods we lay, you recollect ; Swift ran the searching tempest over- head ; And ever and anon some bright white shaft Burnt thro' the pine-tree roof, here burnt and there. As if God's messenger thro' the close wood screen Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture. Feeling for guilty thee and me : then broke The thunder like a whole sea overhead — Seb. Yes! Otti.— While I stretched myself upoil you, hands To hands, my mouth to your hot mouth, and shook All my locks loose, and covered you with them — You, Sebald, the same you ! Seb. Slower, Ottima— Otti. And as we lay — Seb. Less vehemently ! Love me ! Forgive me ! take not words, mere words, to heart ! Your breath is worse than wine. Breathe slow, speak slow ! PIPPA PASSES 171 Do not lean on me ! OUi. Sebald, as we lay, Rising and falling only with our pants, Who said, ' Let death come now ! 'tis right to die ! Right to be punished ! nought completes such bliss But woe ! ' Who said that ? Seb. How did we ever rise ? Was 't that we slept ? Why did it end ? Otti. I felt you. Tapering into a point the ruffled ends Of my loose locks 'twixt both your humid lips — (My hair is fallen now : knot it again !) Seb. I kiss you now, dear Ottima, now, and now ! This way ? Will you forgive me — be once more My great queen ? Otti. Bind it thrice about my brow ; Crown me your queen, your spirit's arbitress. Magnificent in sin. Say that ! Seb. I crown you My great white queen, my spirit's arbitress. Magnificent . . . [From without is heard the voice of PippA, singing — The year 'sat the spring. And day 's at the morn ; Morning 's at seven ; The hillside 's devi-pearled ; The lark 's on the wing ; The snail 's on the thorn ; God 's in His heaven — All 's right with the world ! [PippA passes. Seb. God 's in His heaven ! Do you hear that ? Who spoke ? You, you spoke ! Otti. Oh — that little ragged girl ! She must have rested on the step : we give them But this one holiday the whole year round. Did you ever see our silk-mills — their inside ? There are ten silk-mills now belong to you. She stoops to pick my double hearts- ease . . . Sh I She does not hear : call you out louder ! Seb. Leave me ! Go, get your clothes on — dress those shoulders ! Otti. Sebald ? Seb. Wipe off that paint. I hate you ! Otti. Miserable ! Seb. My God ! and she is emptied of it now ! Outright now ! — how miraculously gone All of the grace — had she not strange grace once ? Why, the blank cheek hangs listless as it likes, No purpose holds the features up to- gether. Only the cloven brow and puckered chin Stay in their places — and the very hair. That seemed to have a sort of life in it. Drops, a dead web ! Otti. Speak to me — speak not of me ! Seb. — That round great full-orbed face, where not an angle Broke the delicious indolence — all broken ! Otti. To me — not of me ! — ungrateful, perjured cheat ! A coward, too : but ingrate 's worse than all ! Beggar — my slave — a fawning, cringing he! Leave me ! Betray me ! I can see your drift ! A lie that walks, and eats, and drinks ! Seb. My God ! Those morbid, olive, faultless shoulder- blades — • I should have known there was no blood beneath ! Otti. You hate me, then ? You hate me, then ? Seb. To think She wouldsucoeed in herabsurd attempt, And fascinate by sinning ; and show herself Superior — Guilt from its excess, superior To Innocence ! That Uttle peasant's voice Has righted all again. Though I be lost, I know which is the better, never fear. 172 PIPPA PASSES Of vice or virtue, purity or lust, Nature, or trick ! I see what I have done. Entirely now ! Oh, I am proud to feel Such torments — let the world take credit thence — I, having done my deed, pay too its price ! I hate, hate — curse you ! God 'sin His heaven ! Otti. — Me ! Me ! no, no, Sebald, not yourself — kill me ! Mine is the whole crime — do but kill me. — then Yourself — then — presently — first hear me speak — I always meant to kill myself — wait, you! Lean on my breast — not as a breast ; don't love me The more because you lean on me, my own Heart's Sebald ! There — there — both deaths presently ! Seb. My brain is drowned now — quite drowned : all I feel Is . . . is, at swift-recurring intervals, A hurrying-down within me, as of waters Loosened to smother up some ghastly pit : There they go — whirls from a black, fiery sea ! Otti. Not to me, God — to him be merciful ! Talk by the loay, wJiUe Pippa is passing from the Hill-side to Orcana. Foreign Students of Painting and Sculpture, from Venice, osserrMed opposite the house of Jules, a young French 'Statuary. First Student. Attention! my own post is beneath this window, but the pome- granate clump yonder will hide three or four of you with a little squeezing, and Schramm and his pipe must lie flat in the balcony. Four, five — who 's a defaulter ? We want everybody, for Jules must not be suffered to hurt his bride when the jest 's found out. Second Stud. All here ! Only our poet 's away — never havingmuch meant to be present, moonstrike him ! The airs of that fellow, that Giovacchino ! He was in violent love with himself, and had a fair prospect of thriving in his suit, so unmolested was ity — when suddenly a woman falls in love with him, too ; and out of pure jealousy he takes him- self off to Trieste, immortal poem and all —whereto is this prophetical epitaph appended already, as Bluphocks assures me — ' Here amammoth-poem lies, Folded to death by butterflies.' His own fault, the simpleton ! Instead of cramp cou- plets, each like a knife in your entrails, he should write, says Bluphocks, both classically and intelligibly. — A esculapius an Epic. Catalogue of the drugs : Hebe's plaister — One strip Cools your lip. Phoebus' emulsion — One bottle Clears your throttle. Mercury's bolus — One box Cures . . . Third Stud. Subside, my fine fellow ! If the marriage was over by ten o'clock, Jules will certainly be here in a minute with his bride. Second Stud. Good ! — Only, so should the poet's muse have been universally acceptable, says Bluphocks, et canibus nostris . . . and Delia not better known to our literary dogs than the boy — Giovac- chino ! First Stud. To the point, now. Where 's Gottlieb, the new-comer ? Oh, — listen, Gottlieb, to what has called down this piece of friendly vengeance on Jules, of which we now assemble to witness the winding-up. We are all agreed, all in a tale, observe, when Jules shall burst out on us in a fury by- and-by : I am spokesman — the verses that are to undeceive Jules bear my name of Lutwyche — but each professes himself alike insulted by this strutting stone-squarer, who came singly from Paris to Munich, and thence with a crowd of us to Venice and Possagno here, but proceeds in a day or two alone again — oh, alone, indubitably ! — to Rome and Florence. He, forsooth, take up his portion with these dissolute, brutalized, heartless bunglers ! — So he was heard to call us all: now, is Schramm brutalized, I should like to know ? Am I heartless ? Gott. Why, somewhat heartless ; for, PIPPA PASSES 173 suppose Jules a coxcomb as much as you choose, still, for this mere coxcombry, you will have brushed off — what do folks style it ? — the bloom of his life. Is it too late to alter ? These love-letters, now, you call his — I can't laugh at them. Fourth Stvd. Because you never read the sham letters of our inditing which drew forth these. Gott. His discovery of the truth will be frightful. Fourth Stud. That 's the joke. But you should have joined us at the begin- ning : there 's no doubt he loves the girl — loves a model he might hire by the hour ! Oott. See here ! ' He has been accus- tomed,' he writes, ' to have Canova's women about him, in stone, and the world's women beside him, in flesh ; these being as much below, as those, above — his soul's aspiration : but now he is to have the real.' There you laugh again ! I say, you wipe off the very dew of his youth. ■ First Stud. Schramm! (Take the pipe out of his mouth, somebody). Will Jules lose the bloom of his youth ? Schramm. Nothing worth keeping is ever lost in this world : look at a blos- som — it drops presently, having done its service and lasted its time ; but fruits succeed, and where would be the blossom's place could it continue ? As well afiSrm that your eye is no longer in your body, because its earliest favourite, whatever it may have first loved to look on, is dead and done with — as that any affection is lost to the soul when its first object, whatever happened first to satisfy it, is superseded in due course. Keep but ever looking, whether with the body's eye or the mind's, and you will soon find something to look on ! , Has a man done wondering at women ? — There follow men, dead and alive, to wonder at. Has he done wondering at men? — There's God to wonder at : and the faculty of wonder may be, at the same time, old and tired enough with respect to its first object, and yet young and fresh sufficiently, so far as concerns its novel one. Thus ... First Stud. Put Schramm's pipe into his mouth again ! There, you see ! Well, this Jules ... a wretched fribble — oh, I watched his disportings at Possagno, the other day ! Canova's gallery — you know : there he marches first resolvedly past great works by the dozen without vouchsafing an eye : all at once he stops full at the Psiche-fancivlla — cannot pass that old acquaintance without a nod of encouragement — ' In your new place, beauty ? Then behave yourself as well here as at Munich — I see you ! ' Next he posts himself deliberately before the unfinished Pietii, for half an hour with- out moving, till up he starts of a sudden, and thrusts his very nose into — I say, into — the group ; by which ges- ture you are informed that precisely the sole point he had not fully mastered in Canova's practice was a certain method of using the drill in the articulation of the knee-joint — and that, likewise, has he mastered at length ! Good bye, there- fore, to poor Canova — whose gallery no longer needs detain his successor Jules, the predestinated novel thinker in marble ! Fifth Stud. Tell him about the women : go on to the women ! First Stud. Why, on that matter he could never be supercilious enough. How should we be other (he said) than the poor devils you see, with those debasing habits we cherish ? He was not to wallow in that mire, at least : he would wait, and love only at the proper time, and meanwhile put up with the Psiche-fanciuUa. Now I happened to hear of a young Greek — real Greek girl at Malamocco ; a true Islander, do you see, with Alciphron's ' hair hke sea- moss ' — Schramm knows ! — white and quiet as an apparition, and fourteen years old at farthest, — a daughter of Natalia, so she swears — that hag Natalia, who helps us to models at three lire an hour. We selected this girl for the heroine of our jest. So, first, Jules received a scented letter — somebody had seen his Tydeus at the acadfemy, and my picture was nothing to it — a pro- found admirer bade him persevere — 174 PIPPA PASSES would make herself known to him ere long — (Paolina, my little friend of the Fenice, transcribes divinely). And in due time, the mysterious correspondent gave certain hints of her peculiar charms — the pale cheeks, the black hair — whatever, in short, had struck us in our Malamocco model : we retained her name, too — Phene, which is by inter- pretation, sea-eagle. Now, think of Jules finding himself distinguished from the herd of us by such a creature ! In his very first answer he proposed marrying his monitress : and fancy us over these letters, two, three times a day, to receive and dispatch ! I concocted the main of it : relations were in the way — secrecy must be observed — ^in fine, would he wed her on trust, and only speak to her when they were indisso- lubly united ? St — st — Here they come ! Siicth, Stud. Both of them ! Heaven's love, speak softly ! speak within your- selves ! Fifth Stvd. Look at the bridegroom ! Half his hair in storm, and half in calm, — patted down over the left temple, — Hke a frothy cup one blows on to cool it ! and the same old blouse that he murders the marble in ! Second Stvd. Not a rich vest hke yours, Hannibal Scratchy ! — rich, that your face may the better set it off. Sixth Stvd. And the bride ! Yes, sure enough, our Phene ! Should you have known her in her clothes ? How magni- ficently pale ! Gott. She does not also take it for earnest, I hope ? First Stvd. Oh, Natalia's concern, that is ! We settle with Natalia. Sixth Stvd. She does not speak — has evidently let out no word. The only thing is, will she equally remember the rest of her lesson, and repeat correctly all those verses which are to break the secret to Jules ? Gott. How he gazes on her! Pity — pity! First Stvd. They go in — now, silence! You three, — ^not nearer the window, mind, than that pomegranate — just where the little girl, who a few minutes ago passed us singing, is seated ! II. — Noon. Over Orcana. The Hov^e of Jules, who crosses its threshold with Phene : she is silent, on which Jules begins — Do not die, Phene ! I am yours now, you Are mine now ; let fate reach me how she likes. If you'll not die — so, never die ! Sit here — My work-room's single seat. I over- lean This length of hair and lustrous front ; they turn Like an entire flower upward : eyes — lips — last Your chin — ^no, last your throat turns — 'tis their scent Pulls down my face upon you ! Nay, look ever This one way till I change, grow you — I could Change into you. Beloved ! You by me. And I by you; this is your ha;nd in mine, And side by side we sit : all 's true. Thank God ! I have spoken : speak, you ! O, my life to come ! My Tydeus must be carved, that 's there in clay ; Yet how be carved, with you about the chamber ? Where must I place you ? When I think that once This room-full of rough block-work seemed my heaven Without you ! Shall I ever work again, Get fairly into my old ways again. Bid each conception stand while, trait by trait. My hand transfers its lineaments to stone ? Will my mere fancies live near you, my truth — The Uve truth, passing and repassing me. Sitting beside me ? Now speak ! Only, first. See, all your letters ! Was't not well contrived ? Their hiding-place is Psyche's robe ; she PIPPA PASSES 175 Your letters next her skin : which drops out foremost ? Ah, — this that swam down like a first moonbeam Into my world ! Again those eyes complete Their melancholy survey, sweet and slow. Of all my room holds ; to return and rest. On me, with pity, yet some wonder too — As if God bade some spirit plague a world. And this were the one moment of sur- prise And sorrow while she took her station, pausing O'er what she sees, finds good, and must destroy ! What gaze you at ? Those ? Books, I told you of ; Let your first word to me rejoice them, too: This minion, a Coluthus, writ in red Bistre and azure by Bessarion's scribe — Read this line . . . no, shame — Homer's be the Greek First breathed me from the lips of my Greek girl ! My Odyssey in coarse black vivid type With faded yellow blossoms 'twixt page and page. To mark great places with due gratitude; ' He said, and on Antinous directed A bittet shaft "... a flower blots out the rest ! Again upon your search ? My statues, then! — Ah, do not mind that — better that will look When cast in bronze — an Almaign Kaiser, that. Swart-green and gold, with truncheon based on hip. This, rather, turn to ! What, unrecog- nized ? I thought you would have seen that here you sit As I imagined you, — Hippolyta, Naked upon her bright Numidian horse ! Recall you this, then ? ' Carve in bold relief ' — So you commanded — ' carve, against I come. A Greek, in Athens, as our fashion was, Feasting, bay-filleted and thunder-free, Who rises 'neath the Ufted myrtle- branch : " Praise those who slew Hipparchus," cry the guests, " While o'er thy head the singer's myrtle waves As erst above our champions' : stand up, aU/"' See, I have laboured to express your thought ! Quite round, a cluster of mere hands and arms, (Thrust in all senses, all ways, from all sides. Only consenting at the branch's end They strain toward) serves for frame to a sole face. The Praiser's, in the centre — who with eyes Sightless, so bend they back to light inside His brain where visionary forms throng up. Sings, minding not that palpitating arch Of hands and arms, nor the quick drip of wine From the drenched leaves o'erhead, nor crowns cast off, Violetand parsley crowns to trampleon — Sings, pausing as the patron-ghosts approve. Devoutly their unconquerable hymn ! But you must say a ' well ' to that — say, ' well ! ' Because you gaze — am I fantastic, sweet ? Gaze like my very Ufe's-stuff, marble — marbly Even to the silence ! why, before I found The real flesh Phene, I inured myself To see, throughout all nature, varied stuff For better nature's birth by means of art. With me, each substance tended to one form Of beauty — to the human archetype. On every side occurred suggestive germs Of that— the tree, the flower — or take the fruit, — 176 PIPPA PASSES Some rosy shape, continuing the peach, Curved beewise o'er its bough ; as rosy limbs, Depending, nestled in the leaves ; and just From a cleft rose-peach the whole Dryad sprang. But of the stuffs one can be master of. How I divined their capabilities ! J- rom the soft-rinded smoothening facile , chalk That yields your outline to the air's embrace, Half-softened by a halo's pearly gloom ; Down to the crisp imperious steel, so sure To cut its one confided thought clean out Of all the world. But marble ! — 'neath my tools More pliable than jelly — as it were Some clear primordial creature dug from depths In the earth's heart, where itself breeds itself, ' An 3 whence all baser substance may be worked ; Refineitoff toair,you may, — condense it Dow.i to the diamond ; — is not metal . there. When o'er the sudden specks my chisel trips ? ^Not flesh, as flake off flake I scale, approach. Lay bare those bluish veins of blood asleep ? Lurks flame in no strange windings where, surprised By the swift implement sent home at once. Flushes and glowings radiate and hover About its track ? Phene ? what — why is this? That whitening cheek, those still- dilating eyes ! Ah, you will die — I knew that you would die! Phene begins, on his having long remained silent. Now the end 's coming ; to be sure, it must Have ended sometime ! Tush, why need I speak Their foolish speech ? I cannot bring to mind One half of it, besides ; and do not care '• For old Natalia now, nor any of them. Oh, you — what are you ? — if I do not try To say the words Natalia made me learn. To please your : friends, — it- is to keep myself Where your voice lifted me, by letting it Proceed: but can it ? Even you, per- Cannot take up, now you have once let fall. The music's Iife,and me along with that — No, or you would ! We'll stay, then, as we are : Above the world. You creature with the eyes ! If I could look for ever up to them. As now you let me,' — I believe, all sin. All memory of wrong done or suffering borne. Would drop down, low and lower, to the earth Whence all that 's low comes, and there touch and stay — Never to overtake the rest of me. All that, unspotted, reaches up to you. Drawn by those eyes ! What rises is myself. Not so the shame and suffering ; but they sink. Are left, Irise above them. Keep me so. Above the world ! But you sink, for your eyes Are altering-^altered ! Stay — ' I love you, love you ' . . . T could prevent it if I understood : More of your words to me : was't in the tone Or the words, your power ? Or stay — I will repeat Theirspeech, if that contents you! Only, change No more, and I shall find it presently — Far back here, in the brain yourself filled up. Natalia threatened me that harm would follow Unless I spoke their lesson to the end. But harm to me, I thought she meant, not you. PIPPA PASSES 177 Your friends, — Natalia said they were your friends And meant you well, — because, I doubted it. Observing (what was very strange to see) On every face, so different in all else, The same smile girls like us are used to bear, Butnever men, men cannot stoop so low ; Yet your friends, speaking of you, used that smile. That hateful smirk of boundless self- conceit Which seems to take possession of this world And make of God their tame confederate, Purveyor to their appetites . . . you know ! But no — Natalia said they were your friends. And they assented while they smiled the more. And all came round me, — that thin Englishman With light, lank hair seemed leader of the rest ; Heheldapaper — 'Whatwewant,'saidhe, Ending some explanation tohis friends — * Is something slow, involved and mystical, To hold Jules long in doubt, yet take his taste And lure him on, so that, at innermost Where he seeks sweetness' soul, he may find — this ! — As in the apple's core,the noisome fly : For insects on the rind are seen at once. And brushed aside as soon, but this is found Only when on the Ups or loathing tongue.' Andsoheread whatlhave got by heart — I'll speak it, — ' Do not die, love ! I am yours ' . . . Stop — is not that, or Uke that, part of words Yourself began by speaking ? Strange to lose What cost such pains to learn ! Is this more right ? / am a painter who cannot paint ; In my life, a devil rather than saint, In my hrain, as poor a creature too : No end to all I cannot do ! Yet do one thing at least I can — Love a man, or hate a man Supremely : thus my lore began. Through the Valley of Love I went. In its lovingest spot to abide. And just on the verge where I pitched my tent, I found Hale dwelling beside. (Let the Bridegroom ash what the painter meant. Of his Bride, of the peerless Bride !) And further, I traversed Hate's grove. In its hatefuUest nook to dwell ; But lo, where I flung myself prone, couched Love Where the deepest shadow fell. (The meaning — those black bride's- eyes above. Not the painter's lip should tell !) ' And here,' said he, ' Jules probably will ask. You have black eyes, love, — you are, sure My peerless bride, — so, do you tell, indeed. What needs some explanation — what means this ? ' — And I am to go on, without a word — So, I grew wiser in Love and Hate, From simple, that I was of late. Foronce,when I loved, I would enlace Breast, eyelids, hands, feet, form and face Of her I loved, in one embrace — As if by mere love I could, love im- mensely ! And when I hated, I would plunge My sword,andunpevAththefirst lunge Myfoe'swholelife out,likeaspunge — As if by mere hate I' could hate in/- tensely ! But now I am wiser, know better the fashion How passion seeks aid from its opposite passion. And if I see cause to love more, or hate more Than ever man loved, ever hated, before — 178 PIPPA PASSES And seek in the Valley of Love, The spot, or the spot in Hate's Grove, Where my soul may the surdiest reach The essence, nought less, of each. The Bate of aM Hates, or the Love Of all Loves, in its Valley or Grove, — / find them the very warders Each of the other's borders. 1 love most, when Love is disguised In Hate ; and when Hate is sur- In Love, then I hate most : ask How Love smiles through Hate's iron casque. Hate grins through Love's rose- braided mask, — And how, having hated thee, 1 sought lomg and painfully To wound thee, and not prick The skin, but pierce to the quick — Ask this, my Jules, and be answered By thy bride — how the painter Lutviyche can hate I Jules interposes. Lutwyche ! who else ? But all of them, no doubt. Hated me : they at Veraee — presently Their turn, however ! You I shall not meet : If I dreamed, saying this would wake me ! Keep What 's here, this gold — we cannot meet again. Consider — and the money was but meant Eor two years' travel, which is over now, All chance, or hope, or care, or need of it! This — and what comes from selling these, my casts And books, and medals, except . . . let them go Together, so the produce keeps you safe. Out of Natalia's clutches ! — H by chance (For all 's chance here) I should survive the gang At Venice, root out all fifteen of them, We might meet somewhere, since the world is wide. [From without is heard the voice of Pippa, Give her but a least excuse to love me I When — where — How — can this arm, establish hear above me. If fortune fixed her as my lady there, There already,, to eternally reprove me / (' Hist ' — said Kate the queen ; But ' Oh ' — cried the maiden, binding her tresses, ' 'Tis only a page that carols unseen Crumbling your hounds their messes ! ') Is she wronged ? — To the rescue of her honour. My heart ! Is she poor ? — What costs it to be styled a donor ? Merdy an earth 's to cleave, a sea 's to part I But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her ! (' Nay, list,' — bade Kate the queen ; And still cried the maiden, binding her ' 'Tis ordy a page that carols unseen Fitting your hawks their jesses I ') [Pippa passes. Jules resumes. What name was that the little girl sang forth ? Kate ? The Cornaro, doubtless, who renounced The crown of Cyprus to be lady here At Asolo, where still the peasants keep Her memory ; and songs tell how many Pined for the grace of one so far above His power of doing good to, as a queen — ' She never could be wronged, be poor,' he sighed, ' For him to help her ! ' Yes, a bitter thing To see our lady above all need of «s ; Yet so we look ere we will love ; not I, But the world looks so. If whoever loves Must be, in some sort, god or worshipper. The blessing or the blest one, queen or page. Why should we always choose the page's part ? Here is a woman with utter need of me, — PIPPA PASSES 179 I find myself queen here, it seems ! How strange ! Look at the woman here with the new soul. Like my own Psyche's, — fresh upon her lips Alit, the visionary butterfly. Waiting my word to enter and make bright. Or flutter off and leave all blank as first. This body had no soul before, but slept Or stirred, was beauteous or ungainly, free From taint or foul with stain, as outward things Fastened their image on its passiveness : Now, it will wake, feel,, live^or die again ! Shall to produce form out of uiishaped stuff Be Art-^and, further, to evoke a soul From form, be nothing ? This new soul is mine ! Now, to kill Lutwyche, what would that do ? — save A wretched dauber, men will hoot to death Without me, from their laughter ! Oh, to hear God's voice plain as I heard it first, before They broke in with that laughter ! I heard them Henceforth, not God. To Ancona — Greece — some isle ! I wanted silence only : there is clay Everywhere. One may do whate'er one likes In Art : the only thing is, to make sure That one does like it — which takes pains to know. Scatter all this, my Phene — this mad dream ! Who, what is Lutwyche, what Natalia's friends. What the whole world except our love — my own. Own Phene ? But I told you, did I not, Ere night we travel for your land— some isle ^ * He maketh His sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust,' With the sea's silence on it ? Stand aside — I do but break these paltry models up To begin Art afresh. Shall I meet Lutwyche, And save him from my statue's meeting him ? Some unsuspected isle in the far seas ! Like a god going through his world there stands One mountain for a moment in the dusk. Whole brotherhoods of cedars on its brow : And you are ever by me while I gaze — Are in my arms as now — as now — as now ! Some unsuspected isle in the far seas ! Some unsuspected isle in far-off seas ! Talk by the way, while Pippa is 'passing from Orcana to the Turret. Two or three of the Austrian Police loitering with Bluphocks, an English vaga- bond, just in view of the Turret. Blwphocks '. So, that is your Pippa, the little girl who passed us singing ? Well, your Bishop's Intendant's money shall be honestly earned : — now, don't make me that sour face because I bring the Bishop's name into the business — we know he can have nothing to do with such horrors — we know that he is a saint and all that a Bishop should be, who is a great man besides. Ohf were but every worm a maggot. Every fly a grig. Every bough a Christmas faggot. Every tune a jig .' In fact, I have abjured all religions ; but the last I inclined to, was the Armenian — for I have travelled, do you see, and at Koenigsberg, Prussia Improper (so styled because there 's a sort of bleak hungry sun there,) you might remark over a venerable house- porch, a certain Chaldee inscription ; and brief as it is, a mere glance at it used absolutely to change the mood of every bearded passenger. In they turned, one and all ; the young and lightsome, with no irreverent pause, the aged and decrepit, with a sensible alacrity, — 'twas the Grand Rabbi's 180 PIPPA PASSES abode, in short. Struck with curiosity, I lost no time in learning Syriao — (these are vowels, you dogs, — ^follow my stick's end in the mud — Cdarent, Darii, Ferio !) and one morning presented myself spelling-book in hand, a, b, c, — I picked it out letter by letter, and what was the purport of this miraculous posy ? Some cherished legend of the Past, you'll say — ' How Moses hocua- pocust Egypt's land with fly and locust,' — or, ' How to Jonah sounded harshish. Get thee up and go to Tarshish,' — or, ' How the angel meeting Balaam, Straight his ass returned a salaam.' In no wise ! ' ShacJcabrach — Boach — somebody or other — Isaach, Be-cei-ver, Pur-cha-ser and Ex-charirger of ^—Stolen Goods ! ' So, talk to me of the religion of a bishop ! I have renounced all bishops save Bishop Beveridge — mean to live so — and die — As some Greek dog-sage, dead and merry, HeUward hound in Charon's wherry — With food for both worlds, under and upper, Lupine-seed and Hecate's supper. And never an obolus . . . (Though thanks to you, or this Intendant through you, or this Bishop through his Intendant — I possess a burning pocket-full of zwanzigers) . . .To pay the Stygian ferry I First Pol. There is the girl, then ; go and deserve them the moment you have pointed out to us Signor Luigi and his mother. (To the rest) I have been noticing a house yonder, this long while : not a shutter unclosed since morning ! Second Pol. Old Luca Gaddi's, that owns the silk-mills here : he dozes by the hour, wakes up, sighs deeply, says he should like to be Prince Metternich, and then dozes again, after having bidden young Sebald, the foreigner, set his wife to playing draughts: never mo- lest such a household, they mean well. Blup. Only, cannot you tell me some- thing of this little Pippa, I must have to do with ? One could make something of that name. Pippa — that is, short for Felippa — rhyming to Panurge consults Hertrippa — Believ'st thou, KingAgrippa? Something might be done with that Second Pol. Put into rhyme that your head and a ripe musk-melon would not be dear at half a zwanziger ! Leave this fooling, and look out : the afternoon 's over or nearly so. Third Pol. Where in this passport of Signor Luigi does our Principal instruct you to watch him so narrowly ? There ? what 's there beside a simple signature ? (That English fool 's busy watching.) Second Pol. Flourish all round — ' Put all possible obstacles in his way ; ' oblong dot at the end — ' Detain him till further advices reach you ; ' scratch at bottom — ' Send him back on pretence of some informality in the above ; ' ink-spirt on right-hand side, (which is the case here) — ' Arrest him at once.' Why aiid wherefore, I don't concern myself, but my instructions amount to this : if Signor Luigi leaves home to- night for Vienna, well and good — the passport deposed with us for our visa is really for his own use, they have misinformed the Office, and he means well ; but let him stay over to-night — there has been the pretence we suspect, the accounts of his corresponding and holding intelligence with the Carbonari are correct, we arrest him at once, to- morrow comes Venice, and presently, Spielberg. Bluphocks makes the signal, sure enough ! 'That is he, entering the turret with his mother, no doubt. III. — Evening. Inside the Turret. Ltjigi and his Mother entering. Mother. If there blew wind, you'd hear a long sigh, easing . The utmost heaviness of music's heart. Luigi. Here in the archway ? Mother. Oh no, no — in farther, , ^ Where the echo is made, on the ridge. Luigi. Here surely, then. How plain the tap of my heel as t leaped up ! Hark — ' Lucius Junius / ' The very ghost of a voice. Whose body is caught and kept by . . . what are those ? Mere withered wallflowers, waving over- head ? PIPPA PASSES 181 They seem an elvish group with thin bleached hair Who lean out of their topmost fortress — looking And listening, mountain men, to what we say, Hands under chin of each grave earthy face : Up and show faces all of you ! — ' All of you ! ' That 's the king's dwarf with the scarlet comb ; now hark — Come down and meet your fate ! Hark — ' Meet your fate / ' Mother. Let him not meet it, my Luigi — do not Go to his City ! putting crime aside. Half of these ills of Italy are feigned : Your Pellicos and writers for effect. Write for effect. Luigi. Hush ! say A. writes, and B. Mother. These A.'s and B.'s write for effect, I say. Then, evil is in its nature loud, while good Is silent ; you hear each petty injury. None of his daily virtues ; he is old. Quiet, and kind, and densely stupid. Why Do A. and B. not kill him themselves ? Luigi. They teach Others to kill him — me — and, if I fail. Others to succeed ; now, if A. tried and failed, I could not teach that : mine 's the lesser task. Mother, they visit night by night . . . Mother. ■ — You, Luigi ? Ah, will you let me tell you what you are ? Luigi. Why not ? Oh, the one thing you fear to hint. You may assure yourself I say and say Ever to myself ; at times — nay, even as now We sit, I think my mind is touched — suspect All is not sound : but is not knowingthat. What constitutes one sane or otherwise ? I know I am thus — so all is right again ! I laugh at myself as through the town I walk, And see men merry as if no Italy Were sufifering ; then I ponder — ' I am rich. Young, healthy ; why should this fact trouble me, More than it troubles these ? ' But it does trouble ! No — trouble 's a bad word — for as I walk There 's springing and melody and giddiness. And old quaint turns and passages of my youth — Dreams long forgotten, little in them- selves — Return to me — whatever mayamuseme. And earth seems in a truce with me, and heaven Accords with me, all things suspend their strife. The very cicale laugh ' There goes he, and there ! Feast him, the time is short ; he is on his way For the world's sake : feast him this once, our friend ! ' And in return for all this, I can trip Cheerfully up the scaffold-steps. I go This evening, mother ! Mother. But mistrust yourself — Mistrust the judgment you pronounce on him. Luigi. Oh, there I feel — am sure that I am right ! Mother. Mistrust your judgment, then, of the mere means Of this wild enterprise : say, you are right, — How should one in your state e'er bring to pass What would require a cool head, a cold heart. And a calm hand ? You never will escape. Luigi. Escape — to even wish that, would spoil all ! The dying is best part of it. Too much Have I enjoyed these fifteen years of mine. To leave myself excuse for longer life — Was not life pressed down, running o'er with joy. That I might finish with it ere my fellows Who, sparelier feasted, make a longer stay ? 182 PIPPA PASSES I was put at the board-head, helped to all At first ; I rise up happy and content. God must be glad one loves His world so much ! I can give news of earth to all the dead Who ask me : — last year's sunsets, and great stars That had a right to come firstandsee ebb The crimson wave that drifts the sun away — ■ Those crescent moons with notched and burning rims That strengthened into sharp fire, and there stood. Impatient of the azure — and that day In March, a double rainbow stopped the storm — May's warm, slow, yellow moonlit summer nights — Gone are they, but I have them in my soul ! Mother. (He will not go !) Luigi. You smile at me ! 'Tis true, — • Voluptuousness, grotesqueness, ghastli- ness. Environ my devotedness as quaintly As round about some antique altar wreathe The rose festoons, goats' horns, and oxen's skulls. Mother. See now : you reach the city, you must cross His threshold — how ? Luigi. Oh, that 's if we conspired ! Then would come pains in plenty, as you guess — But guess not how the qualities most fit For such an office, qualities I have. Would little stead me otherwise em- ployed. Yet prove of rarest merit here, here only. Every one knows for what his excellence Will serve, but no one ever will consider For what his worst defect might serve ; and yet Have you not seen me range our coppice yonder In search of a distorted ash ? — it happens The wry spoilt branch 's a natural perfect bow ! Fancy the thrice-sage, thrice-precau- tioned man Arriving at the palace on my errand ! No, no I I have a handsome dress packed up — White satin here, to set off my black hair. In I shall march — for you may watch your life out Behind thick walls, make friends there to betray you ; More than one man spoils everything. March straight — Only, no clumsy knife to fumble for. Take the great gate, and walk (not saunter) on Thro' guards and guards 1 have rehearsed it all Inside the T«rret here a hundred times! Don't ask the way of whom you meet, observe ! But where they cluster thickhest is the door Of doors ; they'll let you pEiss — they'll never blab Each to the other, he knows not the favourite, Whence he is bound and what 's his business now. Walk in — straight up to him ; you have no knife : Be prompt, how should he scream ? Then, out with you ! Italy, Italy, my Italy ! You're free, you're free ! Oh mother, I could dream They got about me — Andrea from his exile. Pier from his dungeon, Gualtier from his grave ! Mother. Well, you shall go. Yet seems this patriotism The easiest virtue for a selfish man To acquire ! He loves himself — and next, the world — If he must love beyond, — but nought between : As a short-sighted man sees nought mid- way His body and the sun above. But you Are my adored Luigi — ever obedient To my least wish, and running o'er with love — PIPPA PASSES 183 I could not call you cruel or unkind. Once more, your ground for killing him ? — then go ! Luigi. Now do you ask me, or make sport of me ? How first the Austrians got these provinces . . . (If that is all, I'll satisfy you soon) — Never by conquest but by cunning, for That treaty whereby . . . Mother. Well ? Luigi. (Sure he 's arrived, The tell-tale ouekoo : spring 's his con- fidant. And he lets out her April purposes !) Or . . . better go at once to modern times. He has . . . they have ... in fact, I understand But can't restate the matter ; that 's my boast : Others could reason it out to you, and prove Things they have made me feel. Mother. Why go to-night ? Morn 's for adventure. Jupiter is now A morning-star. I cannot hear you, Luigi ! Luigi. ' I am the bright and morning- star,' God saith — And, ' to such an one I give the morning- star ! ' The gift of the morning-star — have I God's gift Of the morning-star ? Mother. Chiara will love to see That Jupiter an evening-star next June. Luigi. True, mother. Well for those who live through June ! Great noontides, thunder-storms, all glaring pomps Which triumph at the heels of the god June Leading his revel through our leafy world. Yes, Chiara will be here. Mother. In June : remember. Yourself appointed that month for her coming. Luigi. Was that low noise the echo ? Mother. The night-wind. She must be grown — with her blue eyes upturned As if life were one long and sweet sur- prise : In June she comes. Luigi. We were to see together The Titian at Treviso — there, again ! [Fromwithout is heard thevoice of Pippa, singing — A king lived long ago. In the morning of the world, When earth was nigher heaven tlian now : And the king's locks curled Disparting o'er a forehead full As the milk-white space 'twixt horn and horn Of some sacrificial hull— Only calm as a babe new-born : For he was got to a sleepy mood. So safe from aU decrepitude. Age with its bane, so sure gone by, {The Gods so loved him while he dreamed,) That, having lived thus long, there No need the king should ever die. Luigi. No need that sort of king should ever die ! Among the rocks his city was : Before his palace, in the sun. He sat to see his people pass. And judge them every one From its threshold of smooth stone. They haled him many a valley-thief Caught in the sheep-pens — robber- chief. Swarthy and shameless — beggar- cheat — Spy-prowler — or rough pirate found On the sea-sand left aground ; And sometimes dung about his feet, With bleeding lip and burning cheek, A woman, bitterest wrong to speak Of one with sullen, thickset brows : And sometimes from the prison-house The angry priests a pale wretch brought, Who through some chink had pushed and pressed. On knees and elbows, belly and breast. Worm-like into the tem'fie, — caught , 184 PI-PPA PASSES At last there by the very God, Who ever in the darkness strode Backwardandforward,keepingivatch O'er his brazen bowls, such rogues to catch 1 And these, aJl and every one. The king judged, sitting in the sun. Luigi. That king should still judge sitting in the sun ! His councillors, on left and right. Looked anxious up, — btU na surprise • Disturbed the king's old smiling eyes. Where the very blue had turned to white. 'Tis said, a Python scared one day • The breathless city, till he came. With forky tongue and eyes on flame. Where the old king sat to judge idway; But when he saw the sweepy hair. Girt with a crown of berries rare Which the God will hardly give to ' wear To the maiden who singeth, dancing bare In the altar-smoke by the pine-torch At his wondrous forest rites, — Beholding this, he did not dare Approach that threshold in the sun. Assault the old king smiling there. Such grace had kings when the world begun ! [Pippa passes. Luigi. And such grace have they, now that the w'orld ends ! The Python in the city, on the throne. And brave men, God would crown for slaying him, Lurkin bye-corners lestthey f all his prey. Are crowns yet to be won, in this late time. Which weakness makes me hesitate to reaeh ? 'Tis God's voice calls, how coulc^ I stay ? Farewell ! Talk by the way, while Pippa is passing from the Turret to the Bishop's brother's House, dose to the Duomo S. Maria. Poor Girls sitting on the steps. First Girl. There goes a swallow to Venice — the stout seafarer ! Seeing those birds fly, makes one wish for wings. Let us all wish ; you, wish first 1 Second Girl. I ? This sunset To finish. Third Girl. That old — somebody I know. Greyer and older than my grandfather, To give me the same treat he gave last week — Feeding me on his knee with fig-peckers, Lampreys, and red Breganze-wine, and mumbling v The while some folly about how well I fare. To be let eat my supper quietly : Since had he not himself been late this morning Detained at — never mind where,~had he not . . . ' Eh, baggage, had I not ! ' — . Second Girl. How she can lie ! Third Girl. Look there — by the nails ! Second Girl. What makes your fin- gers red ? 1 Third Girl. Dipping them into wine to write bad words with, , , On the bright table : how he laughed ! First Girl. ■ ■ My turn. Spring 's come and summer 's coming : I would wear , , A long loose gown, down to the fpet and hands. With plaits here, close about the throat, all day : And all night lie, the cool long nightsj in bed — And have new milk to drink — apples to eat, " ( Deuzans and junetings, leather-coats . . . ah, I should say, This is away in the fields — miles ! Third Girl. Say. at once You'd be at home : she'd always be at home ! Now comes the story of the farm among The cherry orchards, and how April snowed White blossoms on her as she ran : why, fool. They've rubbed out the chajk-mark, of how tall you were. PIPPA PASSES 185 Twisted your starling's neck, broken his cage, Made a dunghill of your garden ! First Oirl. They, destroy My garden since I left them ? well — perhaps ! I would have done so : so I hope they have ! A fig-tree curled out of our cottage wall ; They called it mine, I have forgotten why. It must have been there long ere I was born : Cric — eric — I think I hear the wasps o'erhead Pricking the papers strung to flutter there And keep off birds in fruit-time — coarse long papers, And the wasps eat them, prick them through and through. Third Girl. How her mouth twitches ! Where was I ? — before She broke in with her wishes and long gowns And wasps — would I be such a fool ! — Oh, here ! This is my way — I answer every one Who asks me why I make so much of him — (If you say, you love him — straight ' he'll not be gulled ! ') ' He that seduced me when I was a girl Thus high — had eyes like yours, or hair like yours. Brown, red, white,' — as the case may be — that pleases ! See how that beetle burnishes in the path — There sparkles he along the dust ! and, there — Your journey to that maize-tuft 's spoilt at least ! First Oirl. When I was young, they said if you killed one Of those sunshiny beetles, that his friend Up there, would shine no more that day nor next. Second Oirl. When you were young ? Nor are you young, that 's true ! How your plump arms, that were, have dropped away ! Why, I can span them ! Cecoo beats you still ? No matter, so you keep your curious hair. I wish they'd find a way to dye our hair Your colour — any lighter tint, indeed. Than black : the men say they are sick of black. Black eyes, black hair ! Fourth Oirl. Sick of yours, like enough ! Do you pretend you ever tasted lam- preys And ortolans ? Giovita, of the palace. Engaged (but there 'b no trusting him) to slice me Polenta with a knife that bad cut up An ortolan. Second Oirl. Why, there ! is not that Pippa We are to talk to, under the window, — quick, — Where the lights are ? First Oirl. No — or she would sing ; For the Intendant said . . . Third Girl. Oh, you sing first — Then, if she listens and comes close . . . I'll tell you. Sing that song the young English noble made. Who took you for the purest of the pure. And meant to leave the world for you — what fun ! Second Girl. [Sings.l You'll love me yet ! — and I can tarry Your love's protracted growing : " June reared that bunch of flowera you carry. From seedfl of April's sowing. I plant a heartfull now : some seed At least is sure to strike, And yield— what you'll not pluck indeed, Not love, but, may be, like ! You'll look at least on love's remains, A grave's one violet : Your look? — that pays a thousand pains. What 's death ! — You'll love me yet 1 Third Girl. [To PiPFAwhoapproaches.] Oh, you may come closer — we shall not eat you ! Why, you seem the very person that the great rich handsome Englishman has fallen so violently in love with ! I'll tell you all about it. 186 PIPPA PASSES IV. — Night. The Palace by the Duomo. MoNsiGNOB, dismissing his Atten- dants. Mon, Thanks, friends, many thanks. I chiefly desire life now, tiiat I may recompense every one of you. Most I know something of already. What, a repast prepared ? Benedicto henedi- catur . . . ugh . . . ugh ! Where was I ? Oh, as you were remarking, Ugo, the weather is mild, very unlike winter- weather, — but I am a Sicilian, you know, and shiver in your Julys here. To be sure, when 'twas full summer at Messina, as we priests used to cross in procession the great square on Assump- tion Day, you might see our thickest yellow tapers twist suddenly in two, each like a falling star, or sink down on themselves in a gore of wax. But go, my friends, but go ! [To the Intendant] Not you, Ugo ! [The others leave the apartmenf] I have long wanted to con- verse with you, Ugo ! Inten. Uguccio — • Mon. . . . 'guccio Stefani, man ! of Ascoli, Fermo, and Fossombruno ; — what I do need instructing about, are these accounts of your administration of my poor brother's affairs. Ugh ! I shall never get through a third part of your accounts : take some of these dainties before we attempt it, however. Are you bashful to that degree ? For me, a crust and water suffice. Inten. Do you choose this especial night to question me ? Mon. This night, Ugo. You have managed my late brother's affairs since the death of our elder brother : fourteen years and a month, all but three days. On the 3rd of December, I find him . . . Inten. If you have so intimate an acquaintance with your brother's affairs, you. will be tender of turning so far back : they will hardly bear looking into, so far back, Mon. Ay, ay, ugh, ugh, — nothing but disappointments here below ! I remark a considerable, payment made to your- self on this 3rd of December. Talk of disappointments ! There was a young fellow here, Jules, a foreign sculptor, I did my utmost to advance, that the Church might be a gainer by us both : he was going on hopefully enough, and of a sudden he notifies to me some marvellous change that has happened in his notions of Art ; here 's his letter, — ' He never had a clearly conceived Ideal within his brain till to-day. Yet since his hand could manage a chisel, he has practised expressing other men's Ideals ; and, in the very perfection he has at- tained to, he foresees an ultimate failure : his unconscious hand will pursue its prescribed course of old years, and will reproduce with a fatal expertness the ancient types, let the novel one appear never so palpably to his spirit. There is but one method of escape — confiding the virgin type to as chaste a hand, he will turn painter instead of sculptor, and paint, not carve, its characteristics,' — strike out, I dare say, a school like Correggio : how think you, Ugo ? Inten. Is Correggio a painter ? Mon. Foolish Jules ! and yet, after all, why foolish ? He may — probably will, fail egregiously ; but if there should arise a new painter, will it not be in some such way by a poet, now, or a , musician, (spirits who have conceived and perfected an Ideal through some other channel) transferring it to this, and escaping our conventional roads by pure ignorance of them ; eh, Ugo ? If you have no appetite, talk at least, Ugo ! Inten. Sir, I can submit no longer to this course of yours : first, you select the group of which I formed one, — next you thin it gradually, — always retaining me with your smile, — and so do you proceed till you have fairly got me alone with you between four stone walls. And now then ? Let this farce, this chatter end now : what is it you want with me ? Mon. Ugo ! Inten. Rom the instant you arrived, I felt your smile on me as you questioned me about this and the other article in those papers — why your brother should have given me this villa, that podere, — and your nod at the end meant, — what ? Mon. Possibly that I wished for no PIPPA PASSES 187 loud talk here : if once you set me coughing, Ugo ! — Inien. I have your brother's hand and seal to all I possess : now ask me what for ! what service I did him — ask me ! Mon. I would better not — I should rip up old disgraces, let out my poor brother's weaknesses. By the way, MafEeo of Forli, (which, I forgot to observe, is your true name,) was the interdict ever taken off you, for robbing that church at Cesena ? Inien. No, nor needs be : for when I murdered your brother's friend, Pasquale, for him . . . Mon. Ah, he employed you in that business, did he ? Well, I must let you keep, as you say, this villa and that podere, for fear the world should find out my relations were of so indifferent a stamp ? Maffeo, my family is the oldest in Messina, and century after century have my progenitors gone on polluting themselves with every wicked- ness under Heaven : my own father . . . rest his soul ! — I have, I know, a chapel to support that it may rest : my dear two dead brothers were, — what you know tolerably well ; I, the youngest, might have rivalled them in vice, if not in wealth, but from my boyhood I came out from among them, and so am not partaker of their plagues. My glory springs from another source ; or if from this, by contrast only, — for I, the bishop, am the brother of your employers, Ugo. I hope to repair some of their wrong, however ; so far as my brother's ill- gotten treasure reverts to me, I can stop the consequences of his crime ; and not one soldo shall escape me. Maffeo, the sword we quiet, men spurn away, you shrewd knaves pick up and commit murders with ; what opportunities the virtuous forego, the villanous seize. Because, to pleasure myself, apart from other considerations, my food would be millet-cake, my dress sackcloth, and my couch straw, — am I therefore to let you, the off-scouring of the earth, seduce the poor and ignorant, by appro- priating a pomp these will be sure to think lessens the abominations so unac- countably and exclusively associated with it ? Must I let villas and poderi go to you, a murderer and thief, that you may beget by means of them other murderers and thieves ? No — if my cough would but allow me to speak ! Inten. What am I to expect ! you are going to punish me ? Mon. — Must punish you, Maffeo. I cannot afford to cast away a chance. I have whole centuries of sin to redeem, and only a month or two of life to do it in ! How should I dare to say . . . Inten. ' Forgive us our trespasses ' ? Mon. My friend, it is because I avow myself a very worm, sinful beyond measure, that I reject a line of conduct you would applaud, perhaps. Shall I proceed, as it were, a-pardoning ? — I ? — who have no symptom of reason to assume that aught less than my strenuousest efforts will keep myself out of mortal sin, much less, keep others out. No : I do trespass, but will not double that by allowing you to trespass. Inten. And suppose the villas are not your brother's to give, nor yours to take ? Oh, you are hasty enough just now ! Mon. 1, 2 — No. 3 ! — ay, can you read the substance of a letter. No. 3, I have received from Rome ? It is precisely on the ground there mentioned, of the suspicion I have that a certain child of my late elder brother, who would have succeeded to his estates, was murdered in infancy by you, Maffeo, at the insti- gation of my late brother — that the Pontiff enjoins on me not merely the bringing that Maffeo to condign punish- ment, but the taking all pains, as guardian of that infant's heritage for the Church, to recover it parcel by parcel, howsoever, whensoever, and whereso- ever. While you are now gnawing those fingers, the police are engaged in sealing up your papers, Maffeo, and the mere raising my voice brings my people from the next room to dispose of your- self. But I want you to confess quietly, and save me raising my voice. Why, man, do I not know the old story ? 188 PIPPA PASSES The heir between the succeeding heir, and that heii's ruffianly instrument, and their complot's effect, and the life of ' fear and bribes, and ominous smiling silence ? Did you throttle or stab my brother's infant ? Come, now ! Inten. So old a story, and tell it no better ? When did such an instrument ever produce such an effect ? Either the child smiles in his face, or, most likely, he is not fool enough to put himself in the employer's power so thoroughly : the child is always ready to produce — as you say — howsoever, wheresoever, and whensoever. Mon. Liar ! Inten. Strike me 1 Ah, so might a father chastise ! I shall sleep soundly to-night at least, though the gallows await me to-morrow ; for what a life did I lead ! Carlo of Cesena reminds me of his connivance, every time I pay his annuity ; which happens commonly thrice a year. If I remonstrate, he will confess all to the good bishop — you ! Mon. I see through the trick, caitiff ! I would you spoke truth for once. AU shall be sifted, however — seven times sifted. Inten. And how my absurd riches encumbered me ! I dared not lay claim to above half my possessions. Let me but once unbosom myself, glorify Heaven, and die ! Sir, you are no brutal, dastardly idiot like your brother I frightened to death : let us understand one another. Sir, I will make away with her for you — ^the girl — here close at hand ; not the stupid obvious kind of killing ; do not speak — know nothing of her or me ! I see her every day — saw her this morning : of course there is to be no killing ; but at Rome the courtesans perish off every three years, and I can entice her thither — have, indeed, begun opera- tions already. There 's a certain lusty, blue-eyed, florid-complexioned English knave, I and the Police employ occa- sionally. You assent, I perceive — ^no, that 's not it — assent I do not say — but yon will let me convert my present havings and holdings into cash, and give me time to cross the Alps ? 'Tis but a little black-eyed, pretty singing FeUppa, gay silk-winding girl. I have kept her out of harm's way up to this present ; for I always intended to make your life a plague to you with her ! 'Tis as well settled once and for ever : some women I have procured will pass Bluphocks, my handsome scoundrel, off for somebody ; and once Pippa en- tangled ! — you conceive ? Through her singing ? Is it a bargain ? IFrom without ia heard the voice of Pippa, singing — Overhead the tree-tops meet. Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's feet; There was nought aban>e me, and ncntght bdow. My childhood had not learned to know : For, what are the voices of birds — Ay, and of beasts,— -but vxrds — our words. Only so much more sweet ? The knowledge of that with my life begun ! But I had so near made out the sun. And counted your stars, the Seven and One, Like the fingers of my hand : Nay, I could all but understand Wherefore through heaven the while moon ranges ; And just when out of her soft fifty changes No unfamiliar face might overlook me — Suddenly Ood took me ! [Pippa passes. Mon. [Springing up.l My people — one and all — all — within there ! Gag this villain — tie him hand and foot ! He dares ... I know not half he dares — but remove him — quick ! Miserere mei, Domine I quick, I say ! Pippa's Chamber again. She enters it. The bee with his comb. The mouse at her dray. The grub in its tomb. Wile winter away ; But the fire-fly and hedge-shiew and lob-worm, I pray. How fare they ? PIPPA PASSES 189 Ha, ha, best thanks for your counsel, my Zanze — ' Feast upon lampreys, quafif the The summer of life 's so easy to spend, And care for to-morrow so soonputaway ! But winter hastens at summer's end. And fire-fly, hedge-shrew, lob-worm, pray. How fare they ? No bidding me then to . . . what did she say? ' Pare your nails pearlwise, get your small feet shoes More like . . . (what said she ?)■ — and less like canoes ' — How pert that girl was ! — would I be those pert Impudent staring women ! it had done me. However, surely no such mighty hurt To learn his name who passed that jest upon me : No foreigner, that I can recollect. Came, as she says, a month since, to inspect Our silk-mills — none with blue eyes and thick rings Of English-coloured hair, at all events. Well, if old Luca keeps his good intents. We shall do better : see what next year brings ! I may buy shoes, my Zanze, not appear More destitute than you, perhaps, next year ! Bluph. . . . something! I had caught the uncouth name But for Monsignor's people's sudden clatter Above us — bound to spoil such idle chatter As ours; it were, indeed, a serious matter If silly talk like ours should put to shame The pious man, the man devoid of blame. The . . . ah, but — ah, but, all the same, No mere mortal has a right To carry that exalted air ; Best people are not angels quite : While — not the worst of people's doings scare The devil ; so there 's that proud look to spare ! Which is mere counsel to myself, mind ! for I have just been the holy Monsignor ! Andlwasyou too,Luigi's gentlemother. And you too, Luigi ! — how that Luigi started Out of the Turret — doubtlessly departed On some good errand or andther, Forhepass'djustnowinatraveller'strim, And the. sullen company that prowled About his path, I noticed, scowled As if they had lost a prey in him. And I was Jules the sculptor's bride. And I was Ottima beside. And now what am I ? — tired of fooling ! Day for folly, night for schooling J New year's day is over and spent, 111 or well, I must be content ! Even my lily 's asleep, I vow : Wake up — here 's a friend I've pluckt you! See — call this flower a heart's-ease now ! And something rare, let me instruct you. Is this — with petals triply swollen. Three times spotted, thrice the pollen. While the leaves and parts that witness, The old proportions and their fitness. Here remain, unchanged, unmoved now— So, call this pampered thing improved now ! Suppose there 's a king of the flowers And a girl-show held in his bowers — ' Look ye, buds, this growth of ours,' Says he, ' Zanze from the Brenta, I have made her gorge polenta Till both cheeks are near>as bouncing As her . . . name there's no pronouncing ! See this heightened colour too — For she swilled Breganze wine Till her nose turned deep carmine — 'Twas but white when vrild she grew ! And only by this Zanze's eyes Of which we could not change the size. The magnitude of what 's achieved Otherwise, may be perceived ! ' Oh what a drear, dark close to my poor day! How could that red sun drop in that black cloud ! Ah, Pippa, morning's rule is moved away, 190 PIPPA PASSES Dispensed with, never more to be al- lowed ! Day's turn is over : now arrives the night's. Oh, Lark, be day's apostle To mavis, merle and throstle. Bid them their betters jostle From day and its delights ! But at night, brother Howlet, far over the woods, Toll the world to thy chantry ; Sing to the bats' sleek sisterhoods Full complines with gallantry : Then, owls and bats, cowls and twats. Monks and nuns, in a cloister's moods. Adjourn to the oak-stump pantry ! [After she has begun to undress herself. Now, one thing I should like to really know : How near I ever might approach all these I only fancied being, this long day ! — Approach, I mean, so as to touch them, so As to ... in some way . . . move them — if you please. Do good or evil to them some slight way. For instance, if I wind Silk to-morrow, my silk may bind [Sitting on the bedside. And broider Ottima's cloak's hem. Ah, me and my important part with them. This morning's hymnhalf promised when I rose ! True in some sense or other, I suppose. Though I passed by them all, and felt no sign. [As she lies down. God bless me ! I can pray no more to- night. No doubt, some way or other, hymns say right. AU service is the same with God — With God, whose puppets, best and worst, Are we : there is no last nor first. [She sleeps. KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES A TRAGEDY So far as I know, this Tragedy is the first artistical consequence of what Voltaire termed ' a terrible event without consequences ; ' and although it professes to be historical, I have taken more pains to arrive at the history than most readers would thank me for particularizing : since acquainted, as I will hope them to be, with the chief circumstances of Victor's remarkable European career — nor quite ignorant of the sad and surprising facts I am about to reproduce (tolerable ac- counts of which are to be found, for instance, in Abbe Roman's Becii, or even the fifth of Lord Orrery's Letters from Italy) — I cannot expect them to be versed, nor desiroiis of becoming so, in all the details of the memoirs, correspondence, and relations of the time. lYom these only may be obtained a knowledge of the fiery and audacious temper, unscrupulous selfishness, profound dissimulation, and singular fertility in resources, of Victor — the extreme and painful sensi- bility, prolonged immaturity of powers, earnest good purpose and vacillating will, of Charles — the noble and right woman's-manliness of his wife — and the ill-considered rascality and subsequent better-advised rectitude of D'Ormea. When I say, therefore, that I cannot but believe my statement (combining as it does what appears correct in Voltaire and plausible in Condorcet) more true to person and thing than any it has hitherto been my fortune to meet with, no doubt my word will be taken, and my evidence spared as readily. — B. B. London, 1842. 191 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES PEBSONS. Victor Amadbus, First King of Sardinia. Chables Emmanuel, his Son, Prince of Piedmont. PoLYXENA, Wife of Charles. D'Ormea, Minister. Scene. — The Council Chamber of Rivoli Palace, near Turin, communicating with a Hall at the back, an Apartment to the left and another to the right of the stage. Time, 1730-1. FIRST YEAR 1730.— KING VICTOR Part 'I Charles, Polyxbna. Cha. You think so ? Well, I do not. Pol. My Beloved, All must clear up ; we shall be happy yet: This cannot last for ever — oh, may change To-day, or any day ! Cha. — May change ? Ah yes — May change ! Pd. Endure it, then. Cha. No doubt, a life like this drags on, now better and now worse. My father may . . . may take to loving me ; And he may take D'Ormea closer yet To counsel him ; — may even cast off her — That bad Sebastian ; but he also may . . . Or, no, Polyxena, my only friend . He may not forc eji^QiiJr5m_me ? ~"Pol. NowTJorce me From you !■ — me, close by you as if there gloomed No D'Ormeas, no Sebastians on our path — At Rivoli or Turin, still at hand. Arch-counsellor, prime confidant . . . force me ! Cha. Because I felt as sure, as I feel sure We clasp hands now, of being happy once. Young was I, quite neglected, nor con- cerned By the world's business that engrossed so much My father and my brother : if I peered From out my privacy, — amid the crash And blaze of nations, domineered those two. \ 'Twas war, peace — France our foe, now — England, friend — In love with Spain — at feud with Austria ! Well — I wondered, laughed a moment's laugh for pride In the chivalrous couple, then let drop My curtain — ' I am out of it,' I said — When . . . Pol. You have told me, Charles. Cha. i~ ' Polyxena — When suddenly, — a warm March day, just that ! Just so much sunshine as the cottager's child Basks in delighted, while the cottager Takes off his bonnet, as he ceases work. To catch the more of it — and it must fall Heavily on my brother . . . had you seen Philip^the lion-featured ! not like me ! Pd. I know — Cha. And Philip's mouth yet fast to mine, His dead cheek on my cheek, his arm still round My neck, — they bade me rise, ' for I was heir To the Duke,' they said, ' the right hand of the Duke ; ' 192 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES Till then he was my father, not the Duke ! So . . . letmefinish . . . the whole intricate World's-business their dead boy was born to, I Must conquer, — ay, the brilliant thing he was, I, of a sudden, must be : my faults, my follies, — All bitter truths were told me, all at once^ To end the sooner. What I simply styled Their overlooking me, had been con- tempt : How should the Duke employ himself, forsooth. With such an one, while lordly Philip rode ■ By him their Turin through ? But he was punished, And must put up with — me ! 'Twas sad enough To learn my future portion and submit. And then the wear and worry, blame on blame ! — For, spring-sounds in my ears, spring- smells about. How could I but grow dizzy in their pent Dim palace-rooms at first ? My mother's look As they discussed my insignificance — She and my father, and I sitting by, — I bore ; I knew how brave a son they missed : Philip had gaily passed state-papers o'er, While Charles was spelling at them pain- fully ! But Victor was my father spite of that. ' Duke Victor's entire life has been,' I said, ' Innumerable efforts to one end ; And, on the point now of that end's success. Our Ducal turning to a Kingly crown. Where 's time to be reminded 'tis his child He spurns ? ' And so I suffered — yet scarce suffered. Since I had you at length ! Pol. — To serve in place Of monarch, minister and mistress, Charles ! Cha. But, once that crown obtained, then was't not like. Our lot would alter ? ' When he rests, takes breath. Glances around, and sees who 's left to love — Now that my mother 's dead, sees I am lef^- Is it not Uke he'll love me at the last ? ' Well, Savoy turns Sardinia ; the Duke 's King: Could I — precisely then— could you expect His harshness to redouble ? These few months Have been . . . have been . . . Polyxena, do you And God conduct me, or I lose myself ! What would he have ? What is't they want with me ? Him with this mistress and this minister, — You see me and you hear him ; judge us both ! Pronounce what I should do, Polyxena ! Pol. Endure, endure. Beloved ! Say you not That he 's your Father ? All 's so inci- dent To novel sway ! Beside, our life must change : Or you'll acquire his kingcraft, or he'll find Harshness a sorry way of teaching it. I bear this — not that there 's so much to bear. Cha. You bear it ? don't I know that you, the' bound To silence for my sake, are perishing Piecemeal beside me ? and how other- wise ? — When every creephole from the hideous Court Is stopt ; the Minister to dog me, here — The Mistress posted to entrap you, there ! And thus shall we grow old in such a life— Not careless, — never estranged, — but old : to alter Our life, there is so much to alter ! Pd. Come— Is it agreed that we forego complaints Even at Turin, yet complain we here KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES 193 At Rivoli ? 'Twere wiser you announced Our presence to the King. What 's now afoot, I wonder ? — Not that any more 's to dread Than every day's embarrassment — but guess, For me, why train so fast succeeded train On the high-road, each gayer still than each ; I noticed your Archbishop's pursuivant. The sable cloak and silver cross ; such pomp Bodes . . . what now, Charles ? Can you conceive ? Cha. Not I. Pol. A matter of some moment — Gha. There 's our life ! Which of the group of loiterers that stared From the lime-avpnue, divines that I — About to figure presently, he thinks. In face of all assembled — am the one Who knows precisely least about it ? Pol. Tush ! D'Ormea's contrivance ! Cha.. Ay — how otherwise Should the young Prince serve for the old King's foil ? — So that the simplest courtier may remark, 'Twere idle raising parties for a Prince Content to linger D'Ormea's laughing- stock ! Something, 'tis like, about that weary business : ^Pointing to 'papers he has laid down, and which Polyxbna examines. — Not that I comprehend three words, of course. After all last night's study. Pol. The faint heart ! Why, as we rode and you rehearsed just now Its substance . . . (that 's the folded speech I mean. Concerning the Reduction of the Fiefs) — What would you have I- — I fancied while you spoke. Some tones were just your father's. Cha. Flattery ! Pol. I fancied so : — and here lurks, sure enough. My note upon the Spanish Claims ! You've mastered The fief-speech thoroughly : this other, mind, Is an opinion you deliver, — stay. Best read it slowly over once to me ; Bead — there 's bare time ; you read it firmly — loud • — Rather loud — looking in his face, — don't sink Your eye once — ay, thus ! ' If Spain claims . . .' begin — Just as you look at me ! Cha. At you ! Oh, truly. You have I seen, say, marshalling your troops — Dismissing councils — or, through doors ajar. Head sunk on hand, devoured by slow chagrins — Then radiant, for a crown had all at once Seemed possible again ! I can behold Him, whose least whisper ties my spirit fast. In this sweet brow, nought could divert me from, Save objects like Sebastian's shameless lip, Or, worse, the dipt grey hair and dead white face. And dwindling eye as if it ached with guile, D'Ormea wears . . . t'l--^.! a i,<^-. "■ \^As he kisses her, enter from the': King's apartment D'Ormea..- i said he would divert My kisses from your brow ! D'O. {Aside.] Here ! So, King Victor Spoke truth for once ; and who 's or- dained, but I, To make that memorable ? Both in call. As he declared ! Were't better gnash the teeth, Or laugh outright now ? Cha. [to Pol.] What 's his visit for ? D'O. [Aside.] I question if they even speak to me. Pol. [to Cha.] Face the man ! he'll suppose you fear him, else. H 194 KING VICTOR AM) KING CHARLES lAloud.] The Marquis bears the King's command, no doubt. D'O. [Aside.'] Precisely ! — If I threat tened him, perhaps ? Well, this at least is punishment enough ! Men used to promise punishment would come. Gha. Deliver the King's message, Marquis ! D'O. [Aside.] Ah— So anxious for his fate ? [Aloud.l A word, my Prince, Before you see. your father — just one word Of counsel ! Glia. Oh, your counsel certainly — Polyxena, the Marquis counsels us ! Well, sir ? Be brief, however ! D'O. What ? you know As much as I ? — preceded me, most like, In knowledge ! So ! ('Tis in his eye, beside — His voice : he knows it, and his heart 's on flame Already !) You surmise why you, my- self, Del Borgo, Spava, fifty nobles more. Are summoned thus ? Clia. Is the Prince used to know. At any time, the pleasure of the King, Before his minister ? — Polyxena, Stay here till I conclude my task : I feel Your presence — (smile not) — through the walls, and take Fresh heart. The King's within that chamber ? D'O. [Passing the table Uihereon a paper lies, exdaims, as he glances at it, ' Spain ! ' Pol. [Aside to Cha.] Tarry awhile : what ails the minister ? D'O. Madam, I do not often trouble you. The Prince loathes, and you loathe me — let that pass ! But since it touches him and you, not me. Bid the Prince listen ! Pol. [to GHa.] Surely you will listen ! — Deceit ? — Those fingers crumpling up his vest ? Cha. Deceitful to the very fingers' ends ! D'O. [who has approached them, oeer- looks the other paper Charles cort- tinues to hold. My project for the Fiefs ! As I sup- posed ! Sir, I must give you light upon those measures — For this is mine, and that I spied of Spain, Mine too ! Cha. Release me ! Do you gloze on me Who bear in the world's face (that is, the world You've made for me at Turin) your contempt ? — Your measinres ? — When was any hateful task Not D'Ormea's imposition ? Leave my robe ! What p.ost can I bestow, what grant concede ? , Or do you take me for the King ? D'O. NotI! Not yet for King, — not for, as yet, thank God, One, who in . . . shall I say a year — a month ? Ay ! — shall be wretcheder than e'er was slave In his Sardinia,— Europe's spectacle, And the world's bye-word ! What ? The Prince aggrieved That I excluded him our counsels ? Here [Touching the paper in Charles's hand. Accept a method of extorting gold From Savoy's nobles, who must wring its worth In silver first from tillers of the soil, Whose hinds again have to contribute To make up the amount — there 's counsel, sir ! My counsel, one year old ; and the fruit, this — Savoy 's become a mass of misery And wrath, which one man has to meet — the King : You're not ttie King ! Another counsel, sir ! Spain entertains a project (here it lies) KING VICTOR AlShD KING CHARLES 195 Which, guessed, makes Austria offer that same King Thus much to baffle Spain; he promises ; Then comes Spain, breathless lest she be forestalled. Her offer follows ; and he promises . . . Cha. — Promises, sir, when he before agreed To Austria's offer ? D'O. That 's a counsel, Prince ! But past our foresight, Spain and Austria (choosing To make their quarrel up between them- selves Without the intervention of a friend) Produce botli treaties, and both promises . . . Cha. How? D'O. Prince, a counsel ! — And the fruit of that ? Both parties covenant afresh, to fall Together on their friend, blot out his name, AboUsh him from Europe. So, take note. Here 's Austria, and here 's Spain to fight against, And what sustains the King but Savoy here, A miserable people mad with wrongs ? You're not the King ! Cha. Polyxena, you said All would clear up : all does clear up to me ! D'O. Clears up ? 'Tis no such thing to envy, then ? You see the King's state in its length and breadth ? You blame me, now, for keeping you aloof From counsels and the fruit of counsels ? —Wait Till I explain this morning's business ! Cha. [Aside.] No- Stoop to my father, yes, — D'Ormea, no ; — The King's son, not to the King's counsellor ! I will do something, — but at least retain The credit of my deed ! [Aloud.] Then, it is this You now expressly come to tell me ? D'O. This To tell ! You apprehend me ? Cha. Perfectly. Further, D'Ormea, you have shown yourself. For the first time these many weeks and months. Disposed to do my bidding ? D'O. ■ From the heart ! Cha. Acquaint my father, first, I wait his pleasure : Next ... or, I'U tell you at a fitter time. Acquaint the King ! D'O. [Aside.] If I 'scape Victor yet ! First, to prevent this stroke at me — if not, — Then, to avenge it ! [To Cha.] Gracious sir, I go. [Goes. Cha. God, I forebore ! Which more offends — that man Or that man's master ? Is it come to this ? Have they supposed (the sharpest insult yet) I needed e'en his intervention ? No ! No — dull am I, conceded, — but so dull, Scarcely ! Their step decides me. Pol. How decides ? Cha. You would be free from D'Ormea's eye and hers ! — Could fly the court with me and live content ! So — this it is for which the knights assemble ! The whispers and the closeting of late. The savageness and insolence of old, —For this ! Pol. What mean you ? Cha. How ? you fail to catch Their clever plot ? I missed it — but could you ? These last two months of care to incul- cate HowduUIam, — D'Ormea's present visit To prove that, being dull, I might be worse Were I a king — as wretched as now dull— You recognize in it no winding up Of a long plot ? Pol. Why should there be a plot ? Cha. The crown 's secure now ; I should shame the crown — An old complaint ; the point is, how to gain 196 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES My place for one more fit in Victor's eyes. His mistress', the Sebastian's child. Pol. In truth ? Cha. They dare not quite dethrone Sardinia's Prince : But they may descant on my dulness till They sting me into even praying them For leave to hide my head, resign my state. And end the coil. Not see now ? In a word. They'd have me tender them myself my rights As one incapable : — some cause for that. Since I delayed thus long to see their drift ! I shall apprise the King he may resume Aly rights this moment. Pol. Pause ! I dare not think So ill of Victor. Cha. ■ Think no ill of him ! Po?. -=-Nor think him, then, so shallow as to suSer His purpose be divined thus easily. And yet — you are the last of a great line ; There 'a a great heritage at stake ; new Seemed to await this newest of the Of EuropeT — Charles, you must with- stand this ! Cha. Ah— You dare not then renounce the splendid court For one whom all the world despises ? Speak ! Pol. My gentle husband, speak I will, and truth. Were this as you believe, and I once sure Your duty lay in so renouncing rule, I could . . . could ? Oh, what happiness it were— To live, my Charles, and die, alone with you! Cha. I grieve I asked you. To the presence, then ! By this, D'Ormea acquaints the King, no doubt. He fears I am too simple for mere hints. And that no less will serve than Victor's mouth Teaching me in full council what I am. -I have not breathed, I think, these Pol. "why— !t may be !— if he desire That wo°i^n and legitimate her child- Cha. You see as much ? Oh, let Im will have way ! _ You'll not repent confiding m me. Love ! There 's many a brighter spot in Pied- mont, far. Than Bivoli. I'll seek him — or, sup- pose You hear first how I mean to speak my mind ! — Loudly and firmly both, this time be sure ! I yet may see your Rhine-land— wlo j can tell ? Once away, ever then away ! I breatk Pol. And I too breathe ! Cha. Come, my Polyxeni! KING VICTOR: PabtH Erder King Victok, hearing the regalia i on a cushion, from his aporfmeni. j He calls loudly. D'Ormea ! — for patience fails me, tread' ing thus Among the trains that I have laid,— my knights, ' Safe in the hall here— in that anteroom, My son, — D'Ormea, where ? Of this, one touch — [Laying down the crom. This fireball to these mute, black, cold trains — then ! Outbreak enough ! [Contemplating it.] To lose all, after all! This — glancing o'er my house for ages- Brave meteor, like the crown of Cypm' now — Jerusalem, Spain, England— eveiy: change The braver,— and when I have clutched a prize My ancestry died wan with watchind To lose it !— by a slip— a fault— a trioli Learnt to advantage once, and not un- learnt KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES 197 When past the use, — ' just this once more ' (I thought) ' Use it with Spain and Austria happily, lAnd then away with trick ! ' An over- i sight I'd have repaired thrice over, any time (These fifty years, must happen now ! I There 's peace At length ; and I, to make the most of 1, peace, Ventured my project on our people here, hAs needing not their help — which Europe knows, I And means, cold-blooded, to dispose herself i(Apart from plausibilities of war) To crush the new-made King— who ne'er till now Feared her. As Duke, I lost each foot of earth And laughed at her : my name was left, my sword Left, all was left ! But she can take, she knows. This crown, herself conceded . . . That 's to try. Kind Europe ! My career 's not closed as yet ! This boy was ever subject to my will — Jimid and tame — the fitter ! D'Ormea, too — What if the sovereign 's also rid of thee His prime of parasites ? — Yet I delay ! D'Ormea ! [As D'Obmea enters, the King seats himself. My son, the Prince — attends he ? D'O. Sire, Ee does attend. The crown prepared ! ilL — '* seems ■jThat you persist in your resolve. Vic. Who 's come ? The chancellor and the chamberlain ? My knights ? 1 D'O. The whole Annunziata. — If, my liege, STour fortunes had not tottered worse than now . . . Vic. Del Borgo has drawn up the schedules ? mine — My son's, too ? Excellent ! Only, 1 beware Of the least blunder, or we look but fools. First, you read the Annulment of the Oaths ; Del Borgo follows . . . no, the Prince shall sign ; Then let Del Borgo read the Instru- ment ; On which, I enter. D'O. Sire, this may be truth ; You, sire, may do as you affect — may break Your engine, me, to pieces : try at least If not a spring remains worth saving ! Take My counsel as I've counselled many times ! '"^ What if the Spaniard and the AustriarBr threat ? f' There 's England, Holland, Venice— | which ally ^ Select you ? Vic. Aha ! Come, D'Ormea, — ' truth ' Was on your lip a minute since. Allies ? I've broken faith with Venice, Holland, England. — As who knows if not you ? D'O. But why with me Break faith — with one ally, your best, break faith ? Vic. When first I stumbled on you. Marquis — 'twas At Mondovi — a little lawyer's-olerk . . . D'O. Therefore your soul's ally 1 — who brought you through Your quarrel with the Pope, at pains enough — Who simplyechoed you in these affairs — On whom you cannot, therefore, visit these Affairs' ill fortune — whom you'll trust to guide You safe (yes, on my soul) in these affairs ! Vic. I was about to notice, had you not Prevented me, that since that great town kept With its chicane D'Ormea's satchel stuffed. And D'Ormea's self sufficiently recluse, He missed a sight, — my naval arma- ment When I burnt Toulon. How the skiff exults 198 KING VICTOR AKD KING CHARLES TJpou the galliot's wave ! — rises its height, O'ertops it even ; but the great wave bursts — And hell-deep in the horrible profound Buries itself the galliot : — shall the skiff Think to escape the sea's black trough in turn ? Apply this : you have been my minister — Next me — above me, possibly ; — sad post, Huge care, abundant lack of peace of mind ; Who would desiderate the eminence ? You gave your soul to get it — you'd yet give Your soul to keep it, as I mean you shall, D'Ormea ! What if the wave ebbed with me ? Whereas it cants you to another crest — I toss you to my son ; ride out your ride! VO. Ah, you so much despise me then 1 Vic. You, D'Ormea ? Nowise : and I'll inform you why. A king Must in his time have many ministers, And I've been rash enough to part with mine When I thought proper. Of the tribe, not one (. . . Or wait, did Pianezze ? . . . ah, just the same !) Not one of them, ere his remonstrance reached The length of yours, but has assured me (commonly. Standing much as you stand, — or nearer, ' say. The door to make his exit on his speech) — I should repent of what I did : D'Ormea, Be candid — you approached it when I bade you Prepare the schedules ! But you stopped in time — You have not so assured me : how should I Despise you, then ? Enter Charles. Vic. [changing his tone.J Are you instructed ? Do My order, point by point ! About it, sir ! D'O. You so despise me ! [Aside.J One last stay remains — The boy's discretion there. [To Charles.] For your sake. Prince, I pleaded — wholly in your interest — To save you from this fate ! Cha. [Aside.] Must I be told The Prince was supplicated for — by him ? Vic. [to D'O.] Apprise Del Borgo, Spava, and the rest. Our soh attends them ; then return. D'O. One word ! Cha. [Aside."] A moment's pause and they would drive me hence, I do believe ! D'O. [Aside.] Let but the boy be firm ! Vic. You disobey ? Cha. [to D'O.] You do not disobey Me, at least ? Did you promise that or D'O. Sir, I am yours— what would you? Yours am I ! Cha. When I have said what I shall say, 'tis like Your face will ne'er again disgust me. Go! Through you, as through a breast of glass, I see. ' And for your conduct, from my youth till now. Take my contempt ! You might have ' spared me much. Secured me somewhat, nor so harmed yourself — iThat 's over now. Go — ne'er to come L again ! D'O. As son, the father — father as, the son ! My wits ! My wits ! [Goes. Vie. [Seated.] And you, what meant you, pray. By speaking thus to D'Ormea ? Cha. Let us not Weary ourselves with D'Ormea ! Those few words Have half unsettled what I came to say. His presence vexes to my vfery soul. Vic. One called to manage kingdoms, Charles, needs heart To bear up under worse annoyances Than D'Ormea seems — to me, at least. KING VICTOR AND KING CHAELES 199 Cha. [Aside.'] Ah, good ! He keeps me to the point ! Then be it so. [Aloud.'] Last night, sire, brought me certain papers — these — To be reported on, — your way of late. Is it last night's result that you demand? Vic. For God's sake, what has night brought forth ? Pronounce The . . . what 's your word ? — result ! Cha. Sire, that had proved Quite worthy of your sneer, no doubt : — a few Lame thoughts, regard for you alone could wring. Lame as they are, from brains, like mine, believe ! As 'tis, sire, I am spared both toil and sneer. These are the papers. Vic. Well, sir ? I suppose You hardly burned them. Now for your result ! Cha. I never should have done great things of course. But . . . oh, my father, had you loved Vic. Loved you ? !.] Has D'Ormea played me false, I, wonder ? [Aloud.] Why, Charles, a king's love is diffused — yourself May overlook, perchance, your part in . it. Our monarchy is absolutest now In Europe, or my trouble's thrown away. I love, my mode, that subjects each and all May have the power of loving, all and each. Their mode : I doubt not, many have their sons To trifle with, talk soft to, all day long : I have that crown, this chair, and D'Ormea, Charles ! Cha. 'Tis well I am a subject then, not you. Vic. [Aside.] D'Ormea has told him everything. [Aloud.] Aha ! I apprehend you : when all 's said, you take Your private station to be prized beyond My own, for instance ? Cha. — Do and ever did So take it : 'tis the method you pursue That grieves . . . Vic. These words ! Let me express, my friend. Your thought. You penetrate what I supposed A secret. D'Ormea plies his trade be- times ! I purpose to resign my crown to you. Cha. To me ? Vic. Now — in that chamber. Cha. You resign The crown to me ? Vic. And time enough, Charles, sure ? Confess with me, at f our-and-sixty years A crown 's a load. I covet quiet once Before I die, and summoned you for that. Cha. 'Tis I will speak : you ever hated me, I bore it, — have insulted me, borne too — Now you insult yourself, and I remember What I believed you, what you really are. And cannot bear it. What ! My life Under your eye, tormented as you know, — Your whole sagacities, one after one. At leisure brought to play on me — to prove me A fool, I thought, and I submitted ; now You'd prove . . . what would you prove me ? Vic. This to me ? I hardly know you ! Cha. Know me ? Oh, indeed You do not ! Wait till I complain next time Of my simplicity ! — for here 's a sage — Knows the world well — is not to be deceived — And his experience, and his Macchiavels, D'Ormeas, teach him — what ? — that I, this while. Have envied him his crown ! He has not smiled, I warrant, — has not eaten, drunk, nor slept. For I was plotting with my Princess yonder ! 200 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES Who knows what we might do, or might not do ? Go, now — be politic — astound the world I That sentry in the antechamber— nay, The varlet who disposed this precious trap {^Pointing to the crown. That was to take me — ask them if they think Their own sons envy them their posts ! — Know me ! Vic. But you know me, it seems ; so, learn in brief My pleasure. This assembly is con- vened . . . CJia. Tell me, that woman put it in your head — You were not sole contriver of the scheme, My father ! Vic. Now observe me, sir ! I jest Seldom — on these points, never. Here, I say, The knights assemble to see me concede. And you accept, Sardinia's crown. Cha. Farewell ! 'Twere vain to hope to change this — I can end it. Not that I cease from being yours, when sunk Into obscurity. I'll die for you. But not annoy you with my presence. Sire, Farewell ! Farewell ! Enter D'Obmea. D'O. [Aside.] Ha, sure he 's changed again — Means not to fall into the cunning trap ! Then, Victor, I shall yet escape you, Victor ! Vic. [suddenly placing the crown upon the head of Charles. D'Ormea, your King ! [To Charles.] My son, obey me ! Charles, Your father, clearer-sighted than your- self. Decides it must be so. 'Faith, this looks real ! My reasons after — reason upon reason After — but now, obey me ! Trust in me ! By this, you save Sardinia, you save me! Why, the boy swoons ! [To D'O.] Come this side ! D^O. [as Charles turns from him to Victor.] You persist ? Vic. Yes — I conceive the gesture's meaning. 'Faith, He almost seems to hate you — how is that? Be re-assured, my Charles ! Is't over now ? Then, Marquis, tell the new King what remains To do ! A moment's work. Del Borgo reads The Act of Abdication out, you sign it. Then I sign ; after that, come back to me. D'O. Sire, for the last time, pause ! Vic. Five minutes longer I am your sovereign, Marquis. Hesi- tate — And I'U so turn those minutes to ac- count That . . . Ay, you recollect me ! [Aside.] Could I bring My foolish mind to undergo the reading That Act of Abdication ! [As Charles motions D'Ormea to precede him. Thanks, dear Charles ! [Charles and D'Ormea retire. Vic. A novel feature in the boy, — indeed Just what I feared he wanted most. Quite right. This earnest tone — your truth, now, for effect ! It answers every purpose : with that look. That voice, — I hear him : ' I began no treaty,' (He speaks to Spain,) ' nor ever dreamed of this You show me ; this I from my soul regret ; But if my father signed it, bid not me Dishonour him — who gave me all, beside : ' And, ' truth,' says Spain, ' 'twere harsh to visit that Upon the Prince.' Then come the nobles trooping : KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES 201 ' I grieve at these exactions— I had out This hand off ere impose them ; but shall I Undo my father's deed ? ' — And they confer : ' Doubtless he was no party, after all ; Give the Prince time ! ' Ay, give us time — but time ! Only, he must not, when the dark. day comes. Refer our friends to me and frustrate all. We'll have no child's play, no des- ponding-fits, No Charles at each cross turn entreating Victor To take his crown again. Guard against that ! Enter D'Oemba. Long live King Charles ! No — Charles's counsellor ! Well, is it over. Marquis ? Did I jest ? D'O. ' King Charles ! ' What then may you be 1 Vic. Anything ! A country gentleman that 's cured of bustle. And beats a quick retreat toward Chambery To hunt and hawk, and leave you noisy folk To drive your trade without him. I'm Count Remont — Count Tende — any little place's Count ! D'O. Then, Victor, Captain against Catinat, At Staffarde, where the French beat you ; and Duke At Turin, where you beat the French j King, late, Of Savoy, Piedmont, Montferrat, Sar- dinia, — Now, ' any little place's Count ' — Vic. Proceed ! D'O. Breaker of vows to God, who crowned you first ; Breaker of vows to Man, who kept you since ; Most profligate to me, who outraged God And Man to serve you, and am made pay crimes I was but privy to, by passing thus H To your imbecile son — who, well you know, Must — (when the people here, and nations there. Clamour for you, the main delinquent, slipt FromKing to — Count of any little place) — Surrender me, all left within his reach, — I, sir, forgive you : for I see the end — See you on your return — (you will return) — To him you trust in for the moment . . . Vic. How ? Trust in him ? merely a prime-minister This D'Ormea ! How trust in him ? D'O. In his fear — His love, — but pray discover for yourself What you are weakest, trusting in ! Vic. Aha, D'Ormea, not a shrewder scheme than this In your repertory ? You know old Victor — Vain, choleric, inconstant, rash — (I've heard Talkers who little thought the King so Felicitous, now, were't not, to provoke him To clean forget, one minute afterward. His solemn act, and call the nobles back And pray them give again the very power He has abjured ! — for the dear sake of — what? Vengeance on you ! No, D'Ormea: such am I, Count Tende or Count anything you please, — Only, the same that did the things you say. And, among other things you say not, used Your finest fibre, meanest muscle, — you I used, and now, since you will have it so. Leave to your fate — mere lumber in the midst. You and your works. Why, what on earth beside Are you made for, you sort of ministers ? D'O. — Not left, though, to my fate ! Your witless son 3 202 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES Has more wit than to load himself with lumber : He foils you that way, and I follow you. Vic. Stay with my son — protect the weaker side ! D'O. Ay, be tossed to the people like a rag. And flung by them to Spain and Austria — so Abolishing the record of your part In all this perfidy ! Vic. Prevent, beside. My own return ! D'O. That 's half prevented now ! 'Twill go hard but you find a wondrous charm In exile, to discredit me. The Alps — Silk-mills to watch — vines asking vigi- lance — Hounds open for the stag — your hawk's a- wing — Brave days that wait the Louis of the South, Italy's Janus ! Vic. So, the lawyer's clerk Won't tell me that I shall repent ! D'O. You give me Full leave to ask if you repent ? Vic. Whene'er, Sufficient time 's elapsed for that, you judge ! [Shouts inside, ' Kmo Charles.' D'O. Do you repent ? Vic. [after a slight pause.] . . . I've kept them waiting ? Yes ! Come in — complete the Abdication, sir ! [They go out. Enter Polyxena. Pol. A shout ? The sycophants are free of Charles ! Oh, is not this like Italy ? No fruit Of his or my distempered fancy, this — But just an ordinary fact ! Beside, Here they've set forms for such proceed- ings — Victor Imprisoned his own mother — he should know, If any, liow a son 's to be deprived Of a son's right. Our duty 's palpable. Ne'er was my husband for the wily king And the unworthy subjects — be it so ! Come you safe out of them, my Charles ! Our life Grows not the broad and dazzling life, I dreamed Might prove your lot — for strength was shut in you None guessed but I — strength which, untrammeled once, Had little shamed your vaunted an- cestry — Patience and self-devotion, fortitude. Simplicity and utter truthfulness — All which, they shout to lose ! So, now my work Begins — to save him from regret. Save Charles Regret ? — the noble nature ! He 's not made Like the Italians : 'tis a German soul. Charles enters crowned. Oh, where 's the King's heir ? Gone : — the Crown-prince ? Gone — Where 's Savoy ? Gone : — Sardinia ? Gone ! But Charles Is left ! And when my Rhine-land bowers arrive. If he looked almost 'ha,ndsome yesterr twilight As his grey eyes seemeiJ widening into black Because I praised him, then how will he look? Farewell, you stripped and whited mul- berry trees Bound each to each bylazyropesof vine! Now I'll teach you my language — I'm not forced To speak Italian now, Charles ? [She sees the crown.'] What is this ? Answer me — who has done this ? Answer ! Cha. He ! I am King now. Pd. Oh worst, worst, worst of all ! Tell me — what, Victor ? He has made you King ? What 's he then ? What 's to follow this ? You, King ? Cha. Have I done wrong ? Yes^or you were not by ! Pol. Tell me from first to last. Cha. Hush — a new world KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES 203 Brightens before me ; he is moved away — The dark form that eclipsed it, he subsides Into a shape supporting me like you, And I, alone, tend upward, more and more Tend upward : I am grown Sardinia's King. Pol. Now stop : was not this Victor, Duke of Savoy At ten years old ? Cha. He was. Pol. And the Duke spent Since then, just four-and-fifty years in toil To be— what ? Cha. King. Pol. Then why unking himself ? Cha. Those years are cause enough. Pol. The only cause ? Cha. Some new perplexities. Pol. Which you can solve,. Although he carmot ? Cha. He assures me so. Pol. And this he means shall last — how long ? Cha. How long ? Think you I fear the perils I confront ? He 's praising me before the people's face — My people ! Pol. Then he 's changed — grown kind, the King ? Where can the trap be ? Cha. Heart and soul I pledge ! My father, could I guard the crown you gained. Transmit as I received it, — all good else Would I surrender ! Pol. Ah, it opens then Before you — all you dreaded formerly ? You are rejoiced to be a king, my Charles ? Cha. So much to dare ? The better ; — much to dread ? The better. I'll adventure though alone. Triumph or die, there 's Victor still to witness Who dies or triumphs — either way, alone ! Pol. Once I had found my share in triumph, Charles, Or death. Cha. But you are I ! But you I call To take. Heaven's proxy, vows I ten- dered Heaven A moment since. I will deserve the crown ! Pol. You will. [Aside-I No doubt it were a glorious thing For any people, if a heart like his Ruled over it. JLwould I saw the trap ! Enter Victor. "I!is_he2nust^howjne. Yic. So, the mask falls off An old man's foolish love at last ! Spare thanks : I know you, and Polyxena I know. Here 's Charles — I am his guest now — does he bid me Be seated ? And my light-haired, blue eyed child Must not forget the old man far away At Chambery, who dozes while she reigns. Pol. Most grateful shall we now be, talking least Of gratitude — indeed of anything That hinders what yourself must have to say To Charles. Cha. Pray speak, sire ! Vic. 'Faith, not much to say — Only what shows itself, once in the point Of sight. You are now the King : you'll comprehend Much you may oft have wondered at — the shifts. Dissimulation, wiliness I showed. For what 's our post ? Here 's Savoy and here 's Piedmont, Here 's Montferrat — a breadth here, a space there — To o'er-sweep all these, what 's one weapon worth ? I often think of how they fought in Greece (Or Rome, which was it ? You're the scholar, Charles !) You made a front-thrust ? But if your shield, too. Were notadroitly planted — someshrewd knave 204 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES Reached you behind ; and, him foiled, straight if thong And handle of that shield were not cast loose. And you enabled to outstrip the wind, Fresh foes assailed you, either side ; 'scape these. And reach your place of refuge^e'en then, odds If the gate opened unless breath enough Was left in you to make its lord a speech. Oh, you will see ! Cha. No : straight on shall I go. Truth helping ; win with it or die with it. Yic. 'Faith, Charles, you're not made Europe's fighting-man ! Its barrier-guarder, if you please. You hold, Not take — consolidate, with envious French This side, with Austrians that, these territories I held — ay, and will hold . . . which you shall hold Despite the couple ! But I've surely earned Exemption from these weary politics, — The privilege to prattle with my son And daughter here, tho' Europe waii the while Pol. Nay, sire, — at Chambery, awa; for ever. As soon you'll be, 'tis a farewell we bi you! Turn these few fleeting moments to account ! 'Tis just as though it were a death. Vic. Indeed ! fT'ol'- [Aside.'] Is the trap there ? Cha. Ay, call this parting — death ! The sacreder your memory becomes. If I misrule Sardinia, how bring back My father ? No— that thought shall ever urge me. Vic. I do not mean . . . Pol. [who watches Victor narroidy this while.'] Your father does not mean That you are ruling for your father's It is your people must concern you wholly Instead of him. You meant this, sire ? (He drops My hand !) Cha. That people is now part of me. Vic. About the people ! I took certain measures Some short time since . . . Oh, I'm aware you know But little of my measures — these affect Thenobles — we'veresumed some grants, imposed A tax or two ; prepare yourself, in short. For clamour on that score : mark me you yield No jot of what 's entrusted you ! Pol. No jot You yield ! Cha. My father, when I took the oath. Although my eye might stray in search of yours, I heard it, understood it, promised God What you require. TiU from this eminence He moves me, here I keep, nor shall concede Jhe meanest of my rights. Vic. [Aside.] The boy 's a fool ! — Or rather, I'm a fool : for, what 's wrong here ? To-day the sweets of reigning — let to- morrow Be ready with its bitters. Enter D'Oemea. There 's beside Somewhat to press upon your notice first. Cha. Then why delay it for an instant, sire ? That Spanish claim, perchance ? And, now you speak, — This morning, my opinion was mature. Which, boy-like, I was bashful in pro- ducing To one, I ne'er am like to fear, in future ! My thought is formed upon that Spanish claim. Vic. Betimes, indeed ! Not now, Charles. You require A host of papers on it. D'O. [coming forward.] Here they are. fi KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES 20£ [To Cha.] I was the minister and much beside — Of the late monarch ; to say little, him I served : on you I have, to say e'en less. No claim. This case contains those papers : with them I tender you my office. Vic. [liasiily.'] Keep him, Charles ! There ' sreason for it — many reasons : you Distrust him, nor are so far wrong there, —but He 's mixed up in this matter — he'll desire To quit you, for occasions known to me : Do not accept those reasons — have him Pol. [Aside.'] His minister thrust on us ! Cha. [to D'Obmea.] Sir, believe. In justice to myself, you do not need E'en this commending : whatsoe'er might seem Myfeelings toward you as a private man. They quit me in the vast and untried field Of action. Though I shall, myself, (as late In your own hearing I engaged to do) Preside o'er my Sardinia, yet your help Is necessary. Think the Past forgotten. And serve me now ! D'O. I did not offer you My services — would I could serve you, sire ! As for the Spanish matter . . . Vic. But dispatch At least the dead, in my good daughter's phrsise. Before the living ! Help to house me safe Ere you and D'Ormea set the world a-gape ! Here is a paper — will you overlook What I propose reserving for my needs ? I get as far from you as possible. Here 's what I reckon my expenditure. Cha. [reading.] A miserable fifty thousand crowns ! Vic. Oh, quite enough for country gentlemen ! Beside the exchequer happens . . . but find out All that, yourself ! Cha. [stm reading.] ' Count Tende ' — what means this ? Vic. Me : you were but an infant when I burst Through the defileof Tendeupon France. Had only my allies kept true to me ! No matter. Tende 's, then, a name I take I Just as . . . D'O. — The Marchioness Sebastian takes The name of Spigno. Cha. How, sir ? Vic. [to D'Ormea.] Fool ! All that Was for my own detailing.[ro Chaeles.] That anon ! Cha. [to D'Ormea.] Explain what you have said, sir ! D'O. I supposedl Themarriageof the Kingto her I named, 1 Profoundlykept a secret thesefewweeks. Was not to be one, now he 's Count. J Pd. [Aside.] With us The minister — with him the mistress ! Cha. [to Victor.] No — Tell me you have not taten her — that woman To live with, past recall ! Vic. And where 's the crime . . . Pol. [to Chakles.] 'true, sir, this is a matter past recall. And past your cognizance. A day before. And you had been compelled to note this — now Why note it ? The King saved his House from shame : What the Count does, is no concern of yours. Cha. [after a pause.] The Spanish business, D'Ormea ! Vic. Why, my son, I took some ill-advised . . . one's age, in fact, Spoils everything : though I was over- reached, A younger brain, we'll trust, may extricate Sardinia readily. To-morrow, D'Ormea, Inform the King ! D'O. [loithout regarding Victor, and leisufSy?] TSiJSTtands the case with Spain : 206 KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES When first the Infant Carlos claimed his proper Succession to the throne of Tuscany '. . . Vic. I tell you that stands over ! Let that rest ! There is the policy ! Cha. [to D'Obmba.] Thus much I know, And more — too much : the remedy ? D'O. Of course ! No glimpse of one. Vic. No remedy at all ! It makes the remedy itself — time makes it. D'O. [to Charles.] But if . . . Vic. [stUl more hastily.} In fine, I shall take care of that — AndjWithanotherprojectthatlhave. . . D'O. [turning on him.'] Oh, since Count Tends means to take again King Victor's crown ! — Pol. [throwing herself at Viotob's feet."] E'en now retake it, sire ! Oh, speak ! We are your subjects both, once more ! Say it — a word effects it ! You meant not. Nor do mean now, to take it — but you must ! 'Tis in you — in your nature — and the shame 's Not half the shame 'twould grow to afterward ! Cha. Polyxena ! Pol. A word recalls the knights — Say it ! — What 's promising and what 's the Past ? Say you are still King Victor ! D'O. Better say The Count repents, in brief ! [Victor rises. Cha. With such a crime I have not charged you, sire ! Pol. Charles turns from me ! SECOND YEAR 1731.— KING CHARLES Part I Enter Queen Polyxena and D'Ormea. ■ — A pause. Pol. And now, sir, what have you to D'O. Count Tende . Pd. Affirm not I betrayed you ; you resolve On uttering this strange intelligence — Nay, post yourself to find me ere I reach The capital, because you know. King Charles Tarries a day or two at Evian baths Behind me : — but take warning, — here and thus [Seating herself in the royal seal. I listen, if I listen — not your friend. Explicitly the statement, if you still Persist to urge it on me, must proceed : I am not made for aught else. D'O. Good ! Count Tende . . . Pol. I, who mistrust you, shall ac- quaint King Charles, Who even more mistrusts you. D'O. Does he so ? Pol. Why should he not ? D'O. Ay, why not ? Motives, seek You virtuous people, motives ! Say, I serve God at the devU's bidding — will that do? I'm proud : our people have been pacified. Really I know not how — Pol. By truthfulness. D'O. Exactly ; that shows I had nought to do With pacifying them. Our foreign perils Also exceed my means to stay : but here 'Tis otherwise, and my pride 's piqued. Count Tende Completes a full year's absence : would you, madam. Have the old monarch back, his mistress back. His measures back ? I pray you, act upon My counsel, or they will be. Pd. When ? D'O. Let "s think. Home-matters settled — Victor 's coming now ; Let foreign matters settle — Victor 'a here : Unless I stop him ; as I will, this way. Pol. [reading the papers he preaenis,'] If this should prove a plot 'twixt you and Victor ? KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES 207 You seek annoyances to give pretext For what vou sav you fear ! D'O. ' ' Oh, possibly ! I go for nothing. Only show King Charles That thus Count Tende purposes return, And style me' his inviter, if you please. Pol. Half of yoiu: tale is true ; most like, the Count Seeks to return : but why stay you with us ? To aid in such emergencies ? D'O. Keep safe Those papers : or, to serve me, leave no proof I thus have counselled : when the Count returns. And the King abdicates, 'twill stead me little To have thus counselled. Pol. The King abdicate ! D'O. He 's good, we knew long since — wise, we discover — Firm, let us hope : — but I'd have gone to work With him away. Well ! [Charles ti»thmd.'\ In the Council Chamber ? D'O. All's lost! Pol. Oh, surely not King Charles ! He 's changed — That 's not this year's oare-burthened voice and step : 'Tis last vear's step — the Prince's voice ! D'O. ' I know! Enter Charles — D'Oemea retiring a liUle. Cha. Xow wish me joy, Polyxena ! Wish it me The old way ! [She enibraces him. There was too much cause for that ! But I have found myself again ! What news At Turin ? Oh, if you but felt the load I'm free of — free ! I said this year would end Or it, or me — but I am free, thank God ! Pol. How, Charles ? Cha, You do not guess ? The day I found Sardinia's hideous coil, at home, abroad. And how my father was involved in it, — j Of course, I vowed to rest or smile no I more Until I freed his name from obloquy. We did the people right — 'twas much to gain That point, redress our nobles' grievance, too — But that took place here, was no crjing shame : All must be done abroad, — if I abroad Appeased the justly-angered Powers, destroyed The scandal, took down Victor's name at last From a bad eminence, I then might breathe And rest ! No moment was to lose. Behold The proud result — a Treaty, Austria, Spain Agree to — D'O. [Aside.] I shall merely stipulate For an experienced headsman. Cha. Not a soul Is compromised : the blotted Past 's a blank : Even D'Ormea escapes unquestioned. See! It reached me from Vienna ; I remained At Evian to dispatch the Count liis news ; 'Tis gone to Chambery a week ago — And here am I : do I deserve to feel Your warm whit« arms around me ? D'O. [Comin j/onrard.] He knows that ? Cha. What, in heaven's name, means this ? D'O. He knows that matters Are settled at Vienna ? Not too late ! Plainly, unless you post this very hour Some man you trust (say, me) to Chambery And take precautions I acquaint you with. Your father will return here. Cha. Are you crazed, D'Ormea ? Here ? For what ? As well return To take his cro\i'n ! D'O. He will return for that. Cha. [to Polyxena.] You h-"' the Druses shout : his eye catches \ the expression of those about him, ^- and, as the old dream comes back, he is again confident and inspired. — Am I not Hakeem ? And ye would have crawled But yesterday within these impure courts Where now ye stand erect ! — Not grand enough ? — What more could be conceded to such beasts As all of you, so sunk and base as you, Than a mere man ? — A man among such beasts Was miracle enough — yet him you doubt. Him you forsake, him fain would you destroy — With the Venetians at your gate, the Nuncio Thus — (see the baffled hypocrite !) and, best. The Prefect there ! Druses. No, Hakeem, ever thine ! Nuncio. He lies — and twice he lies — and thrice he lies ! Exalt thyself, Mahound ! Exalt thyself ! Dja. Druses ! we shall henceforth be far away ! Out of mere mortal ken — above the Cedars — But we shall see ye go, hear ye return. Repeopling the old solitudes, — through thee, My Khalil ! Thou art full of me— I fill Thee full — my hands thus fill thee ! Yestereve, — Nay, but this morn, I deemed thee ignorant Of all to do, requiring words of mine To teach it : now, thou hast all gifts in one. With truth and purity go other gifts ! All gifts come clustering to that ! Go, lead My People home whate'er betide ! [Turning to the Druses.] Ye take This Khalil for my delegate ? To him Bow as to me ? He leads to Lebanon — Ye follow ? Druses. We follow ! Now exalt thy- self ! Dja. [raises Loys.] Then to thee, Loys ! How I wronged thee, Loys ! — Yet, wronged, no less thou shalt have full revenge. Fit for thy noble self, revenge — and thus. Thou, loaded with these wrongs, the princely soul. The first sword of Christ's sepulchre — thou shalt I Guard Khalil and my Druses homo again ! Justice, no less — God's justice and no more. For those I leave ! — to seeking this, devote Some few days out of thy Knight's brilliant life : And, this obtained them, leave their Lebanon, My Druses' blessing in thine ears — (they shall Bless thee with blessing sure to have its way) — One cedar-blossom in thy Ducal cap, One thought of Anael in thy heart — perchance, One thought of him who thus, to bid thee speed, His last word to the living speaks ! This done, 252 THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES [act V Resume thy course, and, first amid the first In Europe, take my heart along with thee! Go boldly, go serenely, go augustly — What shall withstand thee then ? [fle bends over Anael.] And last to thee! Ah, did I dream I was to have, this day, Exalted thee ? A vain dream — hast thou not Won greater exaltation t What remains But press to thee, exalt myself to thee? Thus I exalt myself, set free my soul ! [He stabs himself — as he falls, sup- ported by Khalil. and Loys, the Venetians enter : the Admiral advances. Admiral. God and St. Mark for Venice ! Plant the Lion ! [At the dash of the planted standard, the Druses shout, and move tumvUuovMy forivard, Loys draw- ing his sword. Dja. [leaditig them a few steps between Khalil and Loys.] On to the Mountain ! At the Mountain, Druses ! [Dies. A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON MiLDEED TeESHAM. Gwendolen Teesham. Thorold, Earl Tresham. Austin Teesham. A TRAGEDY 1843 Pbesons. Heney, Earl Mertoun. Gbeaed, and other Retainers of Lord Tresham. ' Time, 17- ACTI Scene I. The interior of a Lodge in Lord Tebsham's Park. Many Retainers crowded at the window, supposed to command a view of the entrance to his Mansion. Geeaed, the Warrener, sitting alone, his back to a table on which are flagons, &c. First Ret. Ay, do ! push, friends, and then you'll push down me. — What for ? Does any hear a runner's foot. Or a steed's trample, or a coach-wheel's cry? Is the Earl come or his least poursui vant ? But there 's no breeding in a man of you Save Gerard yonder : here 's a half- place yet, Old Gerard ! Ger. Save your courtesies, my friend. Here is my place. Second Ret. Now, Gerard, out with it! What makes you sullen, this of all the days r the year ? To-day that young, rich, bountiful. Handsome Earl Mertoun, whom alone they match With our Lord Tresham through the country-side. Is coming here in utmost bravery To ask our Master's Sister's hand ? Ger. What then ? Second Ret. What then ? Why, you, she speaks to, if she meets Your worship, smiles on as you hold apart The boughs to let her through her forest walks. You, always favourite for your no- deserts, You've heard, these three days, how Earl Mertoun sues To lay his heart, and house, and broad lands too. ACT I, SO. I] A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 253 At Lady Mildred's feet : and while we squeeze Ourselves into a mousehole lest we miss One congee of the least page in his train. You sit o' one side — ' there 's the Earl,' say I— ' What then ? ' say you ! Third Ret. I'll wager he has let Both swans he tamed for Lady Mildred, swim Over the falls and gain the river ! Ger. Ralph, Is not to-morrow my inspeoting-day For you and for your hawks ? Fourth Ret. Let Gerard be ! He 's coarse-grained, like his carved black cross-bow stock. Ha, look now, while we squabble with him, look ! Well done, now — is not this beginning, now. To purpose ? First Ret. Our retainers look as fine — That 's comfort. Lord, how Richard holds himself With his white staff ! Will not a knave behind Prick him upright ? Fourth Ret. He 's only bowing, fool ! The Earl's man bent us lower by this much. First Ret. That 'b comfort. Here 's a very cavalcade ! Third Ret. I don't see wherefore Richard, and his troop Of silk and silver varlets there, should find Their perfumed selves so indispensable On high days, holidays ! Would it so disgrace Our Family, if I, for instance, stood — In my right hand a, cast of Swedish hawks, A leash of greyhounds in my left ? — Ger. —With Hugh The logman for supporter — in his right The bill-hook — in his left the brush- wood-shears ! Third Ret. Out on you, crab ! What next, what next ? The Earl ! First Ret. Oh, Walter, groom, our horses, do they match The Earl's ? Alas, that first pair of the six — They paw the ground — Ah, Walter ! and that brute Just on his haunches by the wheel ! Sixth Ret. Ay— Ay ! You, Philip, are a special hand, I hear. At soups and sauces : what 's a horse to you ? D' ye mark that beast they've slid into the midst So cunningly ? — then, Philip, mark this further ; No leg has he to stand on ! First Ret. No ? That 's comfort. Second Ret. Peace, Cook ! The Earl descends. — Well, Gerard, see The Earl at least ! Come, there 's a proper man, I hope ! Why, Ralph, no falcon, Pole or Swede, Has got a starrier eye. Third Ret. His eyes are blue — But leave my hawks alone ! Fourth Ret. So young, and yet So tall and shapely ! Fijlh Ret. Here 's Lord Tresham's self! There now — there 's what a nobleman should be ! He 's older, graver, loftier, he 's more like A House's Head ! Second Ret. But you'd not have a boy — And what 's the Earl beside ?■ — possess too soon That stateliness ? First Ret. Our Master takes his hand — Richard and his white staff are on the move — Back fall our people — (tsh ! — there 's Timothy Sure to get tangled in his ribbon-ties — And Peter's cursed rosette 's a-coming off!) — At last I see our Lord's back and his friend's — And the whole beautiful bright com- pany Close round them — in they go ! [ J«mj3- ing down from the window-benchy. 254 A BLOT Ii\ irijs jm. l jn. itiJi-uiN [ACT 1 and making for the table and itn jugs, i{-c.] Good health, long life, Great joy to our Lord Xiesham and his House ! Sixth Bet. My father drove his father first to Court, After his marriage-day — ay, did he ! Second i?i.kn. Tresh. I \velcouie you, Liml Mortouu, yet once more. To this ancestral roof of mine. Your name — Noble amon|t the noblest in itself. Vet taking in your person, fame avers. New price and lustre, — (as that gem you wear. Transmitted from a hundre<1 knightly breasts. Fresh chased and set and fixed by its last lord, SwMUs to re-kiudle at the i'oit>) — your name Would win you welcome ! — Mer. Thanks ! Tresh. —But add to that. The worthiness and jjrjuo and dignity Of your proposal tor uniting both Our Houses even olosor thon ix'spoot Unites them now — add these, and you must grant One fovour more, nor that the least, — to think The woli'omo I should give ; — 't is given ! My lord. My onljjf biother. Austin — he's the King's. Our oousin. Lady Guendolen — beti-othed To Austin : all lU'e yours. Mtr. Ithankyou^ — loss For the expressed oommeudings which your seal. And only that, authentioatos — forbids My putting from me , . . to my heart I take Your praise . . . but praise less claims my gratitude. Than the indulgent insight it implies Of what must needs be uppermost with one Who comes, like me, with the bare leave to ask. In weighed and measured unimpassioned words, A gift, which, if as oulmly 'tis denied, He must withdraw, content upon his oheek. SC. II] A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 255 Despair within his gouL That I dare ask Firmly, near boldly, near with confidence That gift, I have to thank yon. Yes, Lord Tresham, I love your sister — as yon'd have one love That lady ... oh more, more I love her ! Wealth, Bank, all the world thinks me, they're yours, you know. To hold or part with, at your choice^ but grant My true selt, me without a rood of land, A piece of gold, a name of yesterday. Grant me that lady, and you . . . Death or life ? Guen. [apart to Aus.] Why, this i« loving, Austin ! Axu. He 's 80 young ! Guen. Young ? Old enough, I think, to half surmise He never had obtained an entrance here. Were all this fear and trembUng needed. AtU!. Hush ! He reddens. Ove-n. Mark him, Austin ; that 's true love ! Ours must begin again. Tresh. We'll sit, my lord. Ever with best desert goes diffidence. I may speak plainly nor be miscon- ceived. That I am wholly satisfied with you On this occasion, when a falcon's eye Were dull compared with mine to search out faults. Is somewhat, jlildred's hand is hers to give Or to refuse. Mer. But you, you grant my suit ? I have your word if hers ? Tresh. My best of words If hers encourage you, I trust it will. Have you seen Lady Mildred, by the way ? Mer. I . . . I . . . our two demesnes, remember, touch ; I have been used to wander carelessly After my stricken game: the heron roused Deep in my woods, has trailed it« broken wing Thro' thicks and glades a mile in yours, — or else Some eyass ill-reclaimed has taken flight And lured me after her from tree to tree, I marked not whither. I have come upon The lady's wondrous beauty unaware. And — and then ... I have seen her. Guen. [aside to Aug.] Note that mode Of faltering out that, when a lady passed. He, having eyes, did see her ! Yon had said — ' On such a day I scanned her, head to foot; Observed a. red, where red should not have been. Outside her elbow ; but was pleased enough Upon the whole.' Let such irreverent talk Be lessoned for the future ! Tresh.. What 's to say May be said briefly. She has never known A mother's care ; I stand for father too. Her beauty is not strange to you, it seems — You cannot know the good and tender heart. Its girl's trust, and its woman's con- stancy. How pure yet passionate, how calm yet kind. How grave yet joyous, how reserved yet free As light where friends are — how imbued with lore The world mos-t prizes, yet the simplest, yet The . . . one might know I talked of Mildred — thus We brothers talk ! Her. I thank you. Tresh. In a word. Control 's not for this lady ; but her wish To please me outstrips in its subtlety My power of being pleased : herself creates The want she means to satisfy. My heart Prefers your suit to her as 'twere its own. 256 A BLOT j.iN xjiji i5uu±UJiJiUiN LACT I Can I aay more ? Mer. No more — thanks, thanks — no more ! Tresh. This matter then discussed . . . Mer. — We'll waste no breath On aught less precious. I'm beneath the roof That holds her : while I thought of that, my speech To you would wander — as it must not do. Since as you favour me I stand or fall. I pray you suffer that I take my leave ! Tresh. With less regret 'tis suffered, that again We meet, I hope, so shortly. Mer. We ? again ? — Ah yes, forgive me — when shall . . . you will crown Your goodness by forthwith apprising me When . . . if . . . the lady will appoint a day For me to wait on you — and her. Tresh. So soon As I am made acquainted with her thoughts On your proposal — howsoe'er they lean — A messenger shall bring you the result. Mer. You cannot bind me more to you, my lord. Farewell till we renew ... I trust, renew A converse ne'er to disunite again. Tresh. So may it prove ! Mer. You, Lady, you. Sir, take My humble salutation ! Ouen. tfc Av^. Thanks ! Tresh. Within there ! [Servants enter. Tkesham conducts Mbetoun to the door. Meantime Austin remarks. Well, Here I have an advantage' of the Earl, Confess now ! i'd not think that all was safe Because my lady's brother stood my friend. Why, he makes sure of her — ' do you say, yes— She'll not say, no ' — what comes it to beside ? I should have prayed the brother, ' speak this speech. For Heaven's sake urge this on her — put in this — Forget not, as you'd save me, t'other thing,— Then set down what she says, and how she looks. And if she smiles,' and (in an under breath) ' Only let her accept me, and do you And all the world refuse me, if you dare ! ' Ouen. That way you'd take, friend Austin ? What a shame I was your cousin, tamely from the first Your bride, and all this fervour 's run to waste ! Do you know you speak sensibly to-day! The Earl's a fool. Aus. Here 's Thorold. Tell him so ! Tresh. (returning. ) Now, voices, voices! 'St ! the lady 's first ! How seems he ? — seems he not . . . come, faith give fraud The mercy-stroke wheneverthey engage! Down with fraud, up with faith ! How seems the Earl ? A name ! a blazon ! if you knew their worth. As you will never ! come — the Earl ? Guen. He 's young. Tresh. What 's she ? an infant save in heart and brain. Young ! Mildred is fourteen, remark ! And you . . . Austin, how old is she ? Gusn. There 's tact for you ! I meant that being young was good excuse If one should tax him . . . Tresh. Well ? Guen. — With lacking wit. Tresh. He lacked wit ? Where might he lack wit, so please you ? Ouen. In standing straighter than the steward's rod And making you the tiresomest har rangues. Instead of slipping over to my side And softly whispering in my ear, ' Sweet lady. Your cousin there will do me detriment SC. II] A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 257 He little dreams of : he 's absorbed, I see. In my old name and fame — be sure he'll leave My Mildred, when his best account of me Is ended, in full confidence I wear My grandsire's periwig down either cheek. I'm lost unless your gentleness vouch- safes ' . . . Tresh. . . . ' To give a best of best accounts, yourself. Of me and my demerits.' You are right ! He should have said what now I say for him. You golden creature, will y.ou help us all ? Here's Austin means to vouch for much, but you — You are . . . what Austin only knows ! Come up. All three of us : she 's in the Library No doubt, for the day 's wearing fast. Precede ! Guen. Austin, how we must — ! Tresh. Must what ? Must speak truth, Mahgnant tongue ! Detect one fault in him ! I challenge you ! Guen. Witchcraft 's a fault in him. For you're bewitched. Tresh. What 's urgent we obtain Is, that she soon receive him — say, to- morrow — Next day at furthest. Guen. Ne'er instruct me ! Tresh. Come ! — He 's out of your good graces since, forsooth. He stood not as he'd carry us by storm With his perfections ! You're for the composed, Manly, assured, becoming confidence ! ^Get her to say, ' to-morrow,' and I'll give you . . . I'll give you black Urganda, to be spoiled With petting and snail-paces. Will you ? Come ! Scene III. Mildeed's Chamber. A painted window overlooks the park. Mildred and Guendolbn. Guen. Now, Mildred, spare those pains. I have not left Our talkers in the Library, and climbed The wearisome ascent to this your bower In company with you, — I have not dared . . . Nay, worked such prodigies as sparing you Lord Mertoun's pedigree before the flood. Which Thorold seemed in very act to tell— — Or bringing Austin to pluck up that most Firm-rooted heresy — your suitor's eyes. He would maintain, were grey instead of blue — I think I brought him to contrition ! — Well, I have not done such things, (all to deserve A minute's quiet cousin's talk with you, ) To be dismissed so coolly ! Mil. Guendolen, What have I done . . . what could sug- gest . . . Guen. There, there ! Do I not comprehend you'd be alone To throw those testimonies in a heap, Thorold's enlargings, Austin's brevities, With that poor, silly, heartless Guen- dolen's Ill-timed, misplaced, attempted smart- nesses — ■ And sift their sense out ? now, I come to spare you Nearly a whole night's labour. Ask and have ! Demand, be answered ! Lack I ears and eyes ? Am I perplexed which side of the rock- table. The Conqueror dined on when he landed first. Lord Mertoun's ancestor was bidden take — The bow-hand or the arrow-hand's great meed ? Mildred, the Earl has soft blue eyes ! Mil. My brother — K. 258 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON [ACT I Did he . . . you said tlxat he received him well? Guen. If I said only ' well ' I said not much — Oh, stay — which brother ? MU. Thorold ! who — who else ? Guen. Thorold (a secret) is too proud by half, — Nay, hear me out — with us he 's even gentler Than we are with our birds. Of this great House The least retainer that e'er caught his glance Would die for him, real dying — no mere talk: And in the world, the court, if men would cite The perfect spirit of honour, Thorold's name Rises of its clear nature to their lips. But he should take men's homage, trust in it. And care no more about what drew it down. He has desert, and that, acknowledg- ment ; Is he content ? Mil. You wrong him, Guendolen. Guen. He 's proud, confess ; so proud with brooding o'er The light of his interminable line. An ancestry with men all paladins. And women all . . . Mil. Dear Guendolen, 'tis late ! When yonder purple pane the climbing moon Pierces, I know 'tis midnight. Guen. Well, that Thorold Should rise up from such musings, and receive One come audaciously to graft himself Into this peerless stock, yet find no flaw, No slightest spot in such an one . . . Mil. Who finds A spot in Mertoun ? Guen. Not your brother ; therefore, Not the whole world. Mil. I'm weary, Guendolen. — Bear with me ! Guen. I am foolish. Mil. Oh, no, kind— But I would rest. Guen. Good night and rest to you ! I said how gracefully his mantle lay Beneath the rings of his light iair ? Mil. Brown hair ! Guen. Brown ? why, it is brown — how could you know that ? Mil. How ? did not you — Oh Austin 'twas, declared His hair was light, not brown — my head ! — and, look, The moon-beam purpling the dark chamber ! Sweet, Good night ! Guen. Forgive me — sleep the sound- lier for me ! [jSomg, she turns suddenly. Mildred ! Perdition ! all 's discovered ! Thorold finds — That the Earl's greatest of all grand- mothers Was grander daughter still — to that fair dame Whosegarter slipped downat the famous dance ! [Goes. Mil. Is she — can she be really gone at last ? My heart ! I shall not jeach the winiiow. Needs Must I have sinned much, so to suffer ! [She lifts the small lamp which is suspended before the Virgin's image in the window, and ■fiaces it by the purple pane.] There ! [She returns to the seat in front. Mildred and Mertoun ! Mildred, with consent Of all the world and Thorold, Mertoun's bride ! Too late ! 'Tis sweet to think of, sweeter still To hope for, that this blessed end soothes up The curse of the beginning; but I know It comes too late — 'twill sweetest be of all To dream my soul away and die upon ! [A noise vnlhout. The voice ! Oh, why, why glided sin the snake Into the Paradise Heaven meant us both? SC. Ill] A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 259 [The window opens softly. A low voice sings. There 's a woman like a dew-idrop, she 's so purer than the purest ; And her noble heart 'a the noblest, yes, and her sure faith 's the surest : And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster, Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck 's rose-misted marble : Then her voice's music . . . call it the well's bubbling, the bird's warble ! lA figure wrapped in a mantle appears at the window. And this woman says, ' My days were sunless and my nights were moonless. Parched the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's heart's outbreak tune- less, If you loved me not ! ' And I who — (ah, for words of flame !) adore her ! Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her— [He enters, approaches her seat, and bends over her. I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me. And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me ! \The Earl throws off his slouched hat and long cloak. My very heart sings, so I sing. Beloved ! Mil. Sit, Henry — do not take my hand. Mer. 'Tis mine ! The meeting that appalled us both so much Is ended. Mil. What begins now ? Mer. Happiness Such as the world contains not. Mil. That is it. Our happiness would, as you say, exceed The whole world's best of blisses : we — do we Deserve that ? Utter to your, soul, what mine Long since. Beloved, has grown used to hear, Like a death-knell, so much regarded once. And so familiar now ; this will not be ! Mer. Oh, Mildred, have I met your brother's face. Compelled myself — ^if not to speak un- truth. Yet to disguise, to shun, to put aside The truth, as what had e'er prevailed on me Save you, to venture ? Have I gained at last Your brother, the one scarcr of your dreams. And waking thoughts' sole apprehension too ? Does a new life, like a young sunrise, break ' On the strange umrest of our night, con- tused With rain and stormy flaw — and will you see No dripping blossoms, no fire-tinted drops On each live spray, no va.pour steaming up, And no expressless glory in the East ? When I am by you, to be ever by you. When I have won you and may worship you. Oh, Mildred, can you say ' this will not be' ? Mil. Sin .has surprised us ; so will punishment. Mer. No — me alone, who sinned alone ! -Mil. The night You likened our past life to — was it storm Throughout to ,you then, Henry ? Mer. Of your life I spoke — what am I, what my life, to waste A thought about when you are by me ? —you It was, I said my folly called the storm- And pulled the night upon. — 'Twas day with me — Perpetual dawn with me. Mil. Come what, come will. You have been happy : take my hand 1 Mer. [after a pause.Ti How good Your brother is ! I figured him a cold — 260 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON [act I Shall I say, haughty man ? Mil. They told me all. I know all. Mer. It will soon be over. Mil: Over ? Oh, what is over ? what must I live through And say, ' 'tis over ' ? Is our meeting over ? Have I received in presence of them all The partner of my guilty love, — with brow Trying to seem a maiden's brow — with lips Which make believe that when they strive to form Replies to you and tremble as they strive, ' It is the nearest ever they approached A stranger's . . . Hem:y, yours that stranger's . . . lip — With cheek that looks a virgin's, and that is . . . Ah, God ! some prodigy of Thine will stop This planned piece of deliberate wicked- ness Initsbirtheven — somefierceleprousspot Will mar the brow's dissimulating — I Shall murmur no smooth speeches got by heart, but, frenzied, pour forth all our woeful story, The love, the shame, and the despair — with them ■Round me aghast as men round some cursed fount That should spirt water, and spouts blood. I'll not . . . Henry, you do not wish that I should draw This vengeance down ? I'll not affect a grace That 's gone from me — gone once, and gone for ever ! Mer. Mildred, my honour is your own. I'll share Disgrace I cannot suffer by myself. A word informs your brother I retract This morning's offer ; time will yet bring forth Some better way of saving both of us. Mil. I'll meet their faces, Henry ! Mer. When? to-morrow? Get done with it ! Mil. Oh, Henry, not to-morrow ! Next day ! I never shall prepare my words And looks and gestures sooner. — How you must Despise me ! Mer. Mildred, break it if you choose, A heart the love of you uplifted — still Uplifts, thro' this protracted agony. To Heaven ! but, Mildred, answer me, — first pace The chamber with me — once again — now, say Calmly the part, the . . . what it is of me You see contempt (for you did say con- tempt) — Contempt for you in ! I would pluck it off And cast it from me ! — but no — no, you'll not Repeat that ? — will you, Mildred, repeat that? MU. Dear Henry ! Mer. I was scarce a boy^ — e'en now What am I more ? And you were in- fantine When first I met you — why, your hair fell loose On either side ! — my fool's-cheek red- dens now Only in the recalling how it burned That morn to see the shape of many a dream — You know we boys are prodigal of charms To her we dream of — I had heard of one. Had dreamed of her, and I was close to her. Might speak to her, might live and die her own. Who knew ? — I spoke. Oh, Mildred, feel you not That now, while I remember every glance Of yours, each word of yours, with power to test And weigh them in the diamond scales of pride, Resolved the treasure of a first and last Heart's love shall have been bartered at its worth, — That now I think upon your purity SC. Ill] A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 261 And utter ignorance of guilt — your own Or other's guilt — the girlish undisguised Delight at a strange novel prize — (I talk A silly language, but interpret, you !) If I, with fancy at its full, and reason Scarce in its germ, enjoined you secrecy, If you had pity on my passion, pity On my protested sickness of the soul To sit beside you, hear you breathe, and watch Your eyelids and the eyes beneath — if you Accorded gifts and knew not they were gifts— If I grew mad at last with enterprise And must behold mybeautyin her bower Or perish — (I was ignorant of even My own desires — what then were you ?) if sorrow — Sin — if the end came — must I now renounce M;- reason, blind myself to light, say truth Is false and lie to God and my own soul ? Contempt were all of this ! Mil. Do you believe . . . Or, Henry, I'll not wrong you — you believe That I was ignorant. I scarce grieve o'er The Past ! We'll love on — you will love me still ! Mer. Oh, to love less what one has injured ! Dove, Whose pinion I have rashly hurt, my breast — Shall my heart's warmth not nurse thee into strength ? Flower I have crushed, shall I not care for thee ? Bloom o'er my crest, my fight-mark and device ! Mildred, I love you and you love me ! MU. Go ! Be that your last word. I shall sleep to-night. Mer. This is not our last meeting ? MU. One night more. Mer. And then — think, then ! MU. Then, no sweet courtship-days. No dawning consciousness of love for us. No strange and palpitating births of sense From words and looks, no innocent fears and hopes. Reserves and confidences : morning 's over ! Mer. How else should love's per- fected noontide follow ? All the dawn promised shall the day perform. Mil. So may it be ! but You are cautious, love ? Are sure that unobserved you scaled the walls ? Mer. Oh, trust me ! Then our final meeting 's fixed ? To-morrow night ? Mil. Farewell ! " Stay, Henry . . . wherefore ? His foot is on the yew-tree bough ; the turf Receives him : now the moonlight as he runs Embraceshim — buthemustgo — is gone. Ah, once again he turns — thanks, thanks, my love ! He 's gone. Oh I'll believe him every word ! I was so young — I loved him so — I had No mother — God forgot me — and I fell. There may be pardon yet : all 's doubt beyond. Surely the bitterness of death is past ! ACT II Scene. The Library. Enter Lord Tresham hastily. This way ! In, Gerard, quick ! [As Gerard enters, Tresham secures the door. Now speak ! or, wait — I'll bid you speak directly. [Seats himself. Now repeat Firmly and circumstantially the tale You just now told me ; it eludes me ; either I did not listen, or the half is gone Away from me. How long have you lived here ? Here in my house, your father kept our woods Before you ? 262 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON [act n Ger. — As his father did, my lord. I have been eating sixty years, almost, your bread. Tresh. Yes, yes. You ever were of all The servants in my father's house, I know. The trusted one. You'll speak the truth. Oer. I'll speak God's truth. Night after night . . . Tresh. Since when ? Ger. At least A month — each midnight has some man access To Lady Mildred's chamber. Tresh. Tush, ' access ' — No wide words like " access ' to me ! Ger. He runs Along the woodside, crosses to the South, Takes the left tree that ends the avenue . . . Tresh. The last great yew-tree ? Ger. You might stand upon The main boughs like a platform. Then he. . . Tresh. Quick ! Ger. ClimbsTip, and, where they lessen at the top, — I cannot see distinctly, but he throws, I think-r-f or this I do not vouch — a line That reaches to the Lady's casement — Tresh. —Which He enters not ! Gerard — some wretched fool Dares pry into my sister's privacy ! When such are young, it seems a precious thing To have approached, — to merely have approached. Got sight of j the abode of her they set Their frantic thoughts upon ! He does not enter ? Gerard ? Ger. There is a lamp that 's full in the midst. Under a red square in the painted glass Of Lady Mildred's . . . Tresh. Leave that name out ! Well? That lamp ? Ger. — Is moved at midnight higher "P To one pane — a small dark-blue pane ; he waits For that among the boughs : at sight of tha.t, I see him, plain as I see you, my lord. Open the Lady's casement, enter there. . . Tresh. — And stay ? Ger. An hour, two hours. Tresh. And this you saw Once ? — twice ? — quick ! Ger. Twenty times. Tresh. And what brings you Under the yew-trees ? Ger. The first night I left My range so far, to track the stranger stag That broke the pale, I saw the man. Tresh. Yet sent No cross-bow shaft through the mar- auder ? Ger. But He came, my lord, the first time he was seen. In a great moonlight, light as any day. From Lady Mildred's chamber. Tresh. [after a pause.'} You have no cause -r-Who could have cause to do my sister ^Y wrong ? '' \jler. Oh, my lord, only once — let me this once Speak what is on my mind ! Since first I noted All this, I've groaned as if a fiery net Plucked ine this way and that — fire, if I turned To her, fire if I turned to you, and fire. If down I flung myself and strove to die. The lady could not have been seven years old When I was trusted, to conduct her safe Through the deer-herd to stroke the snow-white fawn I brought to eat bread from her tiny hand Within a month. She ever had a smile To greet me with — she ... if it could undo What 's done, to lop each limb from off this trunk . . . All that is foolish talki not fit for you — I mean, I could not speak and bring her hurt ACT II] A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 263 For Heaven's compelling. But when I was fixed To hold my peace, each morsel of your food Eaten beneath your roof, my birth-place too. Choked me. I wish I had grown mad in doubts What it behoved me do. This mom it seemed Either I must confess to you, or die : Now it is done, I seem the vilest worm That crawls, to have betrayed my Lady! Tresh. No— No — Gerard ! Ger. Let me go ! Tresh. A man, you say — What man ? Young ? Not a vulgar hind ? What dress ? Ger. A slouched hat and a large dark foreign cloak Wraps his whole form ; even his face is hid; But I should judge him young : no ' hind, be sure ! Tresh. Why ? Ger. He is ever armed : his sword projects Beneath the cloak. Tresh. Gerard, — I will not say No word, no breath of this ! Ger. Thanks, thanks, my lord ! • [Goes. Tkbsham paces the room. After a pause. Oh, thought 's absurd ! — as with some monstrous fact That, when ill thoughts beset us, seems to give Merciful God that made the sun and stars The waters and the green delights of earth. The lie ! I apprehend the monstrous fact — Yet know the Maker of all w^orlds is good. And yield my reason up, inadequate To reconcile what yet I do behold — Blasting my sense ! There 's cheerful day outside — This is my library — and this the chair My father used to sit in carelessly. After bis soldier-fashion, while I stood Between his knees to question him : and here, Gerard our grey retainer, — as he says. Fed with our food, from sire to son, an age,— Has told a story — I am to believe ! That Mildred ... oh no, no ! both tales are true. Her pure cheek'sstory and the forester's! Would she, or could she, err — much less, confound All guilts of treachery, of craft, of . . . Heaven Keep me within Its hand ! — I will sit here Until thought settles and I see my course. Avert, oh God, only this woe from me ! lAs he sinks his head between his arms on the table, Guendolen's voice is heard at the door. Lord Tresham ! [She knocks.} Is Lordi Tresham there ? [Tkesham, hastily turning, pulls down the first hook ahove him and- opens it. Tresh. Come in ! [She enters. Ah, Guendolen— good morning. Guen. Nothing more ? Tresh. What should I say more ? Guen. Pleasant question ! more ? This more ! Did I besiege poor Mildred's brain Last night till close on morning with ' the Earl ' — ' The Earl ' — whose worth did I asse- verate Till I am very fain to hope that . . . Thorold, What is all this ? You are not well ! Tresh. Who, I ? You laugh at me. ' Guen. Has what I'm fain to hope ; Arrived, then ? Does that huge tome ; show some blot ; In the Earl's 'scutcheon come no longer ' back Than Arthur's time ? Tresh. When left you Mildred's chamber ? Guen. Oh late enough, I told you ! The main thing To ask is, how I left her chamber, — sure. 264 A BLOT IJN THE 'SUUTUHJiOJN Lact II Content yourself, she'll grant this paragon Of Earls no such ungracious . . . Tresh. Send her here ! Guen. Thorold ? Tresh. I mean — acquaint her, Guendolen,— —But mildly ! Guen. Mildly ? Tresh. Ah, you guessed aright ! I am not well : there is no hiding it. But tell her I would see her at her leisure — That is, at once ! here in the Library ! The passage in that old Italian book We hunted for so long is found, say, — found — And if I let it slip again . . . you see. That she must come — and instantly ! Guen. I'll die Piecemeal, record that, if there have fnot gloomed Some blot i' the 'scutcheon ! Tresh. Go ! or, Guendolen, Be you at call, — with Austin, if you choose, — [n the adjoining gallery ! There, go ! [Guendolen goes. Another lesson to me ! you might bid A child disguise his heart's sore, and conduct • Some sly investigation point by point With a smooth brow, as well as bid me catch The inquisitorial cleverness some praise ! If you had told me yesterday, ' There 's one You needs must circumvent and practise with. Entrap by policies, if you would worm The truth out : and that one is — Mildred ! ' There- There— reasoning is thrown away on it ! Prove she 's unchaste . . . why, you may after prove That she 's a poisoner, traitress, what you will ! Where I can comprehend nought, nought 's to say. Or do, or think ! Force on me but the first Abomination, — then outpour all plagues, And I shall ne'er make count of them ! Enter Mildeed. Ma. What book Is it I wanted, Thorold 1 Guendolen Thought you were pale — you are not pale ! That book ? That 's Latin surely ! Tresh. Mildred, here 's a line — (Don't lean on me — I '11 English it for you) Love conquers all things.' What love conquers them ? What love should you esteem — best love? Mil. True love. Tresh. I mean, and should have said, whose love is best Of all that love or that profess to love ? Mil. The list 's so long — there 's father's, mother's, husband's . . . Tresh. Mildred, I do believe a '' brother's love For a sole sister must exceed them all ! For see now, only see ! there 's no alloy Of earth that creeps into the perfect'st gold Of other loves — no gratitude to claim ; You never gave her life — not even aught That keeps life — never tended her, in- structed, Enriched her — so your love can claim no right O'er hers save pure love's claim : that 's what I call Freedom from earthliness. You'll never hope To be such friends, for instance, she and you. As when you hunted cowslips in the woods. Or played together in the meadow hay. Oh yes — with age, respect comes, and your worth Is felt, there 's growing sympathy of tastes. There 's ripened friendship, there 's confirmed esteem, — Much head these make against the new-comer ! The startling apparition — the strange youth — Whom one half-hour's conversing with, or, say. ACT II] A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 265 Mere gazing at, shall change (beyond all change This Ovid ever sang about !) your soul . . . Her soul, that is, — the sister's soul ! With her 'Twas winter yesterday ; now, all is warmth, The green leaf 's springing and the turtle's voice, 'Arise and come away ! ' Come whither ? — far Enough from the esteem, respect, and all The brother's somewhat insignificant Array of rights ! all which he knows before — Has calculated on so long ago ! I think such love, (apart from yours and mine,) Contented with its little term of life. Intending to retire betimes, aware How soon the background must be place for it, — I think, am sure, a brother's love exceeds All the world's love in its unworldli- ness. Mil. What is this for ? Tresh. This, Mildred, is it for! Oh, no, I cannot go to it so soon ! That 's one of many points my haste left out — Each day, each hour throws forth its silk-slight film Between the being tied to you by birth, And you, until those slender threads compose A web that shrouds her daily life of hopes And fears and fancies, all her life, from yours — So close you live and yet so far apart ! And must I rend this web, tear up, break down The sweet and palpitating mystery That makes her sacred ? You — for you I mean. Shall I speak — shaU I not speak ? Mil. Speak ! Tresh. I will. Is there a story men could — any man Could tell of you, you would conceal from me ? K I'll never think there 's falsehood on that lip ! Say ' There is no such story men could tell,' " And I'll believe you, though I disbelieve The world — the world of better men than I, And women such as I suppose you. SpeaJ: ! \_Alter a pause.'] Not speak ? Explain then ! clear it up, then ! Move Some of the miserable weight away That presses lower than the grave ! Not speak ? Some of the dead weight, Mildred ! Ah, if I Could bring myself to plainly make their charge Against you ! Must I, Mildred ? Silent still ? [After a pause.'] Is there a gallant that has night by night Admittance to your chamber ? [Ajter a pause.] Then, his name ! Till now, I only had a thought for you : But now,— his name ! Mil. Thorold, do you devise Fit expiation for my guilt, if fit There be ! 'tis nought to say that I'll endure And bless you, — that my spirit yearns to purge Her stains off in the fierce renewing fire : But do not plunge me into other guilt !' Oh, guilt enough ! I cannot tell his name. Tresh. Then judge yourself ! How should I act ? Pronounce ! Mil. Oh, Thorold, you must never tempt me thus ! To die here in this chamber by that sword Would seem like punishment — so should I glide. Like an arch-cheat, into extremest bliss ! 'Twere easily arranged for me ! but you— What would become of you ? Tresh. And what will now Become of me ? I'll hide your shame and mine From every eye ; the dead must heave their hearts Under the marble of our chapel-floor ; 3 266 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON [act ii They cannot rise and blast you ! You may wed Your paramour above our mother's tomb ; Our mother cannot move from 'neath your foot. We two will somehow wear this one day out : But with to-morrow hastens here — the Earl! The youth without suspicion that faces come From Heaven, and hearts from . . . whence proceed such hearts ? I have dispatched last night at your command A missive bidding him present himself To-morrow here — thus much is said ; the rest Is understood as if 'twere writtendown — ' His suit finds favour in your eyes : ' — now dictate This morning's letter that shall counter- mand Last night's — do dictate that ! Mil. But, Thorold— if I will receive him as I said ? Tresh. The Earl ? MU. I will receive him ! Tresh. [Starting «p.] Ho there ! Quendolen ! GuENDOLBN and Austin enter. And, Austin, you are welcome too ! Look there ! The woman there ! Aus. & Quen. How ? Mildred ? Tresh. Mildred once ! Now the receiver night by night, when Blesses the inmates of her father's house, — I say, the soft sly wanton that receives Her guilt's accomplice 'neath this roof which holds You, Guendolen, you, Austin, and has held A thousand Treshams — never one like her ! No lighter of the signal-lamp her quick Foul breath near quenches in hot eagerness To mix with breath as foul ! no loosener Of the lattice, practised in the stealthy tread. The low voice and the noiseless come- and-go ! Not one composer of the Bacchant's mien Into — what you thought Mildred's, in a word ! Know her ! Guen. Oh, Mildred, look to me, at least ! Thorold — she 's dead, I'd say, but that she stands Rigid as stone and whiter ! Tresh. You have heard . . . Guen. Too much ! you must proceed no further ! Mil. Yes- Proceed ! AH 's truth ! Go from me ! Tresh. All is truth. She tells you ! Well, you know, or ought to know. All this I would forgive in her. I'd con Each precept the harsh world enjoins, I'd take Our ancestors' stern verdicts one by one, I'd bind myself before them to exact The prescribed vengeance — and one word of hers. The sight of her, the bare least memory Of Mildred, my one sister, my heart's pride Above all prides, my all in all so long. Would scatter every trace of my re- solve ! What were it silently to waste away And see her waste away from this day forth. Two scathed things with leisure to repent. And grow acquainted with the grave, and die. Tired out if not at peace, and be for- gotten ? It were not so impossible to bear ! But this — that, fresh from last night's pledge renewed Of love with the successful gallant there. She calmly bids me help her to entice. Inveigle an unconscious trusting youth Who thinks her all that 's chaste, and good, and pure. ACT ll] A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 267 — Invites me to betray him . . . who so fit As honour's self to cover shame's arch- deed ? — That she'll receive Lord Mertoun — (her own phrase) — This, who could bear ? Why, you have heard of thieves, Stabbers, the earth's disgrace — who yet have laughed, ' Talk not of tortures to me — I'll betray No comrade I've pledged faith to ! ' — you have heard Of wretched women — all but Mildreds — tied By wild illicit ties to losels vile You'd tempt them to forsake ; rfnd they'll reply ' Gold, friends, repute, I left for him, I have In him, why should I leave him then for gold, Repute, or friends ? '—and you have felt your heart Respond to such poor outcasts of the world As to so many friends ; bad as you You've felt they were God's men and women still. So, not to bedisowned by you ! But she. That stands there, calmly gives her lover up As means to wed the Earl that she may hide Their intercourse the surelier ! and, for this, I curse her to her face before you all ! Shame hunt her from the earth ! Then Heaven do right To both ! It hears me now — shall judge her then ! lAs MiLDEED faints and falls, Tkesham rushes out. Aus. Stay, Tresham, we'll accom- pany you ! Guen. We ? What, and leave Mildred ? We ? why, where 's my place But by her side, and where 's yours but by mine ? Mildred — one word — only look at me, then! Aus. No,Guendolen! I echo Thorold's voice ! She is unworthy to behold . . . Quen. Us two ? If you spoke on reflection, and if I Approved your speech — if you (to put the thing At lowest) you, the soldier, bound to make The King's cause yours, and fight for it, and throw Regard to others of its right or wrong, — If with a death-white woman you can help, Let alone sister, let alone a Mildred, You left her — or if I, her cousin, friend This morning, playfellow but yesterday, Who said, or thought at least a thousand times, ' I'd serve you if I could,' should now face round And say, 'Ah, that 's to only signify I'd serve you while you're fit to serve yourself — So long as fifty eyes await the turn Of yours to forestall its yet half-formed wish, I'll proffer my assistance you'll not need — When every tongue is praising you, I'll join The praisers' chorus — when you're hemmed about With lives between you and detraction — lives To be laid down if a rude voice, rash eye. Rough hand should violate the sacred ring Their worship throws about you, — then indeed. Who'll stand up for you stout as I ? ' If so We said and so we did, — not Mildred there Would be unworthy to behold us both, But we should be unworthy, both of us. To be beheld by — by — your meanest dog. Which, if that sword were broken in your face Before a crowd, that badge torn off your breast. 268 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEOR [act n And you cast out with hootings and contempt, — Would push his way thro' all the hooters, gain Your side, go off with you and all your shame To the next ditch you chose to die in ! Austin, Do you love me ? Here 's Austin, Mildred, — here 's Your brother says he does not believe half- No, nor half that — of all he heard ! He Look up and take his hand ! Aus. Look up and take My hand, dear Mildred ! Mil. I — I was so young ! Beside, I loved him, Thorold — and I had No mother — God forgot me — so I fell ! Giien. Mildred ! Mil. Require no further ! Did I dream That I could palliate what is done ? AH 's true. Now, punish me ! A woman takes my hand ! Let go my hand ! You do not know, I see — I thought that Thorold told you. Guen. What is this ? Where start you to ? Mil. Oh Austin, loosen me ! You heard the whole of it — your eyes were worse. In their surprise, than Thorold's ! Oh, unless You stay to execute his sentence, loose My hand ! Has Thorold gone, and are you here ? Guen. Here, Mildred, we two friends of yours will wait Your bidding ; be you silent, sleep or muse ! Only, when you shall want your bidding done,' How can we do it if we are not by ? Here 's Austin waiting patiently your will! One spirit to command, and one to love And to believe in it and do its best. Poor as that is, to help it — why, the world Has been won many a time, its length and breadth. By just such a beginning ! Mil. I believe If once I. threw my arms about your neck And sunk my head upon your breast, that I Should weep again 1 Guen. Let go her hand now, Austin. Wait for me. Pace the gallery and think On the world's seemings and realities. Until I call you. [Austin goes. Mil. No — I cannot weep ! No more tears from this brain — mo sleep — no tears ! Guendolen, I love you ! Gtien. Yes : and ' love ' Is a short word that says so very much ! It says that you confide in me. Mil. Confide ! Guen. Your lover's name, then ! I've so much to learn. Ere I can work in your behalf ! MU. My friend. You know I cannot tell his name. Guen. At least He is your lover ? and you love him too ? Mil. Ah, do you ask me that ? — but I am fallen So low ! Guen. You love him still, then ? Mil. My sole prop Against the guilt that crashes me ! I say. Each night ere I lie down, ' I was so young— 1 had no mother — and I loved him so ! ' And then God seems indulgent, and I dare Trust Him my soul in sleep. Guen. How could you let us E'en talk to you about Lord Mertoun then ? Mil. There is a cloud around me. Guen. But you said You would receive his suit in spite of this ? Mil. I say there is a cloud . . . Guen. No cloud to me ! ACT II] A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 269 Lord Mertoun and your lover are the ^ same ! Mil. What maddest fancy . . . Guen. [calling aloud.'] Austin ! (Spare your pains — When I have got a truth, that truth I keep) — Mil. By all you love, sweet Guen- dolen, forbear ! Have I confided in you . . . Guen. Jnst for this ! Austin t — Oh, not to guess it at the first! But I did guess it— that is, I divined — Felt by an instinct how it was — why else Should I pronounce you free from all that heap Of sins which had been irredeemable ? I felt they were not yours — what other way Thau this, not yours ? The secret 's wholly mine ! MU. If you would see me die before his face . . . Guen. I'd hold my peace ! And if the Earl returns To-night ? MU. Ah, Heaven,, he 's lost ! Guen. I thought so ! Austin ! Enter Austin. Oh, where have you been hiding ? Atts. Thorold 's gone, I know not how, across the meadow- land. I watched him till I lost him in the skirts Of the beech- wood. Guen. Gone ? All thwarts us ! Mil. Thorold too ? Guen. I have thought. First lead this Mildred to her room. Go on the other side : and then we'll seek Your brother ; and I'll tell you, by the way, The greatest comfort in the world. You said There was a clue to all. Remember, ! Sweet, He said there was a clue ! I hold it. Come ! ACT III Scene I. — The end of the Yeui-tree Avenue under Mildred's window. A light seen through a central red pane. Enter Tresham through the trees. Again here ! But I cannot lose myself. The heath — the orchard — I have tra- versed glades And dells and bosky paths which used to lead Into green wild-wood depths, bewilder- ing My boy's adventurous step. And now they tend Hither or soon or late ; the blackest shade Breaks up, the thronged trunks of the trees ope wide, And the dim turret I have fled from, fronts Again my step ; the very river put Its arm about me and conducted me To this detested spot. Why then, I'll shun Their will no longer — do your will with me ! Oh, bitter ! To have reared a towering scheme Of happiness, and to behold it razed. Were nothing : all men hope, and see their hopes Frustrate, and grieve awhile, and hope anew. But I ... to hope that from a line like ours No horrid prodigy like this would spring. Were just as though I hoped that from these old Confederates against the sovereign day. Children of older and yet older sires. Whose living coral berries dropped, as now On me, on many a baron's surooat once. On many a beauty's wimple — would proceed No poison-tree, to thrust, from Hell its root, Hither and thither its strange snaky arms. 270 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON [act m Why came I here ? What must I do ? [o bdl strikes.] A bell ? Midnight ! and 'tis at midnight . . . Ah, I catch — Woods, river, plains, I catch your meaning now. And I obey you ! Hist ! This tree ■will serve ! [He retires behind one of the trees. After a jxiitse, enter Mertoxtn cloaked as before. Mer. Not time ! Beat out thy last voluptuous beat Of hope and fear, my heart ! I thought the clock In the chapel struck as I was pushing through The ferns. And so I shall no more see rise My love-star ! Oh, no matter for the Past ! So much the more delicious task to see Mildred revive : to pluck out, thorn by thorn, All traces of the rough forbidden path My rash love lured her to ! Each day must see Some fear of hers effaced, some hope renewed ! Then there will be surprises, unforeseen Delights in store. I'll not regret the Past ! \The light is placed above in the purple pane. And see, my signal rises ! Mildred's star ! I never saw it lovelier than now It rises for the last time. If it sets, 'Tis that the re-assuring sun may dawn. [As he prepares to ascend the last tree of the avenue, Tresham arrests his arm. Unhand me — peasant, by your grasp ! Here 's gold. 'Twas a mad freak of mine. I said I'd pluck A branch from the white-blossomed shrub beneath The casement there ! Take this, and hold your peace. Tresh. Into the moonlight yonder, come with me ! — Out of the shadow 1 Mer. I am armed, fool ! Tresh. Yes, Or no ? You'll come into the light, or no ? My hand is on your throat — refuse ! — Mer. That voice ! Where have I heard . . . no— that was mild and slow. I'll come with you ! [They advance. Tresh. You're armed : that's well. Your name — who are you ? Mer. (Tresham ! — she is lost !) Tresh. Oh, silent ? Do you know, you bear yourself Exactly as, in curious dreams I've had How felons, this wild earth is full of, look When they're detected, still your kind has looked ! The bravo holds an assured counten- ance. The thief is voluble and plausible. But silently the slave of lust has crouched When I have fancied it before a man ! Your name ? Mer. I do conjure Lord Tresham —ay, Kissing his foot, if so I might prevail — That he for his own sake forbear to ask My name ! As Heaven 's above, his future weal Or woe depends upon my silence ! Vain! I read your white inexorable face ! Know me. Lord Tresham ! [He throws off his disguises. Tresh. Mertoun ! [After a pause.} Draw now ! Mer. Hear me But speak first ! Tresh. Not one least word on your life ! Be sure that I will strangle in your throat The least word that informs me how you live And yet seem what you seem ! No doubt 'twas you Taught Mildred still to keep that face and sin ! We should join hands in frantic sym- pathy SC. l] A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 271 If you once taught me the unteaohable, Explained how you can live so, and so lie! With God's help I retain, despite my sense, The old belief — a life like yours is still Impossible ! Now draw ! Mer. Not for my sake. Do I entreat a hearing — for your sake. And most, for her sake ! Tresh. Ha, ha, what should I Know of your ways ? A miscreant like yourself. How must one rouse his ire ? — A blow ? ■ — that 's pride No doubt, to him ! one spurns him, does one not ? Or sets the foot upon his mouth — or spits Into his face ! Come — which, or all of these ? Mer. 'Twixt him, and me, and Mildred, Heaven be judge ! Can I avoid this ? Have your will, my lord! [He draws, and, after a few passes, falls. Tresh. You are not hurt ? Mer. You'll hear me now ! Tresh. But rise ! Mer. Ah, Tresham, say I not ' you'll hear me now ! ' And what procures a man the right to In his defence before his fellow-man, But — I suppose — the thought that presently He may have leave to speak before his God His whole defence 1 Tresh. Not hurt ? It cannot be ! You made no effort to resist me. Where Did my sword reach you ? Why not have returned My thrusts ? Hurt where ? Mer. My lord — Tresh. How young he is ! Mer. Lord Tresham, I am very young, and yet I have entangled other lives with mine. Do let me speak ! and do believe my That when I die before you presently, — Tresh. Can you stay here till I return with help ? Mer. Oh, stay by me ! When I was less than boy I did you grievous wrong, and knew it not — Upon my honour, knew it not ! Once known, I could not find what seemed a better way To right you than I took : my life — you feel How less than nothing had been giving you The life you've taken ! But I thought my way The better — only for your sake and hers. And as you have decided otherwise. Would I had an infinity of lives To offer you ! Now say — instruct me —think ! Can you from out the minutes I have left Eke out my reparation ? Oh — think —think ! For I must wring a partial — dare I say. Forgiveness from you, ere I die ? Tresh. I do Forgive you. Mer. Wait and ponder that great word ! Because, if you forgive me, I shall hope To speak to you of — Mildred ! Tresh. Mertoun, — haste And anger have undone us. 'Tis not you Should tell me for a novelty you're young- Thoughtless — unable to recall the Past ! Be but your pardon ample as my own ! Mer. Ah, Tresham, that a sword- stroke and a drop Of blood or two, should bring all this about ! Why, 'twas my very fear of you — my love Of you — (what passion 's like a boy's for one Like you?) — that ruined me ! I dreamed of you — 272 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON [ACT III You, all accomplished, courted every- where. The scholar and the gentleman. I burned To knit myself to you : hut I was young, And your surpassing reputation kept me So far aloof ! Oh, wherefore all that love? With less of love, my glorious yesterday Of praise and gentle words and kindest looks. Had taken place perchance six months ago! Even now — how happy we had been ! And yet I know the thought of this escaped you, Tresham ! Let me look up into your face — I feel 'Tis changed above me — yet my eyes are glazed. Where ? where ? [As Tie endeavours to raise himself, his eye catches the lamp. Ah, Mildred ! What will Mildred do ? Tresham, her life is bound up in the life That 's bleeding fast away ! — I'll live — must live. There ! if you'll only turn me I shall live And save her ! Tresham — Oh, had you but heard ! Had you but heard ! What right have you to set The thoughtless foot upon her life and mine. And then say, as we perish, ' Had I thought. All had gone otherwise.' We've sinned and die : Never you sin. Lord Tresham ! — for you'll die. And God will judge you. Tresh. Yes, be satisfied — That process is begun. Mer. And she sits there Waiting for me ! Now, say you this to her — You — not another — say, I saw him die As he breathed this — ' I love her ' — you don't know What those three small words mean ! Say, loving her Lowers me down the bloody slope to death With memories ... I speak to her — not you. Who had no pity — will have no re- morse. Perchance intend her . . . Die along with me. Dear Mildred ! — 'tis so easy — and you'll 'scape So much unkindness ! Can I lie at rest. With rude speech spoken to you, ruder deeds Done to you — heartless men to have my heart. And I tied down with grave-clothes and the worm. Aware, perhaps, of every blow — Oh God!— Upon those lips — yet of no power to tear The felon stripe by stripe ? Die, Mil- dred ! Leave Their honourable world to them — for God We're good enough, though the world oasts us out ! lA whistle is heard. Tresh. Ho, Gerard ! Enter Geeard, Austin, and Guen- DOLEN, with lights. No one speak ! you see what 's done ! I cannot bear another voice ! Mer. There 's light — Light all about me, and I move to it. Tresham, did I not tell you — did you not Just promise to deliver words of mine To Mildred ? Tresh. I will bear those words to her. Mer. Now ? Tresh. Now. Lift you the body, Gerard, and leave me The head. [As they have half raised Mertoun, he turns suddenly. Mer. I knew they turned me — turn me not from her ! There ! stay you ! there ! [Dies. Guen. [after a pause.} Austin, remain you here With Thorold until Gerard comes with help — so. I] A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 273 Then lead him to hia chamber. I must go To Mildred. Tresh. Guendolen, I hear each word You utter — did you hear him bid me give His message ? Did you hear my pro- mise ? I, And only I, see Mildred ! Guen. She will die. Tresh. Oh no, she will not die ! I dare not hope She'll die. What ground have you to think she'll die ? Why, Austin 's with you ! Aus. Had we but arrived Before you fought ! Tresh. There was no fight at all ! He let me slaughter him — the boy ! I'll trust The body there to you and Gerard — thus! Now bear him on before me. Aus. Whither bear him ? Tresh. Oh, to my chamber ! When we meet there next, We shall be friends. IThey bear out the body of Mbrtoitn. Will she die, Guendolen ? Ouen. Where are you taking me ? Tresh. He fell just here ! Now answer me. Shall you in your whole life — You who have nought to do with Mertoun's fate. Now you have seen his breast upon the turf. Shall you e'er walk this way if you can help ? When you and Austin wander arm-in- arm Through our ancestral grounds, will not a shade Be ever on the meadow and the waste — Another kind of shade than when the night Shuts the woodside with all its whispers up ? But will you ever so forget his breast As willingly to cross this bloody turf Under the black yew avenue ? That 's well! You turn your head ! and / then ? — Ouen. What is done Is done ! My care is for the living. Thorold, Bear up against this burden — more remains To set the neck to ! - — . Tresh. Dear and ancient tree3\ My fathers planted, and I loved so well ! What have I done that, like some fabled crime Of yore, lets loose a fury leading thus Her miserable dance amidst you all ? Oh, for me shall winds \ never more intone j With all your tops a vast antiphony, ' Demanding and responding in God's ; praise ! , Hers ye are now — not mine ! Farewell j — Farewell ! J Scene II. — Mildred's Chamber. Mii> DRED alone. He comes not ! I have heard of those who seemed Resouroeless in prosperity, — you thought Sorrow might slay them when she listed —yet Did they so gather up their diffused strength At her first menace, that they bade her strike. And stood and laughed her subtlest skill to scorn. Oh, 'tis not so with me ! the first woe fell. And the rest fall upon it, not on me : Else should I bear that Henry comes not ? — fails Just this first night out of so many nights ? Loving is done with ! Were he sitting now. As so few hours since, on that seat, we'd love No more — contrive no thousand happy ways To hide love from the loveless, any more ! I think I might have urged some little point In my defence, to Thorold ; he was breathless 274 A BLOT. IN THE 'SCUTCHEON [act ni For the least hint of a defence ; but no ! The first shame over, all that would might fall. No Henry ! Yet I merely sit and think The morn's deed o'er and o'er. I must have crept Out of myself. A Mildred that has lost Her lover — oh, I dare not look upon Such woe ! I crouch away from it ! 'Tis she, Mildred, will break her heart, not I ! The world Forsakes me — only Henry 's left me — left? When I have lost him, for he does not come. And I sit stupidly ... Oh Heaven, break up This worse than anguish, this mad apathy, By any means or any messenger ! Tresh. [without.] Mildred ! Mil. Come in ! Heaven hears me ! [.Bjrfer Teesham.] You! alone? Oh, no more cursing ! Tresh. Mildred, I must sit. There — you sit ! Mil. Say it, Thorold — do not look The curse — deliver all you come to say ! What must become of me ? Oh speak that thought Which makes your brow and cheek so pale ! Treah. My thought ? Mil. All of it ! Tresh. How we waded — years ago — / After those water-lilies, till the plash, I know not how, surprised us ; and you dared ^Neither advance nor turn back : so we f stood Laughing and crying until Gerard came — Once safe upon the turf, the loudest, too, For once more reaching the relinquished prize ! How idle thoughts are — some men's — dying men's ! Mildred, — Mil. You call me kindlier by my name Than even yesterday — what is in that ? Tresh. It weighs so much upon my mind that I This morning took an oflBce not my own ! I might ... of course, I must be glad or grieved, Content or not, at every little thing That touches you — I may with a wrung heart Even reprove you, Mildred ; I did more : Will you forgive me ? Mil. Thorold ? do you mock ? Or no . . . and yet you bid me . . . say that word ! Tresh. Forgive me, Mildred ! — are you silent. Sweet ? Mil. [starting up.] Why does not Henry Mertoun come to-night ? Are you, too, silent ? [Dashing his mantle aside, and pointing to his scabbard, which is empty. Ah, this speaks for you ! You've murdered Henry Mertoun ! now proceed ! What is it I must pardon ? This and all? Well, I do pardon you — I think I do. Thorold, how very wretched you must be! Tresh. He bade me tell you . . . Mil. What I do forbid Your utterance of ! so much that you may tell And will not — how you murdered him . . . but, no ! You'll tell me that he loved me, never more Than bleeding out his life there — must I say ' Indeed,' to that ? Enough ! I pardon you ! Tresh. You cannot, Mildred ! for the harsh words, yes : Of this last deed Another's Judge — whose doom I wait in doubt, despondency, and fear. Mil. Oh true ! there 's nought for me to pardon ! True ! ' You loosed my soul of all its cares at once — SC. II] A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 275 Death makes me sure of him for ever ! You Tell me his last words ? He shall tell me them. And take my answer — not in words, but reading Himself the heart I had to read him late, Which death . . . Tresh. Death ? you are dying too ? Well said Of Guendolen ! I dared not hope you'd die : But she was sure of it. Mil. Tell Guendolen I loved her, and tell Austin . . . Tresh. Him you loved : And me ? MU. Ah, Thorold ! was 't not raphly done To quench that blood, on fire with youth and hope And love of me — whom you loved too, and yet Sufifered to sit here waiting his approach While you were slaying him 2 Oh, doubtlessly You let him speak his poor confused boy's-speech — Do his poor utmost to disarm your wrath And respite me ! — you let him try to give The story of our loves, and ignorance. And the brief madness, and the long despair — You let him plead all this, because your code Of honour bids you hear before you I strike : I But at the end, as he looked up for life Into your eyes — you struck him down ! Tresh. No ! no ! Had I but heard him — had I let him Half the truth — less — had I looked long on him, I had desisted ! Why, as he lay there. The moon onhis flushed cheek, I gathered all The story ere he told it ! I saw through The troubled surface of BiSTcrime and " ' "yiSxas ■ A^depth of_purity immovable ! Had I but glanced, where all seemed turbidest Had gleamed some inlet to the calm beneath ! I would not glance — my punishment 's at hand. There, Mildred, is the truth ! and you — say on — You curse me ? MU. As I dare approach that Heaven Which has not bade a living thing despair. Which needs no. code to keep Its grace from stain, But bids the vilest worm that turns on It ' Desist and be forgiven, — I — forgive not. But bless you, Thorold, from my soul of souls ! [FaUs on his neck. There ! do not think too much upon the Past! The cloud that 's broke was all the same a cloud While it stood up between my friend and you ! You hurt him 'neath its shadow : but is that So past retrieve ? I have his heart, you know; I may dispose of it : I give it you ! It loves you as mine loves ! Confirm I me, Henry ! TDiea. i Tresh. I wish thee joy, Beloved ! 1 am glad In thy full gladness ! Giien. [without.'] Mildred ! Tresham ! [Entering with Austin.] Thorold, I could desist no longer. Ah, she swoons ! That 's well. Tresh. Oh ! better far than that ! Guen. She 's dead ! Let me unlock her arms ! Tresh. She threw them thus About my neck, and blessed me, and then died : — You'll let them stay now, Guen- dolen ! Aus. Leave her And look to him ! What ails you, Thorold ? Ouen. White 276 A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON [act iii.sc. ii A3 she — and whiter ! Austin I quick — this side ! Aus. A froth is oozing through his clenched teeth — Both lips, where they're not bitten through, are black ! Speak, dearest Thorold ! Tresh. Something does weigh down My neck beside her weight : thanks : I should fall But for you, Austin, I believe ! — there, there — 'Twill pass away soon ! — ah,— I had forgotten — I am dying. Guen. Thorold — Thorold — why was Cthis ? Tresh. I said, just as I drank the poison off. The earth would be no longer earth to me. The life out of all life was gone from me ! There are blind ways provided, the foredone Heart-weary player in this pageant*- world Drops out by, letting the main masque defile By the conspicuous portal: — I am through — Just through ! Guen. Don't leave him, Austin ! death is close. Tresh. Already Mildred's face is peacefuUer ! I see you, Austin — feel you — ^here 's my hand. Put yours in it — you, Guendolen, yours too! You're Lord and lady now — you're Treshams ; name And fame are yours : you hold our 'Scutcheon up. Austin, no Blot on it \ You see how blood Must wash one blot away : the first blot came And the first blood came. To the vain , world's eye All 's gules again : no care to the vain world. From whence the red was drawn ! Aus. No blot shall come ! Tresh. I said that : yet it did come ! ShouW it come. Vengeance is God's, not man's. Ee- ~ memBer meT ' ■ [Dies. Guen. [letting jail the pulseless arm.] Ah, Thorold, we can but — re- member you ! 277 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAT A PLAY ' Ivy and violet, what do ye here With blossom and shoot in the warm spring weather, Hiding the arms of Monchenci and Vere ? ' — Hanmbb. ONE LOVES AND HONOUBS BAERY CORNWALL MOEE THAK DOES BOBBET BEOWNING ; WHO, HAVING NOTHING BETTEE THAN THIS PLAY TO GIVE HIM IN PEOOF OF IT, MUST SAY SO. London, 1844. Persons. CoLOMBB OF Ravbstbin, Duchess of Juliers and Cleves. irL™i Her Attendants. [ Courtiers. GulBEBT, GaUOBLMB; Courtiers. Maufeoy, ) I Clugnet, ( Valence, Advocate of Cleves. Pbince Beethold, Claimant of the Duchy. Melchioe, his Confidant. Place, The Palace at Jvliers. Time, 16—. ACT I Morning. — Scene. A corridor leading to the Avdience-chamher. Gatjcblme, Clugnet, Maufeoy, and other Courtiers, round Guibert, who is silently reading a paper : as lie drops it at the end — Gui. That this should be her birth- day ; and the day We all invested her, twelve months ago. As the late Duke's true heiress and our ' And that this also must become the day . . . Oh, misera ble lady ! ' Jt'irsi dourF^""" Ay, indeed ? Second Court. Well, Guibert ? Third Court. But your news, my friend, your news ! The sooner, friend, one learns Prince Berthold's pleasure. The better for us all : how writes the Prince 2 Give me — I'll read it for the common good. Gui. In time, sir — but, till timp comes, pardon me ! '' VV' Our old Duke just disclosed his child s /! retreat, ' Declared her true succession to his rule. And died : this birthday was the day, last year, We convoyed her from Castle Rave- stein — That sleeps out trustfully its extreme age On the Meuse' quiet bank, where she lived queen Over the water-buds, — ^to Juliers' court WHSi joy and bustle. Here again we stand ; ^ Sir Gaucelme's buckle 's constant to his i cap: .; To-day 's much such another sunny day! Gau. ComejGujbgEti.Jtlus_^outgrow? _aJ,es"£XlKink! You're^ardly such a novice as to need 278 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY [act I The lesson, you pretend. Qui. What lesson, air ? IThat everybody, if he'd thrive at court, /Should, first and last of all, look to ] himself ? Why, no : and therefore, with your good example, (—Ho, Master Adolf !}— to myself I'll look. Enter Adolf. Gui. The Prince's letter ; why, of all men else. Comes it to me ? Adolf. By virtue of your place. Sir Guibert ! 'Twas the Prince's ex- press charge. His envoy told us, that the missive there Should only reach our lady by the hand Of whosoever held your place. Gui. Enough ! [Adolf retires. Then, gentles, who'll accept a certain poor Indifferently honourable place, My friends, I make no doubt, have gnashed their teeth At leisure minutes these half-dozen years, To find me never in the mood to quit ? — Who asks may have it, with my blessing, and — This to present our lady. Who'll accept ? You, — you, — you ? There it lies, and may, for me ! Mau. [o youth, picking up the paper, reads alotid.1 ' Prince Berthold, proved by titles following Undoubted Lord of Juliers, comes this day To claim his own, with licence from the Pope, The Emperor, the Kings of Spain and France ' . . . Gau. Sufficient ' titles following,' I judge ! Don't read another ! Well, — ' to claim his own ? ' Mau. • — And take possession of the Duchy held Since twelve months, to the true heir's prejudice. By ' . . . Colombe, Juliers' mistress, so she thinks. And Ravestein's mere lady, as we find ! Who wants the place and paper ? Guibert 's right ! I hope to cUmb a little in the world, — I'd push my fortunes, — but, no more than he, Could tell her on this happy day of days. That, save the nosegay in her hand, There 's nothing left to call her own ! Sir Clugnet, You famish for promotion ; what say you ? C'lug. [an old man.'] To give this letter were a sort, I take it. Of service : services ask recompense : What kind of corner may be Rave- stein ? Gui. The castle ? — Oh, you'd share her fortunes ? Good ! Three walls stand upright, full as good as four. With no such bad remainder of a roof. Clug. Oh, — but the town ? Gui. Five houses, fifteen huts ; A church whereto was once a spire, 'tis judged ; And half a dyke, except in time of thaw. Clug. Still, there 's some revenue ? Gui. Else Heaven forefend ! You hang a beacon out, should fogs increase ; So, when the Autumn floats of pine- wood steer Safe 'mid the white confusion, thanks to you. Their grateful raftsman flings a guilder — That 's if he means to pass your way next time. Clug. If not ? Gui. Hang guilders, then — he blesses you Clug. What man do you suppose me ? Keep your paper ! And, let me say, it shows no handsome spirit ACT I] COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY 279 To dally with misfortune : keep your place ! Gau. Some one must tell her. Gui. Some one may : you may Gau. Sir Guibert, 'tis no trifle turns me sick Of court-hypocrisy at years like mine. But this goes near it. Where 's there news at all ? Who'll have the face, for instance, to affirm He never heard, e'en while we crowned the girl. That Juliers' tenure was by Salic law ; That one, confessed her father's cousin's child. And, she away, indisputable heir. Against our choice protesting and the Duke's, Claimed Juliers 1 — nor, as he preferred his claim. That first this, then another potentate, InoUned to its allowance ? — I, or you. Or any one except the lady's self ? Oh, it had been the direst cruelty To break the business to her ! Things might change : At all events, we'd see next masque at end. Next mummery over first : and so the Was taken off sharp tidings as they came. Till here 's the Prince upon us, and there 's she — Wreathing her hair, a song between her lips. With just the faintest notion possible That some such claimant earns a liveli- hood About the world, by feigning griev- ances — Few pay the story of, but grudge its price. And fewer listen to, a second time. Your method proves a failure ; now try mine ! And, since this must be carried . . . Gui.[snalching the paper from him.] By your leave ! Your zeal transports you ! 'Twill not serve the Prince So much as you expect, this course you'd take. If she leaves quietly her palace, — well ; But if she died upon its threshold, — no : He'd have the trouble of removing her. Come, gentles, we're all — what the devil knows ! You, Gaucelme, won't lose character, beside — You broke your father's heart superiorly To gather his succession — never blush ! You're from my province, and, be comforted. They tell of it with wonder to this day — You can afford to let your talent We'll take the very worst supposed, as true : There, the old Duke knew, when he hid his child Among the river-flowers at Ravestein, With whom the right lay ! Call the Prince our Duke There, she 's no Duchess, she 's no any- thing More than a young maid with the bluest eyes — And now, sirs, we'll not break this young maid's heart Coolly as Gaucelme could and would ! No haste ! His talent 's full-blown, ours but in the bud— We'll not advance to his perfection yet— Will we, Sir Maufroy ? See, I've ruined Maufroy For ever as a courtier ! Gau. Here 's a coil ! And, count us, will you ? Count its residue. This boasted convoy, this day last year's crowd ! A birthday, too — a gratulation-day ! I'm dumb : bid that keep silence ! Mau. and others. Eh, Sir Guibert ? He 's right : that does say something : that 's bare truth. Ten — twelve, I make : a perilous dropping-off ! Gui. Pooh — is it audience hour ? The vestibule 280 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY [act I Swarms too, I wager, with the common sort That want our privilege of entry here. Gau. Adolf i \Be- enter Adolf.] Who 's outside 1 Gui. Oh, your looks suffice ! Nobody waiting ? Mau. [looMng through the door-folds.'\ Scarce our number ! Gui. 'Sdeath ! Nothing to beg for, to complain about ? It can't be ! Ill news spreads, but not BG i'ast As thus to frighten all the world ! Gau. The world Lives out of doors, sir — not with you and me By presence-chamber porches, state- room stairs, Wherever warmth 's perpetual : out- side 's free To every wind from every compass- point. And who may get nipped needs be weather-wise. The Prince comes and the lady's People go; The snow-goose settles down, the swallows flee — Why should they wait for winter-time ? 'Tis instinct ; Don't you feel somewhat chilly ! ■-- Gui. That 's their craft ? And last year's crowders-round and criers-forth, That strewed the garlands, overarched the roads. Lit up the bonfires, sang the loyal songs ! Well, 'tis my comfort, you could never call me The People's Friend ! The People keep their word — I keep my place : don't doubt I'll entertain The People when the Prince comes, and the People Are talked of ! Then, their speeches — no one tongue Found respite, not a pen had holiday — For they wrote, too, as well as spoke, these knaves ! Now see : we tax and tithe them, pill and poll. They wince and fret enough, but pay they must — We manage that, — so, pay with a good grace They might as well, it costs so little more. But when we've done with taxes, meet folk next Outside the toll-booth and the rating- place. In public — there they have us if they wiU, We're at their mercy after that, you see ! For one tax not ten devils could ex- tort — Over and above necessity, a grace ; This prompt disbosoming of love, to wit — Their vine-leaf wrappage of our tribute- penny. And crowning attestation, all works well. Yet this precisely do they thrust on us ! These cappings quick, and crook-and- cringings low. Hand to the heart, and forehead to the knee, With grin that shuts the eyes and opes the mouth — So tender they their love ; and, tender made. Go home to curse you, the first doit yon ask. As if their souls were any longer theirs ! As if they had not given ample warrant To who should clap a collar on theiri neck, ' Rings in their nose, a goad to either flank. And take them for the brute they boast themselves ! Stay — there 's a bustle at the outer door — And somebody entreating . . . that 's my name ! Adolf, — I heard my name ! Adolf. 'Twas probably The Suitor. Gui. Oh, there is one ? Adolf. With a suit He'd fain enforce in person. ■Gui. The good heart ACT l] COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY 281 — And the great fool ! Just ope the mid-door's fold ! Is that a lappet of his cloak, I see ? Adolf. If it bear plenteous signs of travel , . . ay, The very cloak my comrades tore ! Gui. Why tore ? Adolf. He seeks the Duchess' pre- sence in that trim : Since daybreak, was he posted here- abouts Lest he should miss the moment. Gui. Where 's he now ? Adolf. Gone for a minute possibly, not more. They haveado enough to thrust him back. Gui. Ay— but my name, I caught ? Adolf. Oh, sir — he said — What was it ? — You had known him formerly. And, he believed, would help him did you guess He waited now — you promised him as much — • The old plea ! 'Faith, he 's back, — renews the charge ! [Speaking at the door.] So long as the man parleys, peace outside ! Nor be too ready with your halberts, there ! Gau. My horse bespattered, as he blocked the path, A thin sour man, not unlike somebody. Adolf. He holds a paper in his breast, whereon He glances when his cheeks flush and his brow At each repulse — ; Gau. I noticed he'd a brow. Adolf. So glancing, he grows calmer, leans awhile Over the balustrade, adjusts his dress. And presently turns round, quiet again. With some new pretext for admittance. —Back ! (To GuiBERT.) — Sir, he has seen you ! Now cross halberts ! Ha — Pascal is prostrate — there lies Fabian too — No passage ! Whither would the mad- man press ? Close the doors quick on me ! Gui. Too late — he 's here. Enter, hastily, and with discomposed dress. Valence. Vol. Sir Guibert, will you help m« ? — Me, that come Charged by your townsmen, all who starve at Cleves, To represent their heights and depths of woe Before our Duchess and obtain relief ! Such errands barricade such doors, it seems : But not a common hindrance drives me back On all the sad yet hopeful faces, lit With hope for the first time, which sent me forth ! Cleves, speak for me ! Cleves' men and women, speak — Who followed me — your strongest — many a mile That I might go the fresher from their ranks, — Who sit — your weakest — by the city gates. To take me fuller of what news I bring As I return — for I must needs return ! •^Can I ? 'Twere tard, no listener for their wrongs. To turn them back upon the old despair — Harder, Sir Guibert, than imploring thus — So, I do — any way you please — implore ! If you but how should you remember Cleves ? Yet they of Cleves rememberyou so well ! — Ay, comment on each trait of you they keep. Your words and deeds caught up at second hand, — Proud, I believe, at bottom of their hearts, — ', Of the very levity and recklessness Which only prove that you forget their wrongs. Cleves, the grand town, whose men and women starve. Is Cleves forgotten ? — Then, remembei me ! You promised me that you would help 282 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY [act I For other purpose : will you keep your word ? Qui. And who may you be, friend ? Vol. Valence of Cleves. Gui. Valence of . . . not the Advocate of Cleves, I owed my whole estate to, three years back ? Ay, well may you keep silence ! Why, my lords. You've heard, I'm sure, how, Pente- cost three years, I was so nearly ousted of my land By some knaves'-pretext, — (eh ? when you refused me Your ugly daughter, Clugnet,^^ — and you've heard How I recovered it by miracle —{When I refused her !) Here 's the very friend, — Valence of Cleves, all parties have to thank ! Nay, Valence, this procedure 's vile in yon— I'm no more grateful than a courtier should, But politic am I — I bear a brain. Can oast about a little, might require Your services a second time ! I tried To tempt you with advancement here to ootirt — ' No ! ' — well, for curiosity at least To view our life here — ' No ! ' — our Duchess, then,— A pretty woman 's worth some pains to see. Nor is she spoiled, I take it, if a crown Completes the forehead pale and tresses pure . . . Val. Our city trusted me its miseries. And I am come. Gui. So much for taste! But "come,' — So may you be, for anything I know. To beg the Pope's cross, or Sir Clugnet's daughter. And with an equal chance you get all three ! If it was ever worth your while to come, Was not the proper way worth finding too ? Vol. Straight to the palace-portal, sir, I came — Gui. — And said ? — Val. - —That I had brought the miseries Of a whole city to relieve. Gui. — Which saying Won your admittance ? You saw me, indeed. And here, no doubt, you stand : as certainly. My intervention, I shall not dispute, Procures you audience ; which, if I procure, — That paper 's closely written — by Saint Paul, Here flock the Wrongs, follow the Remedies, Chapter and verse. One, Two, A, B, and C— Perhaps you'd enter, make a reverence. And launch these ' miseries ' from first to last ? Val. How should they let me pause or turn aside ? Gau. po Valence.] My worthy sir, one question : you've come straight From Cleves, you tell us : heard you any talk At Cleves about our lady ? Vol. Much. Gau. And what ? Val. Her wish was to redress all wrongs she knew. Gau. That, you believed ! Vol. You see me, sir ! Gau. — Nor stopped Upon the road from Cleves to Juliers here, For any — rumours you might find afloat ? Val. I had my townsmen's wrongs to busy me. Gaw. This is the lady's birthday, do you know ? — Her day of pleasure ? Val. ■ — I know that the great. For pleasure born, should still be on the watch To exclude pleasure when a duty offers : Even as the lowly too, for duty born. May ever snatch a, pleasure if in reach : Both will have plenty of their birth- right, sir ! ACT l] COLOMBB'S BIRTHDAY 283 Gau. [Aside to GxjiBERi.] SirGuibert, here 's your man ! No scruples now — Youll never find his like ! Time presses hard. I've seen your drift and Adolf's too, this while, But you can't keep the hour of audience back Much longer, and at noon the Prince arrives. IPointing to Valence.] Entrust Aim with it — fool no chance away ! Gui. —Him ? Gau. — With the missive ! What 's the man to her ? Gui. No bad thought ! — Yet, 'tis yours — who ever played The tempting serpent : else, 'twere no bad thought ! I should — and do — mistrust it for your sake. Or else . . . Unter an Official who commumcates with Adolp. Adolf. The Duchess will receive the Court ! Gui. Give us a moment, Adolf ! Valence, friend, I'll help you : we of the service, you're to mark. Have special entry, while the herd . . . the folks Outside, get access through our help alone. — Well, it is so, was so, and I suppose So ever will be : your natural lot is, therefore. To wait your turn and opportunity. And probably miss both. Now, I engage To set you, here and in a minute's space,. Before the lady, with full leave to plead Chapter and verse, and A, and B, and C, To, heart's content. Vol. I grieve that I must ask, — This being, yourself admit, ttie custom here, — To what the price of such a favour mounts ? Gui. Just so ! You're not without a courtier's tact ! Little at court, as your quick instinct prompts. Do such as we without a recompense. Val. Yours is ? — Gui. A trifle : here 'a a document 'Tis some one's duty to present her Grace — I say, not mine — these say, not theirs — such points Have weightat court. Will you relieve us all And take it ? Just, say, ' I am bidden. lay This paper at the Duchess' feet.' VaZ. No more ?■ I thank you, sir ! Adolf. H er Grace receives t he^ourt t Gui. \AsidEJ:::>No-w, sursum cordar\ quoth the mass-priest ! Do — ', Whoever 's my kind saint, do let alone ', These pushings to and fro, and puUings- J back ; Peaceably let me hang o' the devil's. arm The downward path, if you can't pluck me" off Completely ! Let me live quite his, or yours ! [The Courtiers hegin to range them- selves,- and move towards the door. After me, Valence ! So, our famous Cleves Lacks bread ? Yet 'don't we gallants buy their lace ? And dear enough— it beggars me, I know. To keep my very gloves fringed pro- perly ! This, Valence, is our Great State Hall you cross ; Yon grey urn 's veritable marcasite. The Pope's gift: and those salvers testify The Emperor. Presently, you'll set your foot But you don't speak, friend Valence! Val. I shall speak. Gau. [Aside to Guibert.] Guibert — it were no such ungraceful thing If you and I, at first, seemed horror- struck With the bad news. Look here, what you shall do ! 284 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY [act I Suppose you, first, clap hand to sword and cry ' Yield strangers our allegiance ? First I'll perish Beside your Grace ! '—and so give me the cue To... Gui. Clap your hand to note-book and jot down That to regale the Prince with ! I con- ceive ! \To Valence.] Do, Valence, speak, or I shall half suspect You're plotting to supplant us, me the first, I' the lady's favour : is 't the grand harangue You mean to make, that thus engrosses you ? — Which of her virtues you'll apostro- phize ? Or is 't the fashion you aspire to start. Of that close-curled, not unbecoming hair ? — Or what else ponder you ? Vol. My townsmen's wrongs ! ACT II Noon. — Scene. The Presence-chamber. TJie DtrcHBSS and Sabyne. The D. Announce that I am ready for the Court ! Sah. 'Tis scarcely audience-hour, I think — your Grace May best consult your own relief, no doubt. And shun the crowd ; but few can have arrived . . . The D. Let those not yet arrived, then, keep away ! 'Twas me, this day, last year at Rave- stein, You hurried. It has been full time, beside. This half-hour. Do you hesitate ? Sah. Forgive me ! The D. Stay, Sabyne ; let me hasten to make sure Of one true thanker : here with you begins My audience, claim you first its pri- vilege ! It is my birth's event they celebrate : You need not wish me more such happy days. But — ask some favour ! Have you none to ask ? Has Adolf none, then ? this was far from least Of much I waited for impatiently. Assure yourself ! It seemed so natural Your gift, beside this bunch of rivei> bells. Should be the power and leave of doing good To you, and greater pleasure to myself. You ask my leave to-day to marry Adolf ? The rest is my concern. Sah. Your Grace is ever Our Lady of dear Ravestein, — but, for Adolf . . . The D. 'But' ? You have not, sure, changed in your regard And purpose towards him ? Sab. We change ! The D. Well, then ? Well ? Sab. How could we two be happy, and, most hke. Leave Juliers, when — when . . . but 'tis audience-time ! The D. ' When, if you left me, I were left indeed ! ' Would you subjoin that ? — Bid the Court approach ! — Why should we play thus with each other, Sabyne ? Do I not know, if courtiers prove remiss, If friends detain me, and get blame for it. There is a cause ? Of last year's fervid throng Scarce one half comes now ! Sab. [Aside.] One half? No, alas! The D. So can the mere suspicion of a cloud Over my fortunes, strike each loyal heart. They've heard of this Prince Berthold ; and, forsooth. Each foolish arrogant pretence he grow more foolish and more arrogant. ACT II] COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY 285 They please to apprehend ! I thank then? love ! Admit them ! I Sab. [Aside.} How much has she I really learned ? The JD. Surely, whoever 's absent, Tristan waits ? — Or at least Romuald, whom my father raised From nothing — come, he 's faithful to me, come ! (Sabyne, I should but be the prouder — yes. And fitter to comport myself aright) Not Romuald ? Xavier — what said he to that ? For Xavier hates a parasite, I know ! [Sabyne goes out. The D. Well, sunshine 's everywhere, and summer too. Next year 'tis the old place again, perhaps — The water-breeze again, the birds again. — It cannot be ! It is too late to be ! What part had I, or choice in all of it ? Hither they brought me ; I had not to think Nor care, concern myself with doing good Orill, my taskwas just — to live, — to live. And, answering ends there was no need explain. To render Juliers happy — so they said, All could not have been falsehood ! Some was love, And wonder and obedience. I did all They looked for : why then cease to do it now ? Yet this is to be calmly set aside. And — ere next birthday's dawn, for I aught I know, ■ Things change, a claimant may arrive, I and I . . . It cannot nor it shall not be ! His I right ? Well then, he has the right, and I have not, — But who bade all of you surround my ! life And close its growth up with your Ducal crown Which, plucked o£E rudely, leaves me perishing ? I could have been Uke one of you, — loved, hoped, Feared, lived and died like one of you — but you Would take that life away and give me this. And I will keep this ! I will face you ! Come ! Enter the Courtiers and Valence. The Courtiers. Many such happy mornings to your Grace ! ThelX^ [Aside , ■aS-.-Jbeu^Jpai/ their ■- 'SSvovF7\ Tnesame woras^^the same faces, — the same love ! I have been over-fearful. These are few ; But these, at least, stand firmly : these are mine ! As many come as may ; and if no more, 'Tis that" these few suffice — they do suffice ! What succour may not next year bring me ? Plainly, I feared too soon. \To the Court.] I thank you, sirs : all thanks ! Vol. [Aside, as the Duchess passes I from one group to another, con- | versing.] ■«,>X« 'Tis she— the vision this day last year brought, When, for a golden moment at our Cleves, She tarried in her progress hither. Cleves Chose me to speak its welcome, and I spoke — Not that she could have noted the recluse — Ungainly, old before his time — who gazed. ( Well, Heaven's gifts are not wasted, and' that gaze i Kept, and shall keep me to the end, het own ! / She was above it — but so would not sink My gaze to earth ! The People caug|t it, hers — Thenceforward, mine ; but thus en- tirely mine, Who shall affirm, had she not raised my soul 286 CQLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY [act II Ere she retired and left me — them? She turns — There 's all her wondrous face at once ! The ground Reels and . . .. [suddenZy oecai/pying him- self with . his paper J] These wrongs of theirs I iave to plead ! The D. [to the Court.] Nay, .compli- ment enough ! And kindness' self Should pause before it wish me more such years. 'Twas fortunate that thus, ere youth escaped, I tasted life's pure pleasure — one such, pure. Is worth a thousand, mixed — and youth 's for pleasure : Mine is received ; let my age pay for it. Gau. So, pay, and pleasure paid for, thinks your Grace, Should never go together ? ' Gui. How, Sir Gaucelme ? Hurry one's feast down unenjoyingly At the snatched breathing-intervals of work ? As good you saved it till the duU day's- end When, stiff and sleepy, appetite is gone ! Eat first, then work upon the strength of it! The D. True : you enable me to risk my Future, By giving me a Past beyond recall. I lived, a girl, one happy leisure year : Let me endeavour to be the Duchess now ! And so, — what news, Sir Guibert, spoke you of ? [As they advance a little, and Gtri- BBET speaks — — That gentleman ? Vol. [Aside."] I feel her eyes on me ! Gui. [to Valence.] The Duchess, sir, inclines to hear your suit ! Advance ! He is from Cleves. Vol. [coming forward.] [Aside.] Their wrongs — their wrongs ! The D. And you, sir, are from Cleves ? How fresh in mind. The hour or two_ I passed at queenly Cleves ! , " She entertained me bravely, but the best I Of her good pageant seemed its standers- by. With insuppressive joy on every face ! What says my ancient, famous, happy Cleves ? Vol. Take the truth, lady — you are made for truth ! So think my friends : nor do they less deserve The having you to take it, you shall think. When you know all — ^nay, when you only know How, on that day you recollect at Cleves, When the poor acquiescing multitude Who thrust themselves with all their woes apart Into unnoticed corners, that the few. Their means sufficed to muster trap- pings for. Might fill the foreground, occupy your sight With joyous faces fit to bear away And boast of as a sample of all Cleves — How, when to daylight these crept out once more. Clutching, unconscious, each his empty rags Whence the scant coin, which had not half bought bread. That morn he shook forth, counted piece by piece. And, well-advisedly, on perfumes spent them To burn, or flowers to strew, before your path — How, when the golden flood of music and bliss Ebbed, as their moon retreated, and again Left the sharp black-point rocks of misery bare — Then I, their friend, had only to suggest ' Saw she the horror as she saw the pomp ! ' — And as one man they cried ' He speaks the truth — Show her the horror ! Take from our own mouths Our wrongs and show them, she will see them too ! ' ACT II] COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY 287 — This they cried, lady ! I have brought the wrongs. The D. Wrongs ? Cleves has wrongs — apparent now and thus ? I thank you — in that paper ? Give it me ! Vol. (There, Cleves!) In this! (What did I promise, Cleves ?) Our weavers, clothiers, spinners are reduced Since . . . Oh, I crave your pardon ! I forget I buy the privilege of this approach. And promptly would discharge my debt. I lay This paper humbly at the Duchess' feet! [Presenting Guibert's paper. Oui. Stay ! for the present . . . The D. Stay, sir ? I take aught That teaches me their wrongs with greater pride Than this your Ducal circlet. Thank you, sir ! [The Ddchbss reads hastily ; then, turning to the Courtiers — What have I done to you ? Your deed or mine Was it, this crowning me ? I gave myself No more a title to your homage, no, Than church-flowers, born this season, wrote the words In the saint's-book that sanctified them first. For such a flower, you plucked me ! well, you erred — Well, 'twas a weed — remove the eye- sore quick ! But should you not remember it has lain Steeped in the caudles' glory, palely shrined, Nearer God's Mother than most earthly things ? — That if 't be faded 'tis with prayer's sole breath — That the one day it boasted was God's day? Still, I do thank you ! Had you used respect Here might I dwindle to my last white leaf. Here lose life's latest freshness, which even yet May yield some wandering insect rest and food. So, fling me forth, and — all is best for all! [After a pause.] Prince Berthold, who art Juliers' Duke, it seems — The King's choice, and the Emperor's, and the Pope's— Be mine, too ! Take this People ! ^ Tell not me Of rescripts, precedents, authorities, — But take them, from a heart that yearns to give ! Find out their love, — I could not ; find their fear, — I would not ; find their like, — I never shall. Among the flowers ! [Taking off her coronet. Colombe of Ravestein Thanks God she is no longer Duchess here ! Vtd. [advancing to Guibert.] Sir Guibert, — knight, they call you — this of mine Is the first step I ever set at court. You dared make me your instrument, I find ; For that, so sure as you and I are men. We reckon to the utmost presently : But as you are a courtier and I none. Your knowledge may instruct me. I, already. Have too far outraged, by my ignorance Of courtier-ways, this lady, to proceed A second step and risk addressing her — I am degraded — you, let me address ! Out of her presence, all is plain enough What I shall do — but in her pr-asence, too, Surely there 's something proper to be done ! [To the others.] You, gentles, tell me if I guess aright— May I not strike this man to earth ? The Courtiers, [as Guibert springs forward, withholding him.] Let.go! — The Clothiers' spokesman, Guibert ? Grace a churl ? TheD. [to Valence. I Oh, be ac- quainted with your party, sir ! 288 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY [act II He 'b of the oldest lineage Juliers boasts; A lion crests him for a cognisance ; ' Scorning to waver ' — that 's his 'scut- cheon's word ; His office with the new Duke — probably The same in honour as with me ; or more. By so much as this gallant turn de- serves : He 's now, I dare say, of a thousand times The rank and influence that remain. with her Whose part you take ! So, lest for taking it You suffer . . . Vol. I may strike him then to earth ? Gui. [falling on Ms knee.'] Great and dear lady, pardon me ! Hear once ! Believe me and be merciful — be just ! I could not bring myself to give that paper Without a keener pang than I dared meet — And so felt Clugnet here, and Mauf roy here — No one dared meet it. Protestation's cheap, — But, if to die for you did any good, [To Gaxtcblme.] Would not I die, sir ? Say your worst of me ! But it does no good, that 's the mourn- ful truth. And since the hint of a resistance, even. Would just precipitate, on you the first, A speedier ruin — I shall not deny. Saving myself indubitable pain, I thought to give you pleasure (who might say ?) By showing that your only subject found To carry the sad notice, was the man Precisely ignorant of its contents ; A nameless, mere provincial advocate ; One whom 'twas like you never saw before. Never would see again. All has gone wrong ; But I meant right, God knows, and you, I trust ! The D. A nameless advocate, this gentleman ? — — (I pardon you. Sir Guibert !) Gui. [rising, to Valence.] — Sir, and you ? — Vol. — Rejoice that you are lightened of a load. Now, you have only me to reckon with ! The D. One I have never seen, much less obliged ? — Vol. Dare I speak, lady ? The D. Dare you ! Heard you not I rule no longer ? yd. Lady; if your rule Were based alone on such a ground as these [Pointing to the Courtiers. Could furnish you, — abjure it! They have hidden A source of true dominion from your sight. The D. You hear them — no such source is left . . . Vol. Hear Cleves ! Whose haggard craftsmen rose to starve this day. Starve now, and will lie down at night to starve. Sure of a like to-morrow — but as sure Of a most unlike morrow-after-that. Since end things must, end howsoe'er things may. What curbs the brute-force instinct in its hour ? What makes — instead of rising, all as one. And teaching fingers, so expert to wield Their tool, the broadsword's play or carbine's trick, — What makes that there 's an easier help, they think. For you, whose name so few of them can spell. Whose face scarce one in every hundred saw, — You simply have to understand their wrongs, And wrongs will vanish — so, still trades are plied. And swords lie rusting, and myself stand here ? There is a vision in the heart of each Of justice, mercy, wisdom ; tenderness To wrong and pain, and knowledge of its cure : ACT ll] COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY 289 And tkese, embodied in a woman's form That best transmits them, pure as first received. From God above her, to mankind below. Will you derive your rule from such a ground. Or rather hold it by the suffrage, say, Of this man — this — and this ? The D. [after a pause.'] You come from Cleves. How many are at Cleves of such a mind ? Val. [from his paper. 'i ' We, all the manufacturers' of Cleves ' — The D. Or stay, sir — lest I seem too covetous — Are '^ you my subject? such as you describe Am I to you, though to no other man ? Val. [from his paper.'] — ' Valence, ordained your Advocate at Cleves '— The D. [replacing the coronet.'] Then I remain Cleves' Duchess ! Take you note. While Cleves but yields one subject of this stamp, I stand her lady till she waves me off ! For her sake, all the Prince claims I withhold ; Laugh at each menace ; and, his power defying. Return his missive with its due con- tempt ! [Casting it away. Qui. [picking it up.] — Which to the Prince I will deliver. Lady, [Note it down, Gaucelme] — with your message too ! The D. I think the office is a sub- ject's, sir ! — Either . . . how style you him ? — my special guarder The Marshal's — for who knows but violence May follow the delivery ! — Or, perhaps, My Chancellor's — for law may be to urge On its receipt ! — Or, even my Chamber- lain's — For I may violate established form ! [To Vai-enob.] Sir, — for the half-hour till this service ends. Will you become all these to me ? Val. [falling on his knee.] My Liege ! The D. Give me ! [The Courtiers present their lodges of office. [Putting them by.] — Whatever was their virtue 'TOice, They need new consecration ! [raising Valence.] Are you mine ? — I will be Duchess yet ! [She retires. The Courtiers. Our Duchess yet ! A glorious lady ! Worthy love and dread ! I'll stand by her, — and I, whate'er betide ! Gui. [to Valence.] Well done, well done, sir ! I care not who knows. You have done nobly, and I envy you — Tho' I am but unfairly used, I think : For when one gets a place like this I hold. One gets too the remark that its mere wages. The pay and the preferment, make our prize. Talk about zeal and faith apart from these. We're laughed at — much would zeal and faith subsist Without these also ! Yet, let these be stopped. Our wages discontinue, — then, indeed, Our zeal and faith, (we hear on every side,) Are not released — having been pledged away I wonder, with what zeal and faith in turn ? Hard money purchased me my place ! No, no — I'm right, sir — but your wrong is better still. If I had time and skill to argue it. Therefore, I say, I'll serve you, how you please— If you like, — fight you, as you seem to wish — (The kinder of me that, in sober truth, I never dreamed I did you •any harm) Gau. — Or, kinder still, you'll intro- duce, no doubt. 290 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY [act II His merits to tlie Prince who 's just at hand. And let no hint drop he 's made Chancellor, And Chamberlain, and Heaven knows what beside ! Clug. [to Valence.] You stare, young sir, and threaten !. Let me say. That at your age, whenA:st I came to court, I was not much above a gentleman ; While now . . . VcU. — You are Head-Lackey ? With your office I have not yet been graced, sir ! Other Courtiers to Clug. Let him talk ! Fidelity, disinterestedness. Excuse so much ! Men claimed my worship ever Who, staunchly and steadfastly . . . Enter Adolf. Adolf. The Prince arrives ! Courtiers. Ha ? How ? Adolf. He leaves his ' guard a stage behind At Aix, and enters almost by himself. First Court. The Prince ! This foolish business puts all out ! Second Court. Let Gaucelme speak fir^! Third Court. Better I began About the state of Juliers : should one say All 's prosperous and inviting him ? Fourth Court. — Or rather All 's prostrate and imploring him ! Fifth Court. That 's best ! Where 's the Cleves' paper, by the way ? Fourth Court. \to Valence.] Sir — sir — If you'll but give that paper — trustit me, I'll warrant . . . Fifth Court. Softly, sir — the Marshal's duty ! Clug. Has not the Chamberlain a hearing first By virtue of his patent ? Gau. Patents ? — Duties ? All that, my masters, must begin again ! One word composes the whole contro- versy I"* We're simply now — the Prince's ! The Others. Ay — the Prince's ! Enter Sabyne. SaJ). Adolf ! Bid . . . Oh, no time for ceremony ! Where 's whom our lady calls her only subject ? She needs him ! Who is here the Duchess's ? Vtd. {starting from his reverie.^ Most gratefully I follow to her iFeet ! ACT III Afternoon. Scene. — The Vestibule. £re«erPBiNCE Berthold and Melchioe. Berth. A thriving little burgh this Juliers looks. [Half-a'part.'] Keep Juliers, and as good you kept Cologne : Better try Aix, though ! — Mel. Please 't your Highness speak ? Berth.[as before.'i Aix, Cologne, Frank- fort, — Milan ; — Rome ! — Mel. —The Grave. — More weary seems your Highness, I remark, Than sundry conquerors whose path I've watched Through fire and blood to any prize they gain. I could well wish you, for your proper sake. Had met some shade of opposition here — Found a blunt seneschal refuse un- lock. Or a scared usher lead your steps astray. You must not look for next achieve- ment's palm So easily : this will hurt your conquer- ing ! Berth. My next ? Ay — as you say, my next and next ! Well, I am tired, that 's truth, and moody too. This quiet entrance-morning ; listen why ! Our little burgh, now, Juliers — 'tis indeed One link, however insignificant. Of the great chain by which I reach my hope, ACT III] COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY 291 — A link I must secure ; but otherwise, You'd wonder I esteemed it worth my grasp. Just see what life is, with its shifts and turns ! It happens now — this very nook — to be A place that once . . . but a short while since, neither — When I lived an ambiguous hanger-on Of foreign courts, and bore my claims about. Discarded by one kinsman, and the other A poor priest merely, — then, I say, this place Shone my ambition's object ; to be Duke- Seemed then, what to be Emperor seems now. My rights were far from being judged as plain In those days as of late, I promise you : And 'twas my day-dream. Lady Colombo here Might e'en compound the matter, pity me. Be struck, say, with my chivalry and grace (I was a boy !) — bestow her hand at length, And make me Duke, in her right if not mine. Here am I, Duke confessed, at Juliers now ! Hearken : if ever I be Emperor, Remind me what I felt and said to-day ! Md. All this consoles a bookish man like me ! — And so will weariness cling to you ! Wrong, Wrong ! Had you sought the Lady's court yourself, — Faced the redoubtables composing it. Flattered this, threatened that man, bribed the other, — Pleaded, by writ and word and deed, your cause, — Conquered a footing inch by painful inch, — And, after long years' struggle, pounced at last On her lor prize, — the right life had been lived. And justice done to divers faculties Shut in that brow. Yourself were visible As you stood victor, then ! whom now — (your pardon !) I am forced narrowly to search and see — So are you hid by helps — this Pope, your uncle — Your cousin, the other King ! You are a mind, — They, body : too much of mere legs- and-arms Obstructs the mind so ! Match these with their like : Match mind with mind ! Berth. And where 's your mind to match ? They show me legs-and-arms to cope withal ! I'd subjugate this city — where 's its mind ? [The Courtiers enter slowly. Md. Got out of sight when you came troops and all ! And in its stead, here greets you flesh- and-blood — A smug oeoonomy of both, this first ! [As Cltjgnet hows obsequiously. Well done, gout, all considered ! — \ may go ? Berth. Help me receive them ! Mel. Oh, they just will say What yesterday at Aix their fellows. said, — At Treves, the day before ! — Sir Prince, my friend. Why do you let your life slip thus ? — Meantime, I have my little Juliers to achieve — The understanding this tough Platonist, Your holy uncle disinterred, Amelius — Lend me a company of horse and foot. To help me through his tractate — gain my Duchy ! Berth. And Empire, after that is gained, will be — ? Md. To help me through your uncle's comment, Prince ! [Goes. Berth. Ah ? Well ! he o'er-refines — the scholar's fault ! How do I let my life slip ? Sav, thi& life. 292 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY [act III I I lead now, differs from the common life Of other men in mere degree, not kind, Of joys and griefs, — still there is such degree — • Mere largeness in a life is something, sure, — Enough to care about and struggle for, In this world : for this world, the size of things ; The sort of things, for that to come, no doubt ! A great is better than a little aim : And when I wooed Priscilla's rosy mouth ', And failed so, under that grey convent- \ wall, I Was I more happy than I should be now IBy this time, the Courtiers are ranged before him. If failing of my Empire ? Not a whit ! — Here comes the mind, it once had tasked me sore To baffle, but for my advantages ! All 's best as 'tis — these scholars talk and talk ! {Seats himself. The Courtiers. Welcome our Prince to Juliers ! — to his Heritage ! Our dutifuUest service proiier we ! Clug. I, please your Highness, having exercised The function of Grand Chamberlain at court, Withmuchaoceptance.as men testify . . . Berth. I cannot greatly thank you, gentlemen ! The Pope declares my claim to the Duchy founded On strictest justice ; if you concede it, therefore, I do not wonder : and the kings my friends Protesting they will see such claim enforced, You easily may offer to assist us. But there 's a slight discretionary power To serve me in the matter, you've had long. Though late you use it. This is well to say- But could you not have said it months ago ? I'm not denied my own Duke's trun- cheon, true — 'Tia flung me — I stoop down, and from the ground Pick it, with all you placid standers- by- And now I have it, gems and mire at once, Grace go with it to my soiled hands, you say! Gui. (By Paul, the Advocate our doughty friend Cuts the best figure !) Gau. If our ignorance May have offended, sure our loyalty . . . Berth. Loyalty ? Yours ? — Oh— of yourselves you speak ! — / mean the Duchess all this time, I hope ! And since I have been forced repeat my claims As if they never had been made before. As I began, so must I end, it seems. The formal answer to the grave de- mand ! What says the lady ? Courtiers. \pne to another.'] First Court. Marshal ! Second Court. Orator ! Gui. A variation of our mistress' way ! Wipe off his boots' dust, Clugnet !»— that, he waits ! First Court. Your place ! Second Court. Just now it was your own ! Gui. The devil's ! Berth, [to Guieert.] Come forward, friend — you with the paper, there ! Is Juliers the first city I've obtained ? By this time, I may boast proficiency In each decorum of the circumstance ! Give it me as she gave it — the petition (Demand, you style it)— what 's re- quired, in brief ? What title's reservation, appanage's Allowance ? — I heard all at Treves, last week ! Gau. [to GniBERT.] ' Give it him as she gave it ! ' ACT III] COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY 293 Gui. And why not ? [To Beethold.] The lady crushed your summons thus together. And bade me, with the very greatest scorn So fair a frame could hold, inform you . . . Courtiers. Stop — Idiot ! Qui. — Inform you she denied your claim, Defied yourself! (I tread upon his heel, The blustering Advocate !) Berth. By heaven and earth ! Dare you jest, sir ? Gui. Did they at Treves, last week ? Berth, {starting up.] Why then, I look much bolder than I knew. And you prove better actors than I thought. Since, as I live, I took you as you entered For just so many dearest friends of mine. Fled from the sinking to the rising power — The sneaking'st crew, in short, I e'er Whereas, I am alone here for the moment, With every soldier left behind at Aix ! Silence ? That means the worst — I thought as much ! What follows next then ? Courtiers. Gracious Prince — he raves ! Gui. He asked the truth and why not get the truth ? Berth. Am I a prisoner ? Speak, will somebody ? — But why stand paltering with im- beciles ? Let me see her, or . . . Gui. Her, without her leave. Shall no one see — she 's Duchess yet ! Courtiers. [Footsteps without, as they are disputing.] Good chance ! She 's here — the Lady Colombe's self ! Berth. 'Tis well ! [Aside.] AiT&j a handful thus against my world ? Not ill done, truly ! Were not this a mind To match one's mind with ? Colombe ! — Let us wait ! I failed so, under that grey convent- wall ! She comes ! Gui. The Duchess ! strangers, range yourselves ! [As the Duchess enters in conversa- tion with Valence, Bebthold and the Courtiers fall hack a little. The D. PresagefuUy it beats, pre- sagefuUy, My heart : the right is Berthold's and not mine ! Yal. Grant that he has the right, dare I mistrust Your power to acquiesce so patiently As you believe, in such a dream-like change Of fortune — change abrupt, profound, complete ? The D. Ah, the first bitterness is over now ! Bitter I may have felt it to confront The truth, and ascertain those natures' value I had so counted on — that was a pang — But I did bear it, and the worst is over : Let the Prince take them ! Vol. — And take Juliers too ? — Your People without crosses, wands, and chains — Only with hearts ? The D. There I feel guilty, sir ! I cannot give up what I never had : For these I ruled, not them — these stood between. Shall I confess, sir ? I have heard by stealth Of Berthold from the first ; more news and more : Closer and closer swam the thunder- cloud, But I was safely housed with these, I knew ! I At times, when to the casement I would turn, At a bird's passage or a flower-trail's play, j, I caught the storm's red glimpses on its edge — Yet I was sure some one of all these friends Would interpose : I followed the bird's flight. 294 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY [act III Or plucked the flower — some one would interpose ! Vol. Not one thought on the People — and Cleves there The D. So, sadly conscious my real sway was missed, Its shadow goes without so much regret : Else could I not again thus calmly bid you. Answer Prince Berthold ! Vol. Then you acquiesce ? The D. Eemember over whom it was I ruled ! Gui. [stepping jorward.'] Prince Ber- thold, yonder, craves an audience, Lady! The D. [to Valence.] I only have to turn, and I shall face Prince Berthold ! Oh, my very heart is sick ! It is the daughter of a line of Dukes, This scornful insolent adventurer Will bid depart from my dead father's halls ! I shall not answer him — dispute with him — But, as he bids, depart ! Prevent it, sir ! Sir — but a mere day's respite ! Urge for me — What I shall call to mind I should have urged When time 's gone by — 'twill all be mine, you urge ! A day — an hour — that I myself may lay My rule down ! 'Tls too sudden — must not be ! The world 's to hear of it ! Once done • — for ever ! How will it read, sir ? How be sung about ? Prevent it ! Berth, [approaching.'] Your frank in- dignation. Lady, Cannot escape me ! Overbold I seem — But somewhat should be pardoned my surprise. At this reception, — this defiance, rather. And if, for their and your sakes, I rejoice Your virtues could inspire a trusty few To make such gallant stand in your behalf, I cannot but be sorry, for my own, Your friends should force me to retrace my steps. Since I no longer am permitted speak After the pleasant peaceful course pre- scribed No less by courtesy than relationship Which, if you once fofgot, I still re- member. But never must attack pass unrepelled. Suffer, that through you, I demand of these. Who controverts my claim to Juliers ? The D. —Me, You say, you do not speak to — Berth. Of your subjects I ask, then : whom do you accredit ? Where Stand those should answer ? Vol. [advancing.] The Lady is alone ! Berth. Alone, and thus ? So weak and yet so bold ? Vol. I said she was alone — Berth. — And weak, I said. jVal. When is man strong until he y feels alone ? It was some lonely strength at first, be sure, Created organs, such as those you seek. By which to give its varied purpose And, naming the selected ministrants, Took sword, and shield, and sceptre, — each, a man ! That strength performed its work and passed its way : You see our Lady : there, the old shapes stand ! — A Marshal, Chamberlain, and Chan- cellor — ' Be helped their way, into their death put life And find advantage ! ' — so you counsel us. But let strength feel alone, seek help itself, — And, as the inland-hatched sea-creature hunts The sea's breast out, — as, littered 'mid the waves, ACT III] COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY 295 The desert-brute makes for the desert's joy. So turns our lady to her true resource, Passing o'er hollow fictions, worn-out types, — So, I am first her instinct fastens on ! And prompt I say, as clear as heart can The People will not have you ; nor shall have ! It is not merely I shall go bring Oeves And fight you to the last, — though that does much, And men and children, — ay, and women too. Fighting for home, are rather to be feared Than mercenaries fighting for their pay- But, say you beat us, since such things have been. And, where this Juliers laughed, you set your foot Upon a steaming bloody plash — what ' , then ? Stant] you the more our Lord that there \ you stand ? Lord it o'er troops whose force you concentrate, A pillared flame whereto all ardours tend — Lord it 'mid priests whose schemes you Wplify, A cloud of smoke 'neath which all shadows brood — But never, in this gentle spot of earth, Can you become our Colombo, our play- queen. For whom, to furnish lilies for her hair. We'd pour our veins forth to enrich the soil ! — Our conqueror ! Yes ! — Our despot ? Yes .'—Our Duke ? Know yourself, know us ! Berth, [who has been in thought.'] Know your lady, also ! [Very deferentially.'] — 'To whom I needs must exculpate myself From having made a rash demand, at Wherefore to you, sir, who appear to be Her chief adviser, I submit my claims, IPiving papers. But, this step taken, take no further step, Until the Duchess shall pronounce their worth. Here be our meeting-place ; at night, its time : Till when I humbly take the lady's leave ! [He withdraws. As the Duchess turns to Valence, the Courtiers interchange glances and come for- ward a little. First Court. So, this was their device ! Second Court. No bad device ! Third Court. You'd say they love each other, Guibert's friend From Cleves, and she, the Duchess ! Fourth Court. — And moreover. That all Prince Berthold comes for, is to help Their loves ! Fifth Court. Pray, Guibert, what is next to do ? Oui. [advancing.] I laid my ofiice at the Duchess' foot — Others. And I — and I — and I ! The D. I took them, sirs ! Qui. [Apart to Valence.] And now, sir, I am simple knight again — Guibert, of the great Ancient house, as yet That never bore affront ; whate'er your birth, — As things stand now, I recognize your- self (If you'll accept experience of some date) As like to be the leading man o' the time. Therefore as much above me now, as I Seemed above you this morning. 'Then, I offered To fight you : will you be as generous And now fight me ? 'Vol. Ask when my life is mine ! Oui. ('Tis hers now !) Clug. [Apart to Valence, as Guibert turns from him.] You, sir, have insulted me Grossly, — will grant me, too, the self- same favour You've granted him, just now, I make no question ? 296 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY [act ni Vd. I promise you, as him, sir ! CVug. Do you so ? Handsomely said ! I hold you to it, sir ! You'll get me reinstated in my office As you will Guibert ! The D. I would be alone ! [They begin to retire slowly : as Valence is about to follow — Alone, sir— only with my heart,— you stay ! Gau. You hear that ? Ah, light breaks upon me ! Cleves — It was at Cleves some man harangued ns all — With great effect, — so those who listened said. My thoughts being busy elsewhere : was this he ? Guibert, — your strange, disinterested man ! Your uncorrupted, if unoourtly friend ! The modest worth you mean to patro- nize ! He cares about no Duchesses, not he — His sole contest is with the wrongs of Cleves ! What, Guibert ? What, it breaks on you at last ? Gni. Would <3his hall's floor were a mine's roof ! — I'd back And in her very face . . . Gau. Apply the match That fired the train, — and where would you be, pray ? Gui. With him ! Gau. Stand, rather, safe outside with me ! The mine 's charged — shall I furnish you the match And place you properly ? — To the ante- chamber ! Gui. Can you ? Gau. Try me ! — Your friend 's in fortune ! Gui. Quick — To the antechamber ! — He is pale with bliss ! Gau. No wonder ! Mark her eyes ! Gui. To the antechamber ! [The Courtiers retire. The D. Sir, could you know all you have done for me Yoii were content ! You spoke, and I am saved ! Vol. Be not too sanguine. Lady ! Ere you dream. That transient flush of generosity Fades off, perchance ! The man, be- side, is gone,— Whom we might bend ; but see, the papers here — Inalterably his requirement stays, And cold hard words have we to deal with now. In that large eye there seemed a latent pride. To seU-denial not incompetent, But very like to hold itself dispensed From such a grace : however, let us hope ! He is a noble spirit in noble form. I wish he less had bent that brow to smile As with the fancy how he could sub- ject Himself upon occasion to — himself ! From rudeness, violence, you rest secure ; But do not think your Duchy rescued yet! The D. You, — who have opened a new world to me. Will never take the faded language up Of that I leave ? My Duchy — keeping it. Or losing it — is that my sole world now ? Vol. Ill have I spoken if you thence despise Juliers ; although the lowest, on true grounds. Be worth more than the highest rule, on false : Aspire to rule, on the true grounds ! The D. Nay, hear- False, I will never — rash, I would not be! This is indeed my Birthday — soul and body. Its hours have done on me the work of years. You hold the requisition : ponder it ! If I have right, my duty 's plain : if he — Say so, nor ever change a tone of voice ! ACT m] COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY 297 At night you meet the Prince; meet me at eve : Till when, farewell ! This discomposes you ? Believe in your own nature, and its force Of renovating mine. I take my stand Only as under me the earth is firm : So, prove the first step stable, all will prove ! That first, I choose — llaying her hand on his,2 — the next to take, choose you ! [She withdraws. Vcd. [after a pause.} What drew down this on me ? On me, dead once. She thus bids live, — since all I hitherto Thought dead in me, youth's ardours and emprise. Burst into life before her, as she bids Who needs them ! Whither will this reach, where end ? Her hand's print burns on mine . . . Yet she 's above — So very far above me ! All 's too plain : I served her when the others sank away, And she rewards me as such souls reward — The changed voice, the suffusion of the cheek. The eye's acceptance, the expressive hand, — Reward, that 's little, in her generous thought. Though all to me . . . I cannot so disclaim Heaven's gift, nor call it other than it is! She loves me ! [Looking at the Prince's papers.] — Which love, these, perchance, forbid. Can I decide against myself — pro- nounce She is the Duchess and no mate for me ? — Cleves, help me ! Teach me, — every haggard face, — To sorrow and endure ! I will do right Whatever be the issue. Help me, Cleves ! L ACT IV Evening. — Scene. An Antechamber. Enter the Courtiers. Mau. Now then, that we may speak — how spring this mine ? Gau. Is Guibert ready for its match ? He cools ! Not so friend Valence with the Duchess there ! ' Stay, Valence ! are not you my better self ? ' And her cheek mantled — Gui. Well, she loves him, sir : And more, — since you will have it I grow cool, — She 's right : he 's worth it. Gau. For his deeds to-day ? Say so ! Gui. What should I say beside ? Gau. Not this — For friendship's sake leave this for me to say — That we're the dupes of an egregious cheat ! This plain, unpractised suitor, who found way To the Duchess through the merest die's turn-up — A year ago, had seen her and been seen,ii Loved and been loved. | Gui. Impossible ! 'i Gau. — Nor say, ' How sly and exquisite a trick, more- over. Was this which — taking not their stand on facts Boldly, for that had been endurable. But, worming on their way by craft, they choose Resort to, rather, — and which you and we, Sheep-like, assist them in the playing off! The Duchess thus parades him as pre- ferred. Not on the honest ground of preference, Seeing first, liking more, and there an end — But as we all had started equally. And at the close of a fair race he proved ; The only valiant, sage, and loyal man. / 298 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY [act IV Herself, too, with the pretty fits and starts, — The careless, winning, candid ignorance Of what the Prince might challenge or forego — She had a hero in reserve ! What risk Ran she ? This deferential easy Prince Who brings his claims for her to ratify — He 's just her puppet for the nonce ! You'll see, — Valence pronounces, as is equitable, Against him : off goes the confederate : As equitably. Valence takes her hand ! The Chancellor. You run too fast : her hand, no subject takes. Do not our archives hold her father's will ? That will provides against such acci- dent, And gives next heir. Prince Berthold, the reversion Of Juliers, which she forfeits, wedding so. Gau. I know that, well as you, — but does the Prince ? Knows Berthold, think you, that this plan, he helps, ForValence'sennoblement, — would end. If crowned with the success which seems its due, ; In making him the very thing he plays, [ The actual Duke of Juliers ? All agree I That Colombe's title waived or set aside, He is next heir. The Chan. Incontrovertibly. Gau. Guibert, your match, now, to the train ! Gui. Enough ! I'm with you : selfishness is best again ! I thought of turning honest — what a dream ! Let 's wake now ! Gau. Selfish, friend, you never were : 'Twas but a series of revenges taken On your unselfishness for prospering ill. But now that ybu're grown wiser, what 's our course ? Gui. — Wait, I suppose, till Valence weds our lady. And then, if we must needs revenge our- selves. Apprise the Prince. Gau. — The Prince, ere then dis- missed With thanks for playing his mock part so well ? Tell the Prince now, sir ! Ay, this very night — Ere he accepts his dole and goes his way. Explain how such a marriage makes him Duke, Then trust his gratitude for the sur- prise ! Gui, — Our lady wedding Valence all the same As if the penalty were undisclosed ! Good ! If she loves, she'll not disown her love. Throw Valence up. I wonder you see that. Gau. The shame of it — the sudden- ness and shame ! Within her, the inclining heart-^with- out, A terrible array of witnesses — And Valence by, to keep her to her word. With Berthold's indignation or disgust ! We'll try it ! — Not that we can ventiu:e much. Her confidence we've lost for ever. — Berthold's Is all to gain ! Gui. To-night, then, venture we ! Yet — if lost confidence might be re- newed ? Gau. Never in noble natures ! With the base ones, — Twist off the crab's claw, wait a smart- ing-while. And something grows and grows and gets to be A mimic of the lost joint, just so like As keeps in mind it never, never will Replace its predecessor ! Crabs do that : But lop the lion's foot — and . . . Gui. To the Prince ! Gau. {Aside.'] And come what will to the lion's foot, I pay you, My cat's-paw, as I long have yearned to pay! [Aloud.] Footsteps! Himself! 'Tis Valence breaks on us. ACT IV] COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY 299 Exulting that their scheme succeeds. We'll hence — And perfect ours I Consult the ar- chives, first — Then, fortified with knowledge, seek the Hall ! Clug. [to Gaucblme as they retire.'] You have not smiled so since your father died ! As they retire, enter Valence with papers. Vol. So must it be ! I have ex- amined these With scarce a palpitating heart — so calm. Keeping her image almost wholly off. Setting upon myself determined watch, Kepelling to the uttermost his claims. And the result is . . . all men would pronounce And not I, only, the result to be — Berthold is heir ; she has no shade of right To the distinction which divided us. But, suffered to rule first, I know not why. Her rule connived at by those Kings and Popes, To serve some devil's-purpose, — now 'tis gained, Whate'er it was, the rule expires as well. — Valence, this rapture . . . selfish can it be ? Eject it from your heart, her home ! — It stays ! Ah, the brave world that opens on us both! — Do my poor townsmen so esteem it ? Cleves, — (Jl need not your pale faces ! This, I reward \ JFor service done to you ? Too horrible ! I never served you : 'twas myself I served ! Nay, served not — rather saved from punishment Which, had I failed you then, would plague me now ! My life continues yours, and your life, mine. But if, to take God's gift, I swerve no Cleves ! — if I breathe no prayer for it — if she, [Footsteps mthout. Colombe, that comes now, freely gives herself — Will Cleves require, that, turning thus to her, I... Enter Prince Berthold. Pardon, sir — I did not look for you Till night, in the Hall ; nor have as yet declared My judgment to the lady. Berth. So I hoped. Vcd. And yet I scarcely know why that should check The frank disclosure of it first to you — What her right seems, and what, in consequence, She will decide on — Berth. That I need not ask. Vol. You need not : I have proved the lady's mind — And, justice being to do, dare act for her. Berth. Doubtless she has a very noble mind. Vol. Oh, never fear but she'll in each conjuncture Bear herself bravely ! she no whit depends On circumstance ; as she adorns a throne. She had adorned . . . Berth. A cottage — in what book Have I read that, of every queen that lived ? A throne t You have not been in- structed, sure. To forestall my request ? Vol. 'Tis granted, sir — My heart instructs me. I have scru- tinized Your claims . . . Berth. Ah — claims, you mean, at first preferred ! I come, before the hour appointed me. To pray you let those claims at present rest. In favour of a new and stronger one. Vol. You shaU not need a stronger : on the part 300 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY [act IV Of the lady, all you offer I accept. Since one clear right suffices : yours is j clear. Propose ! I / Berth. I offer her my hand. '# Yen. Your hand ? I Berth. A Duke's, yourself say ; and, at no far time. Something here whispers me — the Emperor's. The lady's mind is noble ; which in- duced This seizure of occasion ere my claims Were — settled, let ua amicably say ! Vol. Your hand ! Berth. (He will fall down and kiss it next !) Sir, this astonishment 's too flattering. Nor must you hold your mistress' worth so cheap. Enhance it, rather, — urge that blood is blood — The daughter of the Burgraves, Land- graves, Markgraves, Bemains their daughter ; I shall scarce gainsay ! Elsewhere or here, the lady needs must rule : Like the imperial crown's great chryso- prase. They talk of — somewhat out of keeping there, And yet no jewel for a meaner cap. Vcd. You wed the Duchess ? Berth. Cry you mercy, friend ! Will the match influence many fortunes here ? A natural solicitude enough ! Be certain, no bad chance it proves for you ! However high you take your present stand. There 's prospect of a higher still remove — For JuUers will not be my resting-place, And, when I have to choose a sub- stitute To rule the Uttle burgh, I'll think of you. You need not give your mates a charac- ter ! And yet I doubt your fitness to supplant The grey smooth Chamberlain : he'd hesitate A doubt his lady could demean herself So low as to accept me. Courage, sir ! I like your method better : feeling's play Is franker much, and flatters me beside. Vol. I am to say, you love her ? Berth. Say that too ! Love has no great concernment, thinks the world. With a Duke's marriage. How go precedents In JuUers' story — how use Juliers' Dukes ? I see you have them here in goodly row; Yon must be Lui^pold, — ay, a stalwart sire ! — Say, I have been arrested suddenly In my ambition's course, its rocky course. By this sweet flower : I fain would gather it And then proceed — so say and speedily — (Nor stand there like Duke Luitpold's brazen self !) Enough, sir : you possess my mind, I think. This is my claim, the others being with- drawn. And to this he it that, in the HaU to- night. Your lady's answer comes ; till when, farewell ! [He retires. Vol. [after a pause.'] The heavens and earth stay as they were ; my heart Beats as it beat : the truth remains the truth ! What falls away, then, if not faith in her ? Was it my faith, that she could esti- mate Love's value, — and, such faith still guiding me. Dare I now test her ? — or grew faith so strong Solely because no power of test was mine ? Enter the Duchess. The D. My fate, sir ! Ah, you tiim away : all 's over ! But you are sorry for me ? be not so ! What I might have become, and never was. ACT IV] COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY 301 Regret with me ; what I have merely been. Rejoice I am no longer ; what I seem Beginning now, in my new state, to be, Hope that I am, — for, once my rights proved void, This heavy roof seems easy to exchange For the blue sky outside — my lot hence- forth ! Val. And what a lot is Berthold's ! The D. How of him ? • f Val. He gathers earth's whole good into his arms. Standing, as man now, stately, strong and wise — Marching to fortune, not surprised by her. One great aim, like a • guiding-star, above — Which tasks strength, wisdom, stateli- ness, to lift His manhood to the height that takes the prize ; A prize not near — lest overlooking earth He rashly spring to seize it — nor remote. So that he rest upon his path content : But day by day, while shimmering grows shine. And the faint circlet prophesies the orb. He sees so much as, just evolving these. The stateliness, the wisdom ancf the strength. To due completion, will suffice this life. And lead him at his grandest to the grave. After this star, out of a night he springs; A beggar's cradle for the throne of thrones He quits ; so, mounting, feels each step he mounts. Nor, as from each to each exultingly He passes, overleaps one grade of joy. This, for his own good : — with the world, each gift Of God and man, — reality, tradition. Fancy and fact — so well environ him, That as a mystic panoply they serve — Of force, untenanted, to awe mankind, And work his purpose out with half the world. While he, their master, dexterously slipt From such encumbrance, is meantime employed With his own prowess on the other half. Thus shall he prosper, every day's success Adding, to what is he, a solid strength — An agry might to what encircles him. Till at the last, so life's routine lends help. That as the Emperor only breathes and moves. His shadow shall be watched, his step or stalk Become a comfort or a portent, how He trails his ermine take significance, — Till even his power shall .cease to be most power, And men shall dread his weakness more, nor dare Peril their earth its bravest, first and best. Its typified invincibility. Thus shall he go on, greatening, till he ends — The man of men, the spirit of all flesh, The fiery centre of an earthy world ! The D. Some such a fortune I had dreamed should rise Out of my own — that is, above my power Seemed other, greater potencies to stretch^ — ■ Val. For you ? The D. It was not I moved there, I think : But one I could, — though constantly beside, And aye approaching, — still keep dis- tant from. And so adore. 'Twas a man moved there ! Va. Who ? The D. I felt the spirit, never saw the face. Val. See it ! 'Tis Berthold's ! He enables you To realize your vision. The D. Berthold ? Vcd. Duke- Emperor to be : he proflfers you his hand. The D. Generous and princely ! Val. He is all of this 302 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY LACT IV TheD. Thanks, Berthold, for my father's sake ! no hand Degrades me ! Vol, You accept the proffered hand ? The D. That he should love me ! Vol. ' Loved ' I did not say ! Had that been — love might so incline the Prince To the world's good, the world that 's at his foot, — I do not know, this moment, I should dare Desire that you refused the world — and Cleves — ■ The sacrifice he asks. The D. . Not love me, sir ? Vol. He scarce affirmed it. The D. ' May not deeds affirm ? Vol. What does he ? . . . Yes, yes, very much he does ! All the shame saved, he thinks, and sorrow saved — Immitigable sorrow, so he thinks, — Sorrow that 's deeper than we dream, perchance ! The D. Is not this love ? Vol. So very much he does ! For look, you can descend now grace- fully : All doubts are banished, that the world might have. Or worst, the doubts yourself, in after- time. May call up of your heart's sincereness now. To such, reply, ' I could have kept my rule — Increased it to the utmost of my dreams — Yet I abjured it ! ' This, he does for you : It is muiiificently much ! The D. Still ' much ! ' But why is it not love, sir ? Answer me ! yal. Because not one of Berthold's words and looks Had gone with love's presentment of a flower To the beloved : because bold con- fidence, Open superiority, free pride — Love owns not, yet were all that Berthold owned : Because where reason, even, finds no flaw. Unerringly a lover's instinct may. The D. You reason, then, and doubt ? Vol. I love, and know. The D. You love ? — How strange ! I never cast a thought On that ! Just see our selfishness ! you seemed So much my own I had no ground — and yet, I never dreamed another might divide My power with you, much less exceed it. Vol. Lady, I am yours wholly. The D. Oh, no, no, not mine ! 'Tis not the same now, never more can be! . — Your first love, doubtless ! Well, what 's gone from me 2 What have I lost in you 1 Vol. My heart replies — No loss there ! So, to Berthold back again ! This offer of his hand, he bids me make — Its obvious magnitude is well to weigh. The D. She 's . . . yes, she must be very fair for you ! Yd. I am a simple Advocate of Cleves. THeD. You! With the heart and brain that so helped me, I fancied them exclusively my own. Yet find are subject to a stronger sway ! She must be . . . tell me, is she very fair? Vol. Most fair, beyond conception or belief I ■ The D. Black eyes ? — no matter ! Oolombe, the world leads Its life without you, whom your friends The only woman — see how true they spoke ! One lived this while, who never saw your face. Nor heard your voice — unless ... Is she from Cleves ? Vol. Cleves knows her well ! The D. Ah — just a fancy, now ! When you poured forth the wrongs of Cleves, — I said. ACT IV] COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY 303 — Thought, that is, afterward . . . Vol. You thought of me ? The D. Of whom else ? Only such great cause, I thought. For such effect : see what true love can do! Cleves is his love !^I almost fear to ask . . . And will not. This is idling : to our work ! Admit before the Prince, without reserve, , My claims misgrounded ; then may follow better . . . When you poured out Cleves' wrongs impetuously. Was she in your mind 2 Vol. All done was done for her — To humble me ! The D. She will be proud at least ! Vol. She ■>. The D. When you tell her. Vol. That will never be. The D. How — are there sweeter things you hope to tell ? No, sir ! You counselled me, — I counsel you In the one point I — any woman — can ! Your worth, the first thing ; let her own come next — Say what you did through her, and she through you — The praises of her beauty afterward ! Will you ? Vcd. I dare not. The D. Dare not ? Vol. She I love Suspects not such a love in me. The D. You jest ! Vol. The lady is above me and away ! Not only the brave form, and the bright mind, And the great heart, combine to press me low — But all the world calls rank divides us. The D. Rank ? Now grant me patience ! Here 's a man declares Oracularly in another's case — Sees the true value and the false, for them — Nay, bids them see it, and they straight do see ! You called my court's love worthless — so it turned : I threw away as dross my heap of wealth, And here you stickle for a piece or two ! First — has she seen you 7 Vol. Yes. The D. She loves you, then. Vol. One flash of hope burst ; then succeeded night : And all 's at darkest now. Impossible ! The D. We'll try : you are — so to speak — my subject yet ? Vol. As ever — to the death ! The D. Obey me, then ! Yal. I must. The D. Approach her, and . . . No ! First of all Get more assurance. ' My instructress,' say, 'Was great, descended from a. line of kings. And even fair ' — (wait why I say this foUy)- ' She said, of all men, none for elo- quence. Courage, and (what cast even these to shade) The heart they sprung from, — none deserved like him Who saved her at her need : if she said this. What should not one I love, say ? ' Vol. Heaven — this hope — Oh, lady, you are filling me with fire ! The D. Say this !— nor think I bid you cast aside One touch of all the awe and reverence ! Nay — make her proud for once to heart's content That all this wealth of heart and soul 's her own ! Think you are all of this, — and, thinking it, . . . (Obey !)■ Vol. I cannot choose. The D. Then, kneel to her ! [Valence sinks on his knee. I dream ! Vol. Have mercy! Yours, unto the death, — I have obeyed. Despise, and let me die. The D. Alas, sir, is it to be ever thus ? 304 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY [act IV Even with you as with the world ? I know This morning's service was no vulgar deed Whose motive, once it dares avow itself, Explains all done and infinitely more, So, takes the shelter of a nobler cause. Your service named its true source,^ loyalty ! The rest 's unsaid again. The Duchess bids you, Rise, sir ! The Prince's words were in debate. Vol. [rising.] Rise ? Truth, as ever. Lady, comes from you ! I should rise — I who spoke for Cleves, can speak For Man — yet tremble now, who stood firm then ! I laughed — for 'twas past tears — that Cleves should starve With all hearts beating loud the infamy, And no tongue daring trust as much to air ! Yet here, where all hearts speak, shall I be ;nute ? Oh Lady, for your own sake look on me ! On all I am, and have, and do — heart, brain. Body and soul, — this Valence and his gifts ! I was proud once — I saw you — and they sank. So that each magnified a thousand times Were nothing to you — ]3ut such nothing- ness. Would a crown gild it, or a sceptre prop, A treasure speed, a laurel-wreath enhance ? What is my own desert ? But should your love Have . . . there 's no language helps here . . . singled me, — Then— Oh, that wild word ' then ! '— be just to love. In generosity its attribute ! Love, since you pleased to love ! All 's cleared — a stage For trial of the question kept so long ; Judge you — Is Love or Vanity the best ? You, solve it for the world's sake — you, speak first What all will shout one day — you, vindicate Our earth and be its angel ! All is said. Lady, I offer nothing — I am yours. But for the eause'-sake, look on me and him And speak ! The D. I have received the Prince's Say, I prepare my answer ! VaZ. Take me, Cleves 1 [He withdraws. The D. Mournful — that nothing 's what it calls itself ! Devotion, zeal, faith, loyalty — mere love ! And, love in question, what may Berthold's be ? I did ill to mistrust the world so soon — Already was this Berthold at my side. The valley-level has its hawks, no doubt: May not the rock-top have its eagles, too ? Yet Valence ... let me see his rival then! ACT V Night. — Scene. The HaU. Enter Berthold and Melchiob. Mel. And here you wait the matter's issue ? Berth. Here. Md. I don't regret I shut Amelius, then. But tell me, on this grand disclosure, — how Behaved our spokesman with the fore- head ? BeHh. Oh, Turned out no better than the forehead- less — Was dazzled not so very soon, that 's all! For my part, this is scarce the hasty, showy. Chivalrous measure you give me credit of. Perhaps I had a fancy, — but 'tis gone. ACT V] COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY 305 — Let her commence the unfriended innocent. And carry wrongs about from court to court ? No, truly ! The least shake of fortune's sand, — My uncle-Pope chokes in a coughing- fit. King Philip takes a fancy to blue eyes, — And wondrously her claims would brighten up ! Forth comes a new gloss on the ancient law, O'er-looked provisoes, past o'er pre- mises, Follow in plenty. No:' tis the safer step. Thehoiilhfineath,_lha._cmiEfint=jEall_ia lost : Juliers and she, once mine, are ever mine. Mel. Which is to say, you, losing heart already. Elude the adventure ! Berth. Not so — or, if so — Why not confess at once, that I advise None of our kingly craft and guild just now To lay, one moment, down their privilege With the notion they can any time at pleasure Retake it ? that may turn out hazard- ous ! We seem, in Europe, pretty well at end O' the night, with our great masque : those favoured few Who keep the chamber's top, and honour's chance Of the early evening, may retain their place And figure as they list till out of breath. But it is growing late ; and I observe A dim grim kind of tipstaves at the doorway Not only bar new-comers entering now, But caution those who left, for any cause. And would return, that morning draws too near ; The ball must die off, shut itself up. We— I think, may dance lights out and sun- shine in. And sleep ofi headache on our frippery : But friend the other, who cunningly stole out. And, after breathing the fresh air out- side, Means to re-enter with a new costume, Will be advised go back to bed, I fear. I stick to privilege, on second thoughts ! Mel. Yes — you evade the adventure ! — And, beside. Give yourself out for colder than you are. — King Philip, only, notes the lady's eyes ? Don't they come in for somewhat of the motive With you too ? _ Berth. Yes — no: I am past that nowl Gone 'tis : I cannot shut my eyes to fact. Of course, I might by forethought and contrivance Reason myself into a rapture. Gone ! And something better come instead, no doubt. Mel. So be it ! Yet, all the same, proceed my way. Though to your end ; so shall you prosper best. The lady, — to be won for selfish ends, — Will be won easier my unselfish . . . call it. Romantic way. Berth. Won easier ? Md. Will not she ? Berth. There I profess humility with- out bound ! Ill cannot speed — not I — the Emperor ! Mel. And I should think the Emperor best waived, From your description of her mood and way ! You could look, if it pleased you, into hearts ; But are too indolent and fond of watching Your own — you know that, for you study It. Berth. Had you but seen the orator her friend, So bold and voluble an hour before. Abashed to earth at aspect of th© change ! 306 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY [act V Make her an Empress ? Ah, that changed the case ! Oh, I read hearts ! And for my own behoof, I court her with my true worth : see the event ! I learned my final lesson on that head When years ago, — my first and last essay ! Before my uncle could obtain the ear Of his superior, help me from the dirt — Priscilla left me for a Brabant Duke Whose cheek was like the topaz on his thumb. I am past illusion on that score. Md. ' Here comes The lady— Berth. — And there you go ! But do not ! Give me Another chance to please you. Hear me plead ! Md. You'll keep, then, to the lover, to the man 1 Enter the Duchess — followed by ADOLff and Sabyne, and, after an interval, hy the Courtiers. Berth. Good auspice to our meeting ! The D. May it prove ! -^And you, sir, will be Emperor one day ? Berth. (Ay — that 's the point !| I may be Emperor. The D. 'Tis not for my sake only, I am proud Of this you offer : I am prouder far That from the highest state should duly spring The highest, since most generous, of deeds. Berth. (Generous — still that !j You underrate yourself. You are, what I, to be complete, must have — Find now, and may not find, another time. While I career on all the world for stage, There needs at home my representative. The V. — Such, rather, would some warrior-woman be — One dowered with lands and gold, or rich in friends — One like yourself ! Berth. Lady, I am myself. And have all these : I want what 's not myself. Nor has all these. Why give one hand two swords ? Here 's one already : be a friend's next gift A silk glove, if you will — I have a sword ! The D. You love ms, then ? Berth. Your lineage I revere, Honour your virtue, in your truth believe. Do homage to your intellect, and bow Before your peerless beauty. The D. But, for love— Berth. A further love I do not under- stand. Our best course is to say these hideous truths, And see them, once said, grow endur- able : Like waters shuddering from their central bed. Black with the midnight bowels of the earth. That, once up-spouted by an earth- quake's throe, A portent and a terror — soon subside, Freshen apace, take gold and rainbow hues In sunshine, sleep in shadow, and, at last. Grow common to the earth as hills or trees — Accepted by all things they came to scare. The D. You cannot love, then ? Berth. — Charlemagne, perhaps ! Are you not over-curious in love-lore ? The D. I have become so, very recently. It seems, then, I shall best deserve esteem, Respect, and all your candour promises. By putting on a calculating mood — Asking the terms of my becoming yours ? Berth. Let me not do myself injustice, neither ! Because I will not oondescend to fictions ACT V] COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY 307 That promise what my soul can ne'er acquit, It does not follow that my guarded phrase May not include far more ^o£ what you seek, Than wide professions of less scrupulous men. You will be Empress, once for all : with me The Pope disputes supremacy — you stand And none gainsays, the earth's first woman ! The D. That— Or simple Lady of Kavestein again ? Berth. The matter 's not in my arbitrement ! Now I have made my claims — which I regret — Cede one, cede all ! The D. This claim then, you enforce ? Berth. The world looks on. The D. And when must I decide ? Berth. When, Lady ? Have I said thus much so promptly For nothing ? Poured out, with such pains, at once What I might else have suffered to ooze forth Droplet by droplet in a lifetime long. For > aught less than as prompt an answer, too ? All 's fairly told now : who can teach you more ? The D. I do not see him. Berth. I shall ne'er deceive. This offer should be made befittingly Would time allow the better setting forth The good of it, with what is not so good, Advantage, and disparagement as well — But as it is, the sum of both must serve. I am already weary of this place — My thoughts are next stage on to Rome. Decide ! The Empire — or, — not even Juliers now ! Hail to the Empress — farewell to the Duchess ! [The Courtiers, who have been draio- ing nearer and nearer, interpose. Courtiers. — ' Farewell,' Prince ? when we break in at our risk — Clug. Almost upon court-licence trespassing — Courtiers. — To point out how your claims are valid yet ! You know not, by the Duke her father's will, The lady, if she weds beneath her rank. Forfeits her Duchy in the next heir's favour — ■ So 'tis expressly stipulate. And if It can be shown 'tis her intent to wed A subject, then yourself, next heir, by right Succeed to Juliers, Berth. What insanity ? — Gid. Sir, there 'a one Valence — the pale fiery man You saw and heard, this morning — thought, no doubt. Was of considerable standing here : I put it to your penetration, Prince, If aught save love, the truest love for her, Could make him serve the lady as he did! He 's simply a poor advocate of Cleves ■ — Creeps here with difficulty, finds a place With danger, gets in by a miracle. And for the first time meets the lady's face — ■ So runs the story ; is that credible ? For, first — no sooner in, than he 's apprised Fortunes have changed ; you are all- powerful here. The lady as powerless : he stands fast by her ! The D. [Aside.'] And do such deeds spring up from love alone ? Qui. But here occurs the question, does the lady Love him again ? I say. How else can she ? Can she forget how he stood singly forth In her defence, dared outrage all of us. 308 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY [act V Insult yourself — for what, save love's reward ? The D. [Aside.] And is love then the sole reward of love ? Gui. But, love him as she may and must — you ask, Means she to wed him ? ' Yes,' both natures answer ! Both, in their pride, point out the sole result — Nought less would he accept nor she propose ! For each conjuncture was she great enough —Will be, for this ! Clug. Though, now that this is known, Policy, doubtless, urges she deny . .- . The D. — What, sir, and wherefore ! — since I am not sure That all is any other than you say ? You take this Valence, hold him close to me. Him with his actions : can I choose but look ? I am not sure, love trulier shows it- self Than in this man, you hate and would degrade. Yet, with your worst abatement, show me thus. Nor am I — (thus made look within myself. Ere I had dared, J — now that the look is dared — Sure that I do not love him ! Gui. Hear you, Prince ? Berth. And what, sirs, please you, may this prattle mean — Unless to prove with what alacrity You give your lady's secrets to the world ? — How much indebted, for discovering That quality, you make me, will be found When next a keeper for my own's to seek ! Courtiers. ' Our Lady ? ' Berth. — She assuredly remains ! The D. Ah, Prince — and you too can be generous ? You could renounce your power, if this were so. And let me, as these phrase it, wed my love Yet keep my Duchy ? You perhaps exceed Him, even, in disinterestedness ! Berth. How, lady, should all this affect my purpose ? Your will and choice are still as ever, free ! Say, you have known a worthier than myself In mind and heart, of happier form and face — Others must have their birthright : I have gifts. To balance theirs, not blot them out of sight. Against a hundred other qualities, I lay the prize I offer. I am notWng — Wed you the Empire ? The D. And my heart away ? Berth. When have I made pretension to your heart ? I give none. I shall keep your honour safe ; With mine I trust you, as the sculptor trusts Yon marble woman with the marble rose, Loose on her hand, she never will let fall. In graceful, slight, silent security. You will be proud of my world-wide career. And I content in you the fair and good. What were the use of planting a few The thankless climate never would mature — Affections all repelled by circumstance ? Enough : to these no credit I attach, — To what you own, find nothing to object. Write simply on my requisition's face What shall content my friends — that you admit, As Colombe of Eavestein, the claims therein, Or never need admit them, as my wife — And either way, all 's ended. The D. Let all end ! Berth. The requisition 1 ACT V] COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY 309 Courtiers. — Valence holds, of course ! Berth. Desire his presence ! [Adolf goes out. Courtiers, [to each other.] Out it all comes yet ! He'll have his word against the bargain still ! He 's not the man to tamely acquiesce ! One passionate appeal — upbraiding even. Might turn the tide again ! Despair not yet ! [They retire a little. Berth, [to Melohiok.] The Empire has its old success, my friend ! Mel. You've had your way : before the spokesman comes. Let me, but this once, work a problem out. And ever more be dumb. The Empire wins ? To better purpose I have read my books ! Unter Valence. Mel. [to the Courtiers.] Apart, my masters ! [To Valence.] Sir, one word with you ! I am a poor dependent of the Prince's — Pitched on to speak, as of slight con- sequence ; You are no higher, I find : in other words, We two, as probably the wisest here, Need not hold diplomatic talk like fools. Suppose I speak, divesting the plain fact Of all their tortuous phrases, fit for them ? Do you reply so, and what trouble saved ! The Prince, then — an embroiled strange heap of news This moment reaches him — if true or false. All dignity forbids he should inquire In person, or by worthier deputy ; Yet somehow must inquire, lest slander come : And so, 'tis I am pitched on. You have heard His offer to your lady ? V(d. Yes. Mel. — Conceive Her joy thereat ? Vol. I cannot. Mel. No one can ; All draws to a conclusion, therefore. Vol. [Aside.] So ! No after- judgment — no first thought revised — Her first and last decision ! — me, she leaves — Takes him — a simple heart is flung aside. The ermine o'er a heartless breast embraced ! Oh heaven, this mockery has been played too oft ! Once, to surprise the angels — twice, that fiends Recording, might be proud they chose not so— Thrice, many thousand times, to teach the world All men should pause, misdoubt their strength, since men Could have such chance yet fail so signally, — But ever — ever — this farewell to Heaven, Welcome to earth — this taking death for life — This spurning love and kneeling to the world — Oh heaven, it is too often and too old ! Md. Well, on this point — what but an absurd rumour Arises — ^these, its source — its subject, you! Your faith and loyalty misconstruing. They say, your service claims the lady's hand ! Of course, nor Prince nor Lady can respond : Yet something must be said — for, were it true You made such claim, the Prince would . . . Vol. Well, sir,— would ? Mel. — Not only probably withdraw his suit. But, very like, the lady might be forced Accept your own. — Oh, there are reasons why ! But you'll excuse at present all save this, — 310 COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY [act V I think so. What we want is, your own witness. For, or against — her good, or yours : decide ! Vol. [Aside.] Be it her good if she accounts it so ! [Ajter a contest.'] For what am I but hers, to choose as she ? Who knows how far, beside, the light from her May reach, and dwell with, what she looks upon ? Md. [fe> the Prince.] Now to him, you ! Berth, [to Valence.] My friend acquaints you, sir, The noise runs . . . Val. — Prince, how for- tunate are you. Wedding her as you will, in spite of it, To show belief in love ! Let her but love you. All else you disregard ! What else can be? You know how love is incompatible With falsehood — purifies, assimilates All other passions to itself. Mel. Ay, sir : ■ But softly ! Where, in the object we select. Such love is, perchance, wanting ? Val. Then, indeed. What is it you can take ? Mel. Nay — ask the world ! Youth, beauty, virtue, an illustrious name. An influence o'er mankind. Val. When man perceives . . . — Ah, I can only speak as for myself ! The D. Speak for yourself. Val. May I ? — no, I have spoken. And time 's gone by ! — Had I seen such an one. As I loved her — weighing thoroughly that word^ So should my task be to evolve her love : K for myself ! — if for another — well. Berth. Heroic truly ! And your sole reward,^ — • The secret pride in yielding up your own ? Val. Who thought upon reward ? And yet how much Comes after — Oh what amplest recom- pense ! Is the knowledge of her, nought ? the memory, nought 2 Lady, should such an one have looked on you. Ne'er wrong yourself so far as quote the world. And say, love can go unrequited here ! You will have blessed him to his whole life's end — Low passions hindered, baser cares kept back. All goodness cherished where you dwelt — and dwell. What would he have ? He holds you — you, both form. And mind, in his, — where self-love makes such room For love of you, he would not serve you now The vulgar way, — repulse your enemies. Win you new realms, or best, in saving you Die blissfully — that 's past so long ago! He wishes you no need, thought, care of him — Your good, by any means, himself unseen. Away, forgotten ! — He gives that life's task up, As it were . . . but this charge which I return — [Offers the requisition, which she takes. Wishing your good ! The D. [having subscribed it.] And opportunely, sir — Since at a birthday's close, like this of mine, Good wishes gentle deeds reciprocate. Most on a wedding day, as mine is too, Should gifts be thought of : yours comes first by right. Ask of me ! Berth. He shall have whate'er he For your sake and his own ! Vcd. [Aside.] If I should ask— The withered bunch of flowers she wears ■ — perhaps. One last touch of her hand, I never more Shall see ! ACT V] COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY 311 [After a pause, presenting his paper to the Prince. Cleves' Prince, redress the wrongs of Cleves ! Berth. I will, sir. The D. [as Valence prepares to retire.] — Nay, do out your duty, first! You bore this paper ; I have registered My answer to it : read it and have done ! [Valence reads it. — I take him — give up Juliers and the world ! A This is my Birthday: - /S-OA-j-l Mel. Berthold, my one hero 0£ the world she gives up, one friend worth my books, Sole man I think it pays the pains to watch, — Speak, for I know you through your Popes and Kings ! Berth, [after a pav^e.] Lady, well re- warded ! Sir, as well deserved ! I could not imitate— I hardly envy — I do admire you ! All is for the best! Too costly a flower were you, I see it now. To pluck and set upon my barren helm To wither — any garish plume will do ! I'll not insult you and refuse your Duchy — You can so well afford to yield it me. And I were left, without it, sadly ofiE ! As it is — for me — if that will flatter you. A somewhat wearier life seems to remain Than I thought possible where . . .'faith, their life Begins already — they're too occupied To listen — and few words content me best! [Abruptly to the Courtiers.] I am your Duke, though ! Who obey me here ? The D. Adolf and Sabyne follow us — Qui. [starting from the Courtiers.] And I? Dol not follow them, if I mayn't you ? Shall not I get some little duties up At Ravestein and emulate the rest ? God save you, Gaucelme ! 'Tis my Birthday, too ! Berth. You happy handful that _ remain with me . . . That is, with Dietrich the black Barnabite I shall leave over you — will earn your wages. Or Dietrich has forgot to ply his trade I Meantime, — go copy me the precedents Of every installation, proper styles, And pedigrees of all your Juliers' Dukes- While I prepare to go on my old way, I And somewhat wearily, I must confess ! The D. [with a light joy oils laugh as I she turns from them.] Come, I Valence, to our friends — God's earth . . . Vol. [as she falls into Ms arms.] — And thee ! 312 LURIA A TRAGEDY I DEDICATE THIS LAST ATTEMPT FOB THE PBESENT AT DBAMATIC POETRY Co a (©reat Btamattt ^oet; ' WISHING WHAT I WHITE MAY BE BEAD BY HIS LIGHT : ' — IF A PHBASE OEIGINALLY ADDRESSED, BY NOT THE LEAST WORTHY OF HIS CONTEMPORARIES, TO SHAKESPEARE, MAY BE APPLIED HERE, BY ONE WHOSE SOLE PRIVILEGE IS IN A GRATEFUL ADMIRATION, TO WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. London, 1846. of LuRiA, a Moor, Commander Florentine Forces. HusAiN, a Moor, his friend. Puccio, the old Florentine Commander, now Luria's Chief Officer. Persons the Beaccio, Commissary of the Republic of Florence. Jacopo (Lapo), his Secretary. TiBUEZio, Commander of the Pisans. DoMiziA, a noble Florentine Lady. Time, 14—. Scene. — Luria's Camp between Florence and Pisa. ACT I MORNING. Beaccio, as dictating to his Secretary ; Pucoio standing by. Brae, [to Puc] Then, you join battle in an hour ? Puc. Not I ; Luria, the Captain. Brae, [to the Sec] ' In an hour, the battle.' [To Puc] Sir, let your eye run o'er this loose digest. And see if very much of your report Have slipped away through my civilian phrase. Does this instruct the Signory aright How army stands with army ? Puc. [taking the paper.'] All seems here : — That Luria, seizing with our city's force The several points of vantage, hill and plain, Shuts Pisa safe from help on every side. And, baffling the Lucchese arrived too late, Must, in the battle he delivers now, Beat her best troops and first of chiefs. Brae. So sure ! Tiburzio 's a consummate captain too ! Puc. Luria holds Pisa's fortune in his hand. Brae, [to the Sec] ' The Signory hold Pisa in their hand.' Your own proved soldiership 's our warrant, sir : So, while my secretary ends his task, Have out two horsemen, by the open roads, To post with it to Florence ! ACT l] LURIA 313 Pue. {returning the paper.} All seems here ; Unless . . . Ser Braocio, 'tis my last report ! Since Pisa's outbreak, and my overthrow. And Luria's hastening at the city's call To save her, as he only could, no doubt ; Till now that she is saved or sure to be,— Whatever you tell Florence, I tell you : Each day's note you, her Commissary, make Of Luria's movements, I myself supply. No youngster am I longer, to my cost ; Therefore while Florence gloried in her choice And vaunted Luria, whom but Luria, still, As if zeal, courage, prudence, conduct, faith. Had never met in any man before, I saw no pressing need to swell the cry. But now, this last report and I have done — So, ere to-night comes with its roar of praise, 'Twere not amiss if some one old i' the trade Subscribed with, ' True, for once rash counsel 's best. This Moor of the bad faith and doubtful race. This boy to whose untried sagacity. Raw valour, Florence trusts without reserve The charge to save her, — justifies her choice ; In no point has this stranger failed his friends : Now praise ! ' I say this, and it is not here. Brae, [to the Sec] Write, ' Puccio, superseded in the charge. By Luria, bears full witness to his worth, And no reward our Signory can give Their champion but he'll back it cheer- fully.' Aught more ? Five minutes hence, both messengers ! [P0CCIO goes. Brae, [after a pause, and while he slowly tears the paper into shreds.} I think . . . (pray God, I hold in fit contempt This warfare's noble art and ordering. And, — once the brace of prizers fairly matched, Poleaxe with poleaxe, knife with knife as good, — Spit properly at what men term their skill !— ) Yet here I think our fighter has the odds. With Pisa's strength diminished thus and thus. Such points of vantage in our hands and such, Lucca still off the stage, too, — all 's assured : Luria must win this battle. Write the Court, That Luria's trial end and sentence Sec. Patron, — Brae. Ay, Lapo ? Sec. If you trip, I fall ; 'Tis in self-interest I speak — Brae. Nay, nay. You overshoot the mark, my Lapo ! Nay! When did I say pure love 's impos- sible ? I make you daily write those red cheeks thin. Load your young brow with what concerns it least. And, when we visit Florence, let you pace The Piazza by my side as if we talked, Where all your old acquaintances may see : You'd die for me, I should not be surprised ! Now then ! Sec. Sir, look about and love yourself ! Step after step, the Signory and you Tread gay till this tremendous point 's to pass ; Which, pass not, pass not, ere you ask yourself, — Bears the brain steadily such draughts of fire. Or too delicious may not prove the pride 314 LURIA [act I Of this long secret Trial you dared plan, Dare execute, you solitary here. With the grey-headed toothless fools at home. Who think themselves your lords, they are such slaves ? If they pronounce this sentence as you hid. Declare the treason, claim its penalty, — And sudden out of all the blaze of life. Oil the beat minute of his brightest day. From that adoring army at his back. Thro' Florence' joyous crowds before his face. Into the dark you beckon Luria . . . Brae. Then- Why, Lapo, when the fighting-people vaunt. We of the other craft and mystery, May we not smile demure, the danger past ? Sec. Sir, no, no, no, — the danger, and your spirit At watch and ward ? Where 's danger on your part. With that thin flitting instantaneous steel, 'Gainst the blind bull-front of a brute- force world ? If Luria, that 's to perish sure as fate. Should have been really guiltless after all ? Brae. Ah, you have thought that ? Sec. Here I sit, your scribe, And in and out goes Luria, days and nights ; This Puccio comes ; the Moor his other friend, Husain ; they talk— all that 's feigned easily ; He speaks (I would not listen if I could) Beads, orders, counsels : — but he rests sometimes, — I see him stand and eat, sleep stretched an hour On the lynx-skins, yonder; hold his bared black arms Into the sun from the tent-opening ; laugh When his horse drops the forage from his teeth And neighs to hear him hum his Moorish songs. That man believes in Florence, as the saint Tied to the wheel believes in God ! Brae. How strange — You too have thought that ! Sec. Do but you think too, And all is saved ! I only have to write, ' The man seemed false awhile, proves true at last ; Bury it ' ... so I write to the Signory . . . ' Bury this Trial in your breasts for ever. Blot it from things or done or dreamed about : So Luria shall receive his meed to-day With no suspicion what reverse was near, — As if no meteoric finger hushed The doom- word just on the destroyer's lip. Motioned him off, and let life's sun fall straight.' Brae, [looks to the wall of the tent.] Did he draw that ? Sec. With charcoal, when the watch Made the report at midnight;" Lady Domizia Spoke of the unfinished Dnomo, you remember ; That is his fancy how a Moorish front Might join to, and complete, the body, — a sketch, — And again where the cloak hangs, yonder in the shadow. Brae. He loves that woman. See. She is sent the spy Of Florence, — spies on you as you on him : Florence, if only for Domizia's sake. Is surely safe. What shall I write ?' Brae. I see— A Moorish front, nor of such ill design ! Lapo, there 's one thing plain and positive ; Man seeks his own good at the whole world's cost. What ? If to lead our troops, stand forth our chiefs. And hold our fate, and see us at their beck, Yet render up the charge when peace returned. Have ever proved too much for Floren- tines, ACT l] LURIA 315 Even for the best and bravest of our- If in the struggle when the soldier's sword Should sink its point before the statist's pen, And the calm head replace the violent hand. Virtue on virtue still have fallen away Before ambition with unvarying fate. Till Florence' self at last in bitterness Be forced to own such falls the natural end. And, sparing further to expose her sons To a vain strife and profitless disgrace. Declare, ' The Foreigner, one not my child. Shall henceforth lead my troops, reach height by height The glory, tben descend into the shame ; So shall rebellion be less guilt in him, And punishment the easier task for me : ' — If on the best of us such brand she set. Can I suppose an utter alien here. This Luria, our inevitable foe, Confessed a mercenary and a Moor, Born free from any ties that bind the rest Of common faith in Heaven or hope on earth. No Past with us, no Future, — such a spirit Shall hold the path from which our staunchest broke, Stand firm where every famed precursor fell? My Lapo, I will frankly say, these proofs So duly noted of the man's intent. Are for the doting fools at home, not me. The charges here, they may be true or false, — What is set down ? Errors and oversights, A dallying interchange of courtesies With Pisa's General, — all that, hour by hour, Puccio's pale discontent has furnished us, Of petulant speeches, inconsiderate acts. Now overhazard, overcaution now ; Even that he loves this lady who •believes She outwits Florence, and whom Florence posted By my procurement here, to spy on me, Lest I one minute lose her from my sight — She who remembering her whole House's fall. That nest of traitors strangled in the birth. Now labours to make Luria . . . poor device As plain ... the instrument of her revenge ! — That she is ever at his car to prompt Inordinate conceptions of his worth. Exorbitant belief in its reward. And after, when sure disappointment follows. Proportionable rage q.t such a wrong — • Why, all these reasons, while I urge them most. Weigh with me less than least ; as nothing weigh ! Upon that broad Man's-heart of his, I go! On what I know must be, yet while I live Shall never be, because I live and know ! Brute-force shall not rule Florence ! Intellect May rule her, bad or good as chance supplies, — But Intellect it shall be, pure if bad. And Intellect's tradition so kept up Till the good comes — Hwas Intellect that ruled. Not Brute-force bringing from the battle-field The attributes of wisdom, foresight's graces We lent it there to lure its grossness on ; All which it took for earnest and kept safe To show against us in our market-place. Just as the plumes and tags and swords- man's-gear (Fetched from the camp where, at their foolish best. When all was done they frightened nobody) 316 LURIA [act I Perk in otir faces in the street, forsooth. With our own warrant and allowance. No! The whole procedure 's overcharged, — its end In too strict keeping with the bad first step. To conquer Pisa was sheer inspiration ? Well then, to perish for a single fault. Let that be simple justice ! — There, my Lapo ! A Moorish front ill suits our Duomo's body — Blot it out — and bid Luria's sentence come ! [LuRiA, who, with DoMiziA, has entered unobserved at the dose of the last phrase, now advancing. And Luria, Luria, what of Luria now ? Brae. Ah, you so close, sir ? Lady Domizia too ? I said it needs must be a busy moment For one like you — that you were now i' the thick Of your duties, doubtless, while we idlers sat . . . Lur. No — in that paper, — it was in that paper What you were saying ! Brae. Oh — my dSy's dispatch ! I censure you to Florence : mil you see ? * Lur. See your dispatch, your last, for the first time ? Well, if I should, now ? For in truth, Domizia, He would be forced to set about another, In his sly cool way, the true Florentine, To mention that important circum- stance ; So, while he wrote I should gain time, such time ! Do not send this ! Brae. And wherefore ? Lur. These Lucchese Are not arrived — they never will arrive ! And I must fight to-day, arrived or not ; And I shall beat Tiburzio, that is sure: And then will be arriving his Lucchese, But slowly, oh so slowly, just in time To look upon my battle from the hills, Like a late moon, of use to nobody ! And I must break my battle up, send forth. Surround on this side, hold in check on that — Then comes to-morrow, we negotiate, You make me send for fresh instruc- tions home, —Incompleteness, incompleteness ! -Brae. Ah, we scribes ! Why, I had registered that very point, The non-appearance of our foes' ally. As a most happy fortune ; both at once Were formidable — singly faced, each falls. Lur. So, no great battle for my Florentines ! No crowning deed, decisive and com- plete, ' For all of them, the simple as the wise, Old, young, alike, that do not under- stand Our wearisome pedantic art of war. By which we prove retreat may be success. Delay — best speed, — half loss, at times, — whole gain : They want results — as if it were their fault ! And you, with warmest wish to be my friend. Will not be able now to simply say ' Your servant has performed his task —enough ! You ordered, he has executed : good ! Now walk the streets in holiday attire. Congratulate your friends, tiU noon strikes fierce. Then form bright groups beneath the Duomo's shade ! ' No ! you will have to argue and ex- plain. Persuade them, all is not so ill in the end. Tease, tire them out ! Arrive, arrive, Lucchese ! Dom. Well, you will triumph for the Past enough. Whatever be the Present's chance ; no service Falls to the ground with Florence : she awaits ACT l] LURIA 317 Her saviour, will receive him fittingly. Lnr. Ah, Bracoio, you know Flor- ence ! will she, think you. Receive one . . . what means ' fittingly ,' ? doubtless — I — Receive compatriots, am none : And yet Domizia promises so much ! Brae. Kind women still give men a woman's prize. I know not o'er which gate most boughs will arch. Nor if the Square will wave red flags or blue : I should have judged, the fullest of rewards Our State gave Luria, when she made him chief Of her whole force, in her best captain's place. Lur. That, my reward ? Florence on my account Relieved Ser Puccio ? — mark you, my reward ! And Puccio 's having all the fight's true joy — Goes here and there, gets close, may fight, himself, While I must order, stand aloof, o'ersee ! That was my calling — there was my true place ! I should have felt, in some one over me, Florence impersonate, my visible Head, As I am over Puccio, — taking life Directly from her eye ! They give me you: But do you cross me, set me half to work? I enjoy nothing — but I will, for once ! Decide, shall we join battle? may I wait? Brae. Let us compound the matter ; wait till noon : Then, no arrival, — Lur. Ah, noon comes too fast ! I wonder, do you guess why I delay Involuntarily the final blow As long as possible ? Peace follows it ! Florence at peace, and the calm studious heads Come out again, the penetrating eyes ; Ab if a spell broke, aU. 's resumed, each art You boast, more vivid that it slept awhile. 'Gainst the glad heaven, o'er the white palace-front The interrupted scaffold cUmbs anew ; The walls are peopled by the painter's brush ; The statue to its niche ascends to dwell. The Present's noise and trouble have retired And left the eternal Past to rule once more ;• — You speak its speech and read its records plain, Greece lives with you, each Roman breathes your friend : — But Luria — where will then be Luria's place ? Dom. Highest in honour, for that Past's own sake. Of which his actions, sealing up the sum By saving all that went before from wreck. Will range as part, with which be wor- shipped too. Lur. Then I may walk and watch you in your streets Leading the life my rough life helps no more. So different, so new, so beautiful — Nor fear that you will tire to see parade The club that slew the lion, now that crooks And shepherd-pipes come into use again ? For very lone and silent seems my East In its drear vEistness : still it spreads, and still No Braccios, no Domizias anywhere — Not ever more ! — Well, well, to-day is ours ! Dom. [to Bbac] Should he not have been one of us ? Lur. Oh, no ! Not one of you, and so escape the thrill Of coming into you, of changing thus, — Feeling a soul grow on me that restricts The boundless unrest of the savage heart ! The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land. 318 LURIA [act 1 Breaks there and buries its tumultuous strength ; Horror, and silence, and a pause awhile : Lo, inland glides the gulf-stream, miles away, In rapture of assent, subdued and still, 'Neath those strange banks, those un- imagined skies ! Well, 'tis not sure the quiet lasts for ever ! Your placid heads still find rough hands new work ; Some minutes' chance — there comes the need of mine — And, all resolved on, I too hear at last. Oh, you must find some use for me, Ser Braccio ! You hold my strength ; 'twere best dispose of it ! What you created, see that you find food for — I shall be dangerous else ! Brae. How dangerous. Sir ? Lur. Oh, there are many ways, Domizia warns me. And one with halt the power that I Grows very formidable ! Do you doubt ? Why, first, who holds the army . . . Dom. While we talk. Morn wears ; we keep you from your proper place In the field. Jjur. Nay, to the field I move no more : My part is done, and Puccio's may begin. I cannot trench upon his province longer With any face. — You think yourselves so safe ? Why see — in concert with Tiburzio, now — One could . . . Dom. A trumpet ! Lur. My Lucchese i»t last ! Arrived, as sure as Florence stands ! your leave ! [Springs out. Dom. How plainly is true greatness cbaraotered By such unconsciousness as Luria's here, Strength sharing least the secret of itself ! Be it with head that schemes or hand that acts. Such save the world which none but they could save. Yet think whate'er they did, that world could do. Brae. Yes : and how worthy note, that these same great ones In hand or head, with such uncon- sciousness And all its due entailed humility. Should never shrink, so far as I per- ceive. From taking up whatever offices Involve the whole world's safety or mishap. Into their mild hands as a thing of course ! The statist finds it natural to lead The mob who might as easily lead him — The soldier marshals troops who know as much — - Statist and soldier verily believe ! While we poor scribes . . . you catch me thinking, now. That I shall in this very letter write What none of you are able ! To it, Lapo ! [Domizia goes. This last, worst, all-affected childish fit Of Luria's, this be-praised unconscious- ness. Convinces me ; the Past was no child's play: It was a man beat Pisa, — not a child. All 's mere dissimulation — to remove The fear, he best knows we should entertain. The utmost danger was at hand. Is 't written ? Now make a duplicate, lest this should fail. And speak your fullest on the other side. Sec. I noticed he was busily repairing My half-effacement of his Duomo sketch, And, while he spoke of Florence, turned to it. As the Mage Negro turns to Christ the Babe. — ACT I] LURIA 319 i judge his childishness the mere re- lapse To boyhood of a man who has worked lately. And presently will work, so, meantime, plays: Whence more than ever I believe in him. Brae, [after a pause.] The sword ! At best, the soldier, as he says. In Florence — the black face, the bar- barous name, For Italy to boast her show of the age, Her man of men ! — To Florence with each letter ! ACT II HOON. Dom. Well, Florence, shall I reach thee, pierce thy heart Thro' all its safeguards ? Hate is said to help — Quicken the eye, invigorate the arm ; And this my hate, made up of many hates. Might stand in scorn of visible instru- ment. And will thee dead : — yet do I trust it not. Nor Man's devices, nor Heaven's memory Of wickedness forgot on Earth so soon. But thy own nature, — Hell and thee I trust. To keep thee constant in that wicked- ness. Where my revenge may meet thee. Turn aside A single step, for gratitude, or shame, — Grace but this Luria, — this wild mass of rage That I prepare to launch against thee now, — With other payment than thy noblest found, — Give his desert for once its due re- ward, — And past thee would my sure destruc- tion roll. But thou, who mad'st our House thy sacrifice, It cannot be thou wilt except this Moor From the accustomed fate of zeal and truth : Thou wilt deny his looked-for recom- pense. And then — I reach thee. Old and trained, my sire Could bow down on his quiet broken heart, Die awe-struck and submissive, when at last The strange blow came for the ex- pected wreath ; And Porzio passed in blind bewilderment To exile, never to return, — they say, Perplexed inhisfranksimple honest soul. As if some natural law had changed, — how else Could Florence, on plain fact pro- noimcing thus. Judge Porzio's actions worthy such an end ? But Berto, with the ever-passionate pulse, — Oh that long night, its dreadful hour on hour. In which no way of getting his fair fame From their inexplicable charges free. Was found, save pouring forth the impatient blood To show its colour whether false or no ! My brothers never had a friend like me Close in their need to watch the time, then speak, — Burst with a wakening laughter on their dream. Cry, Florence was all falseness, so, false here, — And show them what a simple task remained — To leave dreams, rise, and punish in God's name The city wedded to its wickedness. None stood by them as I by Luria stand ! So, when the stranger cheated of his due Turns on thee as his rapid nature bids. Then, Florence, think, a hireling at thy throat For the first outrage, think who bore thy last. Yet mutely in forlorn obedience died ! He comes — his friend — black faces in the camp 320 LURIA [act u Where moved those peerless brows and eyes of old ! Enter Luria and Husain. Dom. Well, and the moTement— is it as you hope 2 'lis Lucca ? Lur. Ah, the Pisan trumpet merely ! Tiburzio's envoy, I must needs receive. Dom. Whom I withdraw before ; tho' if I lingered You could not ponder, for my time fleets fast. The overtaking night brings such reward ! — And where will then be room for me ? Yet still Kemem.ber who was first to promise it. And envied those who also can per- form ! ■ IGoes. Lur. This trumpet from the Pisans? — Mus. In the camp ; A very noble presence — Bracoio's visage On Puccio's body — calm and fixed and good ; A man I seem as I had seen before : Most like, it was some statue had the face. Lur. Admit him ! This will prove the last delay. Hus. Ay, friend, go on, and die thou going on ! Thou heardst what the grave Woman said but now : To-night rewards thee. That is well to hear; But stop not therefore : hear it, and go on ! Lur. Oh, their reward and triumph and the rest They round me in the ears with, all day long? All that, I never take for earnest, friend ! Well would it suit us, — their triumphal arch Or storied pillar, — thee and me, the Moors ! But gratitude in those Italian eyes — That, we shall get ? Hus. It is too cold an air. Our sun rose out of yonder mound of mist : Where is he now ? So, I trust none of them ! Lur. Truly ? Bus. I dovtbt and fear. There stands a wall 'Twixt our expansive and explosive race And. those absorbing, concentrating men ! They use thee ! Lur. And I feel it, Husain ; yes. And care not — yes, an alien force like mine Is only called to play its part outside Their different nature ; where its sole use seems To fight with and keep ofi an adverse force As alien, — which repelled, mine too withdraws : Inside, they know not what to do with me; Thus I have told them laughingly and oft. But long since was prepared to learn the worst. Hus. What is the worst ? Lur. I wiU forestall them, Husain, And speak my destiny, they dare not Banish myself before they find the heart. I will be first to say, 'The work re- wards ! I know, for all your praise, my use is over. So may it prove ! — meanwhile 'tis best I go. And carry safe my memories of you all To other scenes of action, newer lands.' — Thus leaving them confirmed in their belief They would not easily have tired of me. You think this hard to say ? Hus. Say it or not, So thou but go, so they but let thee go ! This hating people, that hate each the other. And in one blandness to us Moors unite — Locked each to each like slippery snakes, I say. ACT II] LURIA 321 Which still in all their tangles, hissing tongue And threatening tail, ne'er do each other harm ; While any creature of a better blood, They seem to fight for, while they circle safe And never touch it, — pines without a wound. Withers away beside their eyes and breath. See thou, if Puccio come not safely out Of Braccio's grasp, this Braccio sworn his foe, As Braccio safely from Domizia's toils Who hates him most ! — But thou, the friend of all, . . . Come out of them ! Lur. The Pisan trumpet now ! Hus. Breathe free — it is an enemy, no friend ! [Ooes. Lur. He keeps his instincts, no new culture mars Their perfect use in him ; just so the brutes Rest not, are anxious without visible cause. When change is in the elements at work, Which man's trained senses fail to apprehend. But here, — he takes the distant chariot- wheels For thunder, festal fire for lightning's flash. The finer traits of cultivated life For treachery and malevolence : I see ! Enter Tibtjbzio. Lur. Quick, sir, yom: message ! I but wait your message To sound the charge. You bring not overtures For truce ? — I would not, for your General's sake. You spoke of truce — a time to fight is come. And, whatsoe'er the fight's event, he His honest soldier's name to beat me with, Or leaves me all himself to beat, I trust ! T'ih. I am Tiburzio. Lur. You ? 'Tis— yes . . . Tibuizio ! You were the last to keep the ford i' the valley From Puccio, when I threw in succours there ! Why, I was on the heights — through the defile Ten minutes after, when the prey was lost! You wore an open skull-cap with a twist Of water-reeds — the plume being hewn away ; While I drove down my battle from the heights, — I saw with my own eyes ! Tib. And you are Luria Who sent my cohort, that laid down its arms In error of the battle-signal's sense. Back safely to me at the critical time — One of a hundred deeds — I know you ! Therefore To none but you could I . . . Lar. No truce, Tiburzio ! Tib. Luria, you know the peril imminent On Pisa, — that you have us in the toils. Us her last safeguard, all that intercepts The rage of her implacablest of foes From Pisa, — if we fall to-day, she falls. Tho' Lucca will arrive, yet, 'tis too late. You have so plainly here the best of it. That you must feel, brave soldier as you are. How dangerous we grow in this ex- treme. How truly formidable by despair. Still, probabilities should have their weight — The extremest chance is ours, but, that chance failing. You win this battle. Wherefore say I this? To be well apprehended when I add. This danger absolutely comes from you. Were you, who threaten thus, a Floren- tine . . . iMr. Sir, I am nearer Florence than her sons. I can, and have perhaps obliged the State, M 322 LURIA [act h Nor paid a mere son's duty. Tib. Even so ! Were you the son of Florence, yet endued With all your present nobleness of soul, No question, what I must communicate Would not detach you from her. Lur. Me, detach ? Tibi Time urges : you will ruin. presently Pisa, you never knew, for Florence' sake You think you know. I ha^e from, time to time Made prize of certain secret missives sent From Bracoio here, the Gommissary, home — And' knowing Florence otherwise, I piece The entire chain out, from these its scattered- links. Your trial oceupies the Signory ; They sit in judgment on your conduct now. When men at home inquire into the acts Which in the field e'en foes appre- ciate . . . Brief, they are Florentines ! You, saving them. Will seek the sure destruction saviours find. Lur. Tiburzio — Tib. All the wonder is of course. I am not here to teach you, nor direct, Only to loyally apprise — scarce that. This is the latest letter, sealed and safe. As it left here an hour ago; One way Of two thought free to Florence, I com- mand. The duplicate is on its road ; but this, — Read it, and then I shall have more to say. Lur. Florence ! Tib. Now, were yourself a Florentine, . This letter, let it hold the worst it can, Would be no reason you should fall away. The mother city is the mother still. And recognition of the children's service Her own affair ; reward — ther* 's no. reward ! But you are bound-by qjiite another fie ; Nor nature shows, nor reason, why at first A foreigner, born friend to all alike^ Should give himself to any special State More than another,, stand by Florence- side Rather than Pisa's ; 'tis as fair a city You war against, as that you fight for — famed As well as she in story, graced no less With noble heads and patriotic hearts : Nor to a stranger's eye would either cause. Stripped of the cumulative loves and hates Which take importance from familiar view. Stand as the right, and sole to be up- held. Therefore, should the preponderating gift Of love and trust, Florence was first to throw. Which made you hers not Pisa's, void the scale, — Old ties dissolving, things resume theii place And all begins again. Break seal and read ! At least let Pisa, offer for you now ! And I, as a good Pisan, sllaU rejoice — Though for myself I lose, in gaining you. This last fight and its opportunity ; ;The chance it brings of saving Pisa yet, !0r in the tijrn of battle dying so That shame should want its extreme bitterness. Lur. Tiburzio, you that fight for Pisa now As I for Florence . . . say m^y chance were yours ! You read this letter, and you find . . . no, no ! Too mad ! Tib. I read the letter, fiqd they purpose When I have crushed their foe, to crush me : well ? Lur. You, being their captain, what is it you do ? ACT n] LURIA 323 Tib. Why,as it is,aU cities are alike — Pisa will pay me much as Florence you ; I shall be as belied, whate'er the event. As you, or ■more : my weak head, they will say,. Prompted this last expedient, my faint heart Entailed on them indelible disgrace. Both which defects ask proper punish- ment. Another tenure of obedience, mine ! You are no son of Pisa's : break and read ! Lur. And act on what I read ? What act were fit ? If the firm-fixed foundation of my faith In Florence, which to me stands for mankind, — If that breaks up and* disim,prisoning From the abyss . . . Ah friend, it cannot be! You may be very sage, yet — all the world Having to fail, or your sagacity. You do not wish to find yourself alone ! What would the world be worth ? Whose love be sure ? The world remains — you are deceived ! Tib. Your hand ! I lead the vanguard. — If you fall, beside, The better — I am left to speak ! For me, This was my duty, nor would I rejoice If I could help, it misses its effect ; And after all you will look gallantly Found dead here with that letter in your breast. LuT. Tiburzio — I would see these people once And test them ere I answer finally ! At your arrival let the trumpet sound : If mine returns not then the wonted cry, It means that I believe^-am Pisa's ! Tib. Well ! [Goes. Lur. My heart will have it he speaks true ! My blood Beats close to this Tiburzio as a friend. If he had stept into my watch-tent, night And the wild desert full of foes around, I should have broke the bread and given the salt Secure, and, w-hen my hour of watch was done. Taken my turn to sleep between his knees, Safe in the untroubled brow and honest cheek. Oh, world, where all things pass and nought abides, Oh, life the long mutation — is it so ? Is it with life as with the body's change ? — Where, e'en tho' better follow, good must pass, Nor manhood's strength can mate with boyhood's grace. Nor age's wisdom, in its turn, find strength. But silently the first gift dies away. And though the new stays, never both at once ! Life's time of savage instinct o'er with me. It fades and dies away, past trusting more. As if to punish the ingratitude With which I turned to grow in these new lights. And learned to look with European eyes. Yet it is better, this cold certain way. Where Braccio's brow tells nothing, — Puccio's mouth, Domizia's eyes reject the searcher — yes ! For on their calm sagacity I lean, Their sense of right, deliberate choice of good. Sure, as they know my deeds, they deal with me. Yes, that is better — that is best of all ! Such faith stays when mere wild belief would go ! Yes — when the desert creature's heart, at fault Amid the scattering tempest's pillared sands. Betrays its steps into the pathless drift— The calm instructed eye of man holds fast By the sole bearing of the visible star. Sure that when slow the whirhng wreck subsides. The boundaries, lost now, shall be found again, — 324 LURIA [act II The palm-trees and the pyramid over all. Yes : I trust Florence : Pisa is deceived. Enter Braocio, Puccio, and Domizia. Brae. Noon 's at an end : no Lucca ? You must fight. Lur. Do you remember ever, gentle friends, I am no Florentine ? Dom. , It is yourself Who still are forcing us importunately, To bear in mind what else we should forget. Lur. For loss ! — For what I lose in being none ! No shrewd man, such as you yourselves respect, But would remind you of the stranger's loss In natural friends and advocates at home. Hereditary loves, even rivalships, With precedents for honour and reward. Still, there 's a gain, too ! If you taJje it so. The stranger's lot has special gain as well ! Do you forget there was my own far East I might havegiven away myself to, once. As now to Florence, and for such a gift, Stood there lilse a descended deity ? There, worship greets us ! what do I get here ? [Shows the letter. See ! Chance has put into my hand the means Of knowing what I earn, before I work ! Should I fight better, should I fight the worse. With your crown palpably before me ? see ! Here lies my whole reward ! Best know it now, > Or keep it for the end's entire delight ? Brae. If you serve Florence as the vulgar serve, For swordsman's-pay alone, — break seal and read ! In that case, you will find your full desert ! Lur. Give me my one last happy moment, friends ! You need me now, and all the. grati- tude This letter can contain will never balance The after-feeling that your need 's at end ! This moment . . . Oh, the East has use with you ! Its sword still flashes — is not flung aside With the past praise, in a dark comer yet! How say you ? 'Tis not so with Florentines — Captains of yours — for them, the ended war Is but a first step to the peace begun — He who did well in war, just earns the right To begin doing well in peace, you know ! And certain my precursors, — would not such Look to themselves in such a chance as this, Secure the ground they trod upon, perhaps ? For I have heard, by fits, or seemed to hear. Of strange occurrences. Ingratitude, Treachery even, — say that one of you Surmised this letter carried what might turn To harm hereafter, cause him pre- judice — What would he do ? Dom. [hastily.] Thank God and take revenge ! Turn her own force against the city straight. And even at the moment when the foe Sounded defiance . . . [TiBURZio's trumpet sounds in the Lur. Ah, you Florentines ! So would you do ? Wisely for you, no doubt ! My simple Moorish instinct bids me sink The obUgation you relieve me from. Still deeper ! [To Puc] Sound our answer, I should say ! And thus : — [tearing the paper.] — The battle ! That solves every doubt! ACT III] LURIA 325 ACT III AFTBENOOir. Puccio, as mahing a report to Jacopo. Puc. And here, your Captain must report the rest ; For, as I say, the main engagement over. And Luria's special part in it per- formed, How could subalterns like myself expect Leisure or leave to occupy the field And glean what dropped from his wide harvesting ? I thought, when Lucca at the battle's end Came up, just as the Pisan centre broke. That Luria would detach me and prevent The flying Pisans seeking what they found. Friends in the rear, a point to rally by. But no — more honourable proved my post ! I had the august captive to escort Safe to our camp — some other could pursue. Fight, and be famous ; gentler chance was mine — Tiburzio's wounded spirit must be soothed ! He 's in the tent there. < Jac. Is the substance down ? I write — ' The vanguard beaten, and both wings In full retreat — Tiburzio prisoner '• — And now, — ' Tljat they fell back and formed again On Lucca's coming.' — Why then, after all, 'Tis half a victory, no conclusive one ? Puc. Two operations where a sole had served. Jac. And Luria's fault was — ? Puc. Oh, for fault . . . not much ! He led the attack, a thought impetu- ously, — There 's commonly more prudence ; now, he seemed To hurry measures, otherwise well- judged ; By over-concentrating strength, at first. Against the enemy's van, both sides escaped : That 's reparable — yet it is a fault. Enter Braccio. Jac. As good as a full victory to Florence, With the advantage of a fault beside — What is it, Puccio ? — that by pressing forward With too impetuous . . . Brae. The report anon ! Thanks, Sir — you have elsewhere a charge, I know. [Puccio goes. There s nothing done but I would do again ; Yet, Lapo, it may be the Past proves nothing. And Luria has kept faithful to the end. Jac. I was for waiting. Brae. . Yes : so was not I. He could not choose but tear that letter — true ! Still, certain of his tones, I mind, and looks — You saw, too, with a fresher soul than I. So, Porzio seemed an injured man, they say! Well, I have gone upon the broad, sure ground. Enter Luria, Puccio, and Domizia. Lur. [to Puc] Say, at his pleasure I will see Tiburzio : All 's at his pleasure. Dom. [to Lur.] Were I not so sure You would reject, as you do constantly. Praise, — I might tell you what you have deserved Of Florence by this last and crowning feat : But words are vain. Lur. Nay, you may praise me now ! I want instruction every hour, I find. On points where once I saw least need of it ; And praise, I have been used to do without. Seems not so easy to dispense with now: After a battle half one's strength is gone — 326 liURIA [act in And glorious passion in us once ap- Our reason's calm cold dreadful voice begins. All justice, power and beauty scarce appear Monopolized by Florence, as of late. To me, the stranger : you, no doubt, may know Why Pisa needs must give her rival place. And I am growing nearer you, perhaps. For I, too, want to know and be assured. When a cause ceases to reward itself. Its friend needs fresh sustainments ; praise is one. And here stand you — you, Lady, praise me well. But yours — (your pardonj^s unlearned praise : To the motive, the endeavour, the heart's self, Your quick sense looks : you crown and call aright The soul of the purpose, ere 'tis shaiped as act. Takes flesh i' the world, and clothes itself a king. But when the act comes, stands for what 'tis worth, — Here 's Puccio, the skilled soldier, he 's my judge ! Was all well, Puccio ? Pmc. All was . . . must be well : If we beat Lucca presently, as doubt- less . . . — No, there 's no doubt, we must — all was well done. Imr. In truth 1 But you are of the trade, my Puccio ! You have the fellow-craftsman's sym- pathy. There 's none knows like a fellow of the craft. The all-unestimated sum of pains That go to a success the world can see : They praise then, but the best they never know — While -you know ! — Oh, if envy mix with it. Hate even, still the bottom-praiseof all, Whatever be the dregs, that drop 's pure gold ! — For nothing 's like it.; nothing else records Those daily, nightly drippings in the dark Of the heart's blood, the world lets drop away For ever — so, pure gold that praise -must be ! And I have yours, my soldier ! yet -the best Is still to come — there 's one looks on apart Whom all refers to, failure or success ; What 's done might be our best, our utmost work. And yet inadequate to serve his need. Here 's Braccio now, -for Florence — here 's our service — Well done for us, is it well done for him? His chosen engine, tasked to its full strength Answers his end ? Should he have chosen higher ? Do we help Florence, now our best is done ? Brae. This battle, with the foregone services. Saves Florence. Dar. Why then, all is very well ! Here am I in the middle of my friends, Who know me and who love me, one and all ! And yet . . . 'tis like . . . this instant while I speak Is .like the turning-moment of a dream When . . . Ah, you are not foreigners like me ! Well then, one always dreams of friends at home; And always comes, I say, the turning- point When something changes in the friendly eyes That love and look on you ... so slight, so slight . . . And yet it tells you they are dead and gone. Or changed and enemies, ior all their words, And all is mockery and a maddening show. You, now, so kind here, all you Floren- tines, What is it in your eyes . . . those lips, those brows . . , ACT ni] LTJRIA 327 Nobody spoke it . . . yet I know at well !— Come now — ^this battle saves you, all 's at end. Your use of me is o'er, for good, for evil, — Come now, what 's done against me, while I speak. In Florence ? Come ! I feel it in my blood. My eyes, my hair, a voice is in my ear That spite of all this smiling and kind You are betraying me ! What is it you do ? Have it your way, and think my use is over — That you are saved and may throw off the mask — Have it my way, and think more work remains Which I could do, — so, show you fear me not ! Or prudent be, or generous, as you choose. But tell me — tell what I refused to know At noon, lest heart should fail me ! Well ? That letter ? My fate is known at Florence ! What is it? Brae. Sir, I shall not conceal what you divine. It is no novelty for innocence To be suspected, but a privilege : The after certain compensation comes. Charges, I say not whether false or true. Have been preferred against you some time since. Which Florence was bound, plainly, to receive. And which are therefore undergoing! now The due investigation. That is all. I doubt not but your innocence will prove , Apparent and illustrious, as to me, To them this evening, when the trial ends. Zur. My trial ? Dom. Florence, Florence to the end. My whole heart thanks thee ! Puc. \to Beac] What is ' Trial,' sir ? It was not for a trial — surely, no — I furnished you those notes from time to time ? I held myself aggrieved — I am a man — And I might speak, — ay, and speak mere truth, too, And yet not mean at bottom of my heart What should assist a.- — Trial, do you say ? You should have told me ! Dom. Nay, .go on, go on ! His sentence ! Do they sentence him ? What is it ? The block ? Wheel ? Brae. Sentence there is none as yet. Nor shall I give my own opinion here Of what it should be, or is like to he. When it is passed, applaud .or dis- approve ! Up to that point, what is there to impugn ? Lur. They are right, Dhen, to try me ? Brae. I assert. Maintain, and justify the absolute right Of Florence to do all she can have done In this procedure, — standing on her guard, Receiving even services like yours With utmost fit suspicious wariness. In other matters, keep the mummery up ! Take all the experiences of the whole world. Each knowledge that broke through a heart to life. Each reasoning which, to work out, cost a brain, — In other cases, know these, warrant these. And then dispense with them' — 'tis very well! Let friend trust friend, and love de^ mand its like. And gratitude be claimed for benefits, — There 's grace in that — and when the fresh heart breaks, The new brain proves a martyr, what of» them? Where is the matter of one moth the more Singed in the candle, at a summer's end ? 328 LURIA [ACT III But Florence is no simple John or James To have his toy, his fancy, his conceit, That he 'sthe one excepted man by fate, And, when fate ^hows him he 's mis- taken there, Die with all good men's praise, and yield his place To Paul and George intent to try their chance ! Florence exists because these pass away; She 's a contrivance to supply a type Of Man, which men's deficiencies refuse ; She binds so many, that she grows out of them — Stands steady o'er their numbers, though they change And pass away — there 's always what upholds. Always enough to fashion the great show. As, see, yon hanging city, in the sun. Of shapely cloud substantially the same ! A thousand vapours rise and sink again. Are interfused, and live their life and die, — Yet ever hangs the steady show i' the air Under the sun's straight influence : that is well ! That is worth heaven to hold, and God to bless ! And so is Florence, — the unseen sun above. Which draws and holds suspended all of us, — Binds transient mists and vapours into one, Differing from each and better than they all. And shall she dare to stake this per- manence On any one man's faith ? Man's heart is weak, And its temptations many : let her prove ♦ Each servant to the very uttermost Before she grant him her reward, I say ! Dom. And as for hearts she chances to mistake. Wronged hearts, not destined to re- ceive reward. Though they deserve it, did she only know ! — What should she do for these ? Brae. What does she not ? Say, that she gives them but herself to serve ! Here 's Luria — what had profited his strength. When half an hour of sober fancying Had shown him step by step the use- Of strength exerted for its proper sake ? But the truth is, she did create that strength, Drew to the end the corresponding means. The world is wide — are we the only men ? Oh, for the time, the social purpose' Use words agreed on, bandy epithets. Call any man, sole great and wise and good ! But shall we, therefore, standing by ourselves. Insult our souls and God with the same speech ? There, swarm the ignoble thousands under Him — What marks us from the hundreds and the tens ? Florence took up, turned all one way the soul Of Luria with its fires, and here he stands ! She takes me out of all the world as him. Fixing my coldness till like ice it checks The fire ! So, Braccio, Luria, which is best? Lur. Ah, brave me ? And is this indeed the way To gain your good word and sincere esteem ? Am I the baited tiger that must turn And fight his baiters to deserve their praise ? Obedience has no fruit then ? — Be it so ! Do you indeed remember I stand here The Captain of the conquering army, — mine — With all your tokens, praise and pro- mise, ready ACT III] LURIA 329 To show for what their names were when you gave,. Not what you style them now you take away ? If I call in my troops to arbitrate, And in their first enthusiastie thrill Of victory, tell them how you menace me — Commending to their plain instinctive sense. My story first, your comment after- ward, — Will they take, think you, part with you or me ? When I say simply, I, the man they know, Ending my work, ask payment, and find Florence Has all this while provided silently Against the day of pay and proving words. By what you call my sentence that 's to come — ■ Will they sit waiting it- complacently ? When I resist that sentence at their head, What will you do, my mild antagonist ? Brae. I will rise up like fire, proud and triumphant That Florence knew you thoroughly and by me. And so was saved. ' See, Italy,' I'll say, ' The need of our precautions ! here 's oj man Was far advanced, just touched on the reward Less subtle' cities had accorded him ; But we were wiser : at the end comes this ! ' And from that minute all your strength will go. The very stones of Florence cry against The all-exacting, unenduring Luria,, Resenting her first slight probation thus ; As if he, only, shone and cast no shade, He, only, walked the earth with privi- lege Against suspicion, free from causing fear : So, for the first inquisitive rngther's- word, M He turned, and stood on his defence, forsooth ! Reward ? You will not be worth punishment ! Lur. And Florence knew me thus ! Thus I have lived, — And thus you, with the clear fine intellect, Braocio, the cold acute instructed' mind-. Out of the stir, so calm and unconfused. Reported me — how could you other- wise ! Ay ? — and what dropped from you, just now, moreover ? Your information, Puccio 1 — did your skill And understanding sympathy approve Such a report of me ? Was this the end ? Or is even this the end ? Can I stop here — You, Lady, with the woman's stand ajpart. The heart to see with, not mam's learned . . . I cannot fathom why you should destroy The unoflfending one, you call your friend — ■ So, looking at the good examples here Of friendship, 'tis but natural I ask — Had you a further end, in all you spoke. Than profit to me, in those instances Of perfidy from Florence to her chiefs — All I remember now for the first time ? Dom. I am a daughter of the Traver- sari. Sister of Porzio and of Berto both. I have foreseen all that has come to pass. 3 I knew the Florence that could doubt their faith. Must needs mistrust a stranger's — holding back Reward from them, must hold back his rewardi And I believed, the shame they bore and died. He would not bear, but live and figttt against — 3 330 LURIA [act III Seeing he was of other stuff than they. Lur. Hear them ! All these against one foreigner ! And all this while, where is in the whole world To his good faith a single witness ? Tihurzio. [who has entered during the preceding dialogue.^ Here ! Thus I bear witness to it, not in word But deed. I live for Pisa ; she 's not lost By many chances — much prevents from that! Her army has been beaten, I am here. But Lucca comes at last, one chance exists. I rather would see Pisa three times lost Than saved by any traitor, even by you; The example of a traitor's happy fortune Would bring more evil in the end than Pisa rejects such: save yourself and her! I, in her name, resign forthwith to you My charge, — the highest of her ofiSces. You shall not, by my counsel, turn on Florence Her army, give her calumny that ground — Nor bring it with you : be you all we gain I And all she'll lose, — a head to deck some bridge. And save the crown's cost that should deck the head. Leave her to perish in her perfidy. Plague-stricken and stripped naked to all eyes, A proverb and a bye-word in all mouths! Go you to Pisa ! Florence is my place — Leave me to tell her of the rectitude, I, from the first, told Pisa, knowing it. To Pisa ! e Dom. Ah, my Bracoio, are you caught ? Brae. Puccio, good soldier and selected man. Whom I have ever kept beneath my eye, Ready, as fit, to serve in this event Florence, who clear foretold it from the first — Through me, she gives you the com- mand and charge She takes, through me, from him who held it late ! A painful trial, very sore, was yours : All that could draw out, marshal in array The selfish passions 'gainst the public good — Slights, scorns, neglects, were heaped on you to bear : And ever you did bear and bow the head ! It had been sorry trial, to precede Your feet, hold up the promise of re- ward For luring gleam ; your footsteps kept the track Through dark and doubt : take all the light at once ! Trial is over, consummation shines ; Well have you served, as well hence- forth command ! Puc. No, no ... I daro not ! I am grateful, glad ; But Luria — you shall understand he 's wronged — And he 's my Captain — this is not the way We soldiers climb to fortune : think again ! The sentence is not even passed, beside ! I dare not . . ; where 's the soldier could ? Lur. Now, Florence — Is it to be ? — You will know all the strength Of the savage — to your neck the proof must go ? You will prove the brute nature ? Ah, I see ! The savage plainly is impassible — He keeps his calm way through insult- ing words, Sarcastic looks, sharp gestures — one of which Would stop you, fatal to your finer sense : But if he steadily advances, still Without a mark upon his callous hide. Through the mere brushwood you grow angry with. And leave the tatters of your flesh upon. ACT III] LURIA 331 — You have to learn that when the true bar comes. The thick mid-forest, the real obstacle, Which when you reach, you give the labour up. Nor dash on, but lie down composed before, — He goes against it, like the brute he is! It falls before him, or he dies in his course ! I kept my course through past in- gratitude — I saw — it does seem, now, as if I saw. Could not but see, those insults as they fell, — Ay, let them glance from off me, very like. Laughing, perhaps, to think the quality You grew so bold on, while you so despised The Moor's dull mute inappreheusive mood. Was saving you. I bore and kept my course. Now real wrong fronts me — see if I succumb ! Florence withstands me ? — I will punish her ! At night my sentence will arrive, you say! Till then I cannot, if I would, rebel — Unauthorized to lay my office down. Retaining my fuU power to will and do : After — it is to see. Tiburzio, thanks ! Go ; you are free : join Lucca. I suspend All further operations till to-night. Thank you, and for the silence most of all! ITo Brac.l Let my complacent bland accuser go. And carry his self-approving head and heart Safe through the army which would trample him Dead in a moment at my word or sign ! Go, sir, to Florence ; tell friends what I say — That while I wait their sentence, theirs waits them ! [To Dom.] You, Lady, — you have black Italian eyes ! I would be generous if I might . . . Oh, yes— For I remember how so oft you seemed Inclined at heart to break the barrier down Which Florence finds God built between us both. Alas, for generosity ! this hour Demands strict justice : bear it as you may ! I must — the Moor, — the Savage, — pardon you. [To Puc.] Puccio, my trusty soldier, see them forth ! ACT IV EVENING. Enter Pucoio and Jacopo. Puc. What Luria vnll do ? Ah, 'tis yours, fair sir. Your and your subtle-witted master's part. To tell me that ; I tell you what he can. Jac. Friend, you mistake my station : I observe The game, watch how my betters play, no more. Puc. But mankind are not pieces — there 's your fault ! You cannot push them, and, the first move made. Lean back to study what the next should be. In confidence that, when 'tis fixed upon. You'll find just where you left them, blacks and whites : Men go on moving when your hand 's away. You buildi I notice, firm on Luria's faith This whole time, — fitrmlier than I choose to build. Who never doubted it — of old, that is — With Luria in his ordinary mind : But now, oppression makes the wise man mad. How do I know he will not turn and stand And hold his own against you, as he may? Suppose he but withdraws to Pisa — well, — 332 LURIA [act IV Then, even if all happens to your wish. Which is a chance . . . Jac. Nay — 'twas an oversight, Not waiting till the proper warrant came : You could not take what was not ours to give. But when at night the sentence really comes, And Florence authorizes past dispute Luria's removal and your own advance. You will perceiveyour duty and accept? Puc. Accept what? muster-rolls of soldiers' names ? An army upon paper ? — I want men, Their hearts as well as hands — and where 's a heart That 's not with Luria, in the multitude I come from walking through by Luria's side ? You gave themLuria,sethi)monto grow. Head-like, upon their trunk, one blood feeds both. They feel him there, and live, and well know why ! — For they do know, if you are ignorant. Who kept his own place and respected theirs; Managed their ease, yet never spared his own. All was your deed : another might have served— There 's peradventure no such dearth of men — But you chose Luria — sOj they grew to him. And now, for nothing they can under- stand, Luria 's removed, o£E is to roll the head — The body 's mine — much I shall do with it ! Jac. That 's at the worst. Puc. No — at the best, it is ! Best, do you hear ? I saw them by his side. Only we two with Luria in the camp Are left that know the secret ? You think that ? Hear what I saw : from rear to van, no heart But felt the quiet patient hero there Was wronged, nor in the moveless ranks an eye But glancing told its fellow the whole story Of that convicted silent knot of spies Who passed thro' them to Florence; they might pass — No breast but gladlier beat when free of such ! Our troops will catch up Luria, close him round. Lead him to Florence as their natural lord. Partake his fortunes, live or die with him. Jac. And by mistake catch up along with him Puccio, no doubt, compelled in self- despite To still continue Second in Command ! Puc. No, Sir, no second nor so fortunate ! Your tricks succeed with me too well for that ! I am as you have made me, and shall die A mere trained fighitiag-haek to serve your end ; With words, you laugh at while they leave your mouth. For my life's rules and ordinance of God! I have to do my duty, keep my faith. And earn my praise, and guard against my blame. As I was trained. I shall accept your charge. And fight against one better than my- self, Spite of my heart's conviction of his worth — That, you may count on ! — just as hitherto I have gone on, persuaded I was wronged, Slighted, and moody, terms we learn by rote, — All because Luria superseded me — Because the better nature, fresh- inspired,, Mounted above me to its proper place ! What mattered all the kindly gracious- ness. And' cordial brother's-bearinig ? This was clear — ACT IV] LURIA 333 I, once the captain, was subaltern now. And so must keep complaining like a fool! Go, take the curse of a lost man, I say ! You neither play your puppets to the end, Nor treat the real man, — for his real- ness' sake Thrust rudely in their place, — with such regard As might console them for their altered rank. Me, the mere steady soldier, you depose For Luria, and here 's all your pet deserves ! Of what account, then, are my services ? One word for all : whatever Luria does, — If backed by his indignant troops he turns In self-defence and Florence goes to ground, — Or for a signal, everlasting shame. He pardons you, simply seeks better friends And heads the Pisan and the Lucohese troops — And if I, for you ingrates past belief, Kesolve to fight against a man called false. Who, inasmuch as he was true, fights there — Whichever way he win, he wins for me, For every soldier, for the true and good ! Sir, chronicling the rest, omit not this ! As they go, enter Lubia and Husain. ■Hus. Saw'st thou ? — For they are gone ! The world lies bare Before thee, to be tasted, felt and seen Like what it is, now Florence goes away 1 Thou livest now, with men art man again ! Those Florentines were eyes to thee of old; But Braccio, but Domizia, gone is each : There lie beneath thee thine own multitudes. Saw'st thou ? Lur. I saw. Hus. Then, hold thy course, my King ! The years return. Let thy heart have its way ! Ah, they would play with thee as with all else ? Turn thee to use, and fashion thee anew. Find out God's fault in thee as in the rest ? Oh, watch but, listen only to these men Once at their occupation! Ere ye know. The free great heaven is shut, their stifling pall Drops till it frets the very tingling hair, So weighs it on our head, — and, for the earth, Our common earth is tethered up and down. Over and across — ' here shalt thou move,' they say ! Lur. Ay, Husain ? Hus. So have they spoiled all beside ! So stands a man girt round with Florentines, Priests, greybeards, Braccios, women, boys and spies, All in one tale, each singing the same song. How thou must house, and live at bed and board. Take pledge and give it, go their every way. Breathe to their measure, make thy blood beat time With theirs — or, all is nothing — thou art lost — A savage . . . how shouldst thou per- ceive as they ? Feel glad to stand 'neath God's close naked hand ! Look up to it ! Why, down they pull thy neck. Lest it crush thee, who feel'st it and wouldst kiss. Without their priests that needs must glove it first. Lest peradventure it offend thy lip ! Love Woman ! Why, a very beast thou art ! Thou must . . . Lur. Peace, Husain ! Hus. Ay, but, spoiling all. For all, else true things, substituting false. That they should dare spoil, of all instincts, thine ! 334 IJQRIA [act IV Should dare to take thee with thine instincts up. Thy battle-ardours, like a ball of fire, And class them and allow them place and play So far, no farther — unabashed the while ! Thou with the soul that never can take rest — Thou born to do, undo, and do again. And never to be still, — wouldst thou make war ? Oh, that is commendable, just and right ! ' Come over,' say they, ' have the honour due In living out thy nature ! Fight thy best : It is to be for Florence, not thyself ! For thee, it were a horror and a plague ; For us, when war is made for Florence, see. How all is changed : the fire that fed on earth Now towers to heaven ! ' — Lur. And what sealed up so long My Husain's mouth ? Hus. Oh, friend, oh, lord — for me, What am I ? — I was silent at thy side. Who am a part of thee. It is thy hand. Thy foot that glows when in the heart fresh blood Boils up, thou heart of me ! Now, live again ! Again love as thou likest, hate as free ! Turn to no Braccios nor Domizias now, To ask, before thy very limbs dare move. If Florence' welfare be concerned thereby ! Lur. So clear what Florence must expect of me ? Hus. Both armies against Florence ! Take revenge ! Wide, deep — to live upon, in feeling now, — And after, in remembrance, year by year — And, with the dear conviction, die at last! She lies now at thy pleasure : pleasure have ! Their vaunted intellect that gilds our sense. And blends with life, to show it better by. — How think'st thou ? — I have turned that light on them ! They called our thirst of war a transient thing; ' The battle-element must pass away From life,' they said, ' and leave a tranquil world.' — Master, I took their light and turned it full On that dull turgid vein they said would burst And pass away ; and as I looked on life. Still everywhere I tracked this, though it hid And shifted, lay so silent as it thought, Changed oft the hue yet ever was the same. Why, 'twas all fighting, all their nobler life! All work was fighting, every harm — defeat. And every joy obtained — a victory ! Be not their dupe ! —Their dupe? That hour is past ! Here stand'st thou in the glory and the calm I All is determined ! Silence for me now ! [HUSAIN goes. Lur. Have I heard all ? Dom. [advancing from the background.] No, Luria, I remain ! Not from the motives these have urged on thee. Ignoble, insufBcient, incomplete. And pregnant each with sure seeds of decay. As failing of sustainment from thyself, — Neither from low revenge, nor selfishness. Nor savage lust of power, nor one, nor all, Shalt thou abolish Florence ! I pro- claim The angel in thee, and reject the sprites Which ineffectual crowd about his strength. ACT IV] LURIA 335 And mingle with liis work and claim a share ! Inconsciously to the augustest end Thou hast arisen : second not in rank So much as time, to him who first ordained That Florence, thou art to destroy, should be. Yet him a star, too, guided, who broke first The pride of lonely power, the life apart, And made the eminences, each to each, Lean o'er the level world and let it lie Safe from the thunder henceforth 'neath their tops ; So the few famous men of old com- bined. And let the multitude rise underneath. And reach them, and unite — so Florence grew : Braccio speaks true, it was well worth the price. But when the sheltered many grew in pride And grudged the station of the elected ones. Who, greater than their kind, are truly great Only in voluntary servitude — Time was for thee to rise, and thou art here. Such plague possessed this Florence : who can tell The mighty girth and greatness at the heart Of those so perfect pillars of the grove She pulled down in her envy ? Who as I, The light weak parasite born but to twine Round each of them and, measuring them, live ? My light love keeps the matchless circle safe. My slender life proves what has pass'd away. I lived when they departed ; lived to cling To thee, the mighty stranger ; thou wouldst rise And burst the thraldom, and avenge, I knew. I have done nothing ; all was thy strong heart. But a bird's weight can break the infant tree Which after holds an aery in its arms, And 'twas my care that nought should warp thy spire From rising to the height ; the roof is reached : Break through and there extends the sky above ! Go on to Florence, Luria ! 'Tis man's cause ! Fail thou, and thine own fall is least to dread ! Thou keepest Florence in her evil way, Encouragest her sin so much the more — And while the bloody Past is justified, Thou all tjie surelier dost the Future wrong. The chiefs to come, the Lurias yet unborn. That, greater than thyself, are reached o'er thee Who giv'st the vantage-ground their foes require. As o'er my prostrate House thyself wast reached ! Man calls thee, God requites thee. All is said, The mission of my House fulfilled at last : And the mere woman, speaking for herself. Reserves speech — it is now no woman's time. [DoMiziA goes. Lur. Thus at the last must figure Luria, then ! Doing the various work of. all his friends. And answering every purpose save his own. No doubt, 'tis well for them to wish ; but him — After the exploit what were left ? Perchance A little pride upon the swarthy brow. At having brought successfully to bear 'Gainst Florence' self her own especial arms, — Her craftiness, impelled by fiercer strength 336 LURIA [act IV From Moorish blood than feeds the northern wit^ But after i! — once the easy vengeance willed, Beautiful Florence at a word laid low — (Not an her Domes and Towers and Palaces, Not even in a dream, that outrage !) — low. As shamed in her own eyes henceforth for ever, liOW, for the rival cities round to see, C!onquered and pardoned Iby a hireling Moor ! — For him, who did the irreparable wrong, What iwould be left, his life's illusion fled,^ What ihope or trust in the fprlom wide world ? How strange that Florence should mistake me so ! Whence grew this ? What withdrew her faith from me ? Some cause ! These fretful-blooded children talk Against their mother, — ithey are wronged, they say — Notable wrongs her smile makes up again ! So,, taking fire at each supposed of- fence. They may speak rashly, suffer for their But what could it have been in word or deed That injured me ? Some one word spoken more Out of my heart, and all Jiad changed perhaps ! My fault, it must have been, — for, what gaiij they ? Why risk the danger ? See, what I could do ! And my fault, wherefore visit upon them, My Florentines ? The generous re- venge, I meditate ! To stay here passively. Go at their summons, be as they dis- pose — Why, if my very soldiers keep their ranks. And if I pacify my chiefs, what then ! I ruin Florence, teach her friends mistrust. Confirm her enemies in harsh belief, And when she finds one day, as she must find. The strange mistake, and how my heart was hers. Shall it console me, that my Floren- tines Walk with a sadder step, a graver face. Who took me with such frankness, praised me so. At the glad outset ? Had they loved me less. They had less feared what seemed a change in me. And after all, who did the harm ? Not they! How could they interpose with those old fools In the council ? Suffer for those old fools' sakes — They, who made pictures of me, sang the songs About my battles ? Ah, we Moors get blind Out of our proper world where we can see ! The sun that guides is closer to us ! There- There, my own orb ! He sinks from out the sky ! Why, there ! a whole day has he blessed the land. My land, our Florence all about the hiUs, The fields and gardens, vineyards, olive-grounds, All have been blest — and yet we Florentines With minds intent upon our battle here. Found that he rose too soon, or else too late. Gave us no vantage, or gave Pisa more — ■ And so we wronged him ! Does he turn in ire To burn the earth that camiot under- stand ? Or drop out quietly, and leave the sky. His task once ended ? Night wipes blame away. ACT IV] LURIA 337 Another morniag from my East shall spring And find all eyes at leisure, more dis- posed To watch and understand its work, no doubt. So, praise the new sun, the successor praise. Praise the new Luria,and forget the old ! [Taking a phial from his breast. — Strange ! This is all I brought from my own land To help me : Europe would supply the rest, All needs beside, all other helps save this! I thought of adverse fortune, battles lost. The natural upbraidings of the loser. And then this quiet remedy to seek At end of the disastrous day — [He drinks. 'Tis sought ! This was my happy triumph-morning : Florence Is saved : I drink this, and ere night, — die ! — Strange ! I ACT V NIOHT. 1 Ltteia and Puccio. Lur. I thought to do this, not to talk this : well, Such were my projects for the city's good, To help her in attack or by defence. Time, here as elsewhere, soon or late may take Our foresight by surprise thro' chance and change ; But not a little we provide against — If you see clear on every point. Puc. Most clear. Lnr. Then all is said — not touch, if you count words, Yet for an understanding ear enough ; And all that my brief stay permits, beside. Nor must you blame me, as I sought to teach My elder in command, or threw a doubt Upon the very skill, it comforts me To know I leave, — your steady soldier- ship Which never failed me : yet, because it seemed A stranger's eye might haply note defect That skill, through use and custom, overlooks, I have gone into the old cares once more. As if I had to come and save again Florence — that May — that morning ! 'Tis night now. Well— I broke off with ? . . . Puc. Of the past campaign You spoke — of measures to be kept in mind For future use. Lur. True, so . . . but, time — no time ! As well end here: remember this, and me ! Farewell now ! Puc. Dare I speak ? Lur. ■ — The South o' the river — How is the second stream called . . . no, —the third ? Puc. Pesa. Lur. And a stone's-cast from the fording-place. To the East, — the little mount's name ? Puc. " liUpO. Lur. Ay ! Ay — there the tower, and all that side is safe ! With San Komano, West of Evola, San Miniato, Scala, Empoli, Five towers in all, — forget not ! Puc. Fear not me ! Lur. — Nor to memorialize the Council now, I' the easy hour, on those battalions' claim On the other side, by Staggia on the hills. Who kept the Sienese at check ! Puc. One word — Sir, I must speak ! That you submit yourself To Florence' bidding, howsoe'er it prove, And give up the command to me — is much, 338 LURIA [act V Too much, perhaps : but what you tell me now. Even will affect the other course you choose — Poor as it may be, peril even that ! Refuge you seek at Pisa : yet these plans All militate for Florence, all conclude Your formidable work to make her queen Of the country, — which her rivals rose against When you began it, — which to in- terrupt, Pisa would buy you off at any price ! You cannot mean to sue for Pisa's help. With this made perfect and on record ? Lur. I — At Pisa, and for refuge, do you say ? Pvx. Where are you going, then ? You must decide On leaving us, a silent fugitive. Alone, at night — you, stealing through our lines. Who were this morning's Luria, — you escape To painfully begin the world once more. With such a Past, as it had never been ! Where are you going ? Imt. Not so far, my Puccio, But that I hope to hear, enjoy and praise (If you mind praise from your old captain yet) Each happy blow you strike for Flor- ence ! Fuc. — Ay, But ere you gain your shelter, what may come ? For see — thoughnothing 's surely known - as yet, Still — truth must out — I apprehend the worst. If mere suspicion stood for certainty Before, there 's nothing can arrest the steps Of Florence toward your ruin, once on foot. Forgive her fifty times, it matters not ! And having disbelieved your innocence, How can she trust your magnanimity ? You may do harm to her — why then, you will ! And Florence is sagacious in pursuit. Have you a friend to count on ? Imt. One sure friend. Puc. Potent ? Imt. All-potent. Puc. And he is apprised ? Lur. He waits me. Puc. So !— Then I, put in your place. Making my profit of all done by you. Calling your labours mine, reaping their fruit. To these, the State's gift, now add this of yours — That I may take to my peculiar store AUyourinstructions todo Florence good. And if, by putting some few happily In practice, I should both advantage her And draw down honoiu- on myself, — what then ? Lur. Do it, my Puccio ! I shall know and praise. Puc. Though, so, men say, " mark what we gain by change — A Puccio for a Luria ! ' Lur. Even so ! Piic. Then, not for fifty hundred Florences, Would I accept one office save my own, Fill any other than my rightful post Here at your feet, my Captain and my Lord! That such a cloud should break, such trouble be. Ere a man settle, soul and body, down Into his true place and take rest for ever ! Here were my wise eyes fixed on your right-hand. And so the bad thoughts came and the worse words. And all went wrong and painfully enough, — No wonder, — till, the right spot stum- Bled on, All the jar stops, and there is peace at once ! I am yours now, — a tool your right- hand wields ! God's love, that I should live, the man I am. On orders, warrants, patents and the like. ACT V] LURIA 339 As if there were no glowing eye i' the world, To glance straight inspiration to my brain. No glorious heart to give mine twice the beats ! For, see — my doubt, where is it ? — fear ! 'tis flown ! And Florence and her anger are a tale To scare a child ! Why, half-a-dozen words Will tell her, spoken as I now can speak. Her error, my past folly — and all 's right. And you are Luria, our great chief again ! Or at the worst — which worst were best of all— To exile or to death I follow you ! Lur. Thanks, Puccio ! Let me use the privilege You grant me : if I still command you, — stay ! Remain here — my vicegerent, it shall be. And not successor : let me, as of old. Still serve the State, my spirit prompt- ing yours — Still triumph, one for both. There! Leave me now ! You cannot disobey my first command ? Remeinber what I spoke of Jaoopo, And what you promised to concert with him ! Send him to speak with me — nay, no farewell — You shall be by me when the sentence comes. [Puccio goes. So, there 's one Florentine returns again ! Out of the genial morning-company, One face is left to take into the night. Enter Jaoopo. Jac. I wait for your commands. Sir. Lur. What, so soon ? I thank your ready presence and fair word. I used to notice you in early days As of the other species, so to speak. Those watchers of the lives of us who act — That weigh our motives, scrutinize our thoughts. So, I propound this to your faculty As you would tell me, were a town to take . . . That is, of old. I am departing hence Under these imputations ; that is nought — I leave no friend on whom they may rebound. Hardly a name behind me in the land. Being a stranger : all the more behoves That I regard how altered were the case With natives of the country, Florentines, On whom the like mischance should fall : the roots 0' the tree survive the ruin of the trunk — No root of mine will throb — you under- stand. But I had predecessors, Florentines, Accused as I am now, and punished so — The Traversari : you know more than I How stigmatized they are, and lost in shame. Now, Puccio, who succeeds me in com- mand. Both served them and succeeded, in due time ; He knows the way, holds proper documents. And has the power to lay the simple truth Before an active spirit, as I know yours : And also there 's Tiburzio, my new friend. Will, at a word, confirm such evidence. He being the chivalric soul we know. I put it to your instinct — were 't not well, — A grace, though but for contrast's sake, no more, — If you who witness, and have borne a Involuntarily, in my mischance. Should, of your proper motion, set your skill To indicate — that is, investigate The reason or the wrong of what befell Those famous citizens, your country- men ? 340 LURIA [act V Nay, you shall promise nothing : but reflect, And if your sense of justice prompt you — good ! Jac. And if, the trial past, their fame stand clear To all men's eyes, as yours, my Lord, to mine — Their ghosts may sleep in quiet satis- fied 1 For me, a straw thrown up into the air, i My testimony goes for a straw's worth. I used to hold by the instructed brain. And move with Braccio as the master- wind ; The heart leads surelier : I must move with you — I As greatest now, who ever were the best. ! So, let the last and humblest of your servants Accept your charge, as Braccio's hereto- 1 fore. And offer homage, by obeying you ! [Jacopo goes. I/ur. Another ! — Luria goes not poorly forth ! If we could wait ! The only fault 's with time : All men become good creatures — but so slow ! Erder Domizia. Imr. Ah, you once more ? Dom. Domizia, that you knew. Performed her task, and died with it. 'Tis I, Another woman, you have never known. Let the Past sleep now. Imt. I have done with it. Dom. How inexhaustibly the spirit grows ! One object, she seemed erewhile born to reach With her whole energies and die con- tent, — So like a wall at the world's end it stood. With nought beyond to live for, — is it reached ? Already are new undreamed energies Outgrowing under, and extending further To a new object ; — there 's another world ! See ! I have told \he purpose of my life : 'Tis gained — you are decided, well or ill^ You march on Florence, or submit to her — My work is done with you, your brow , declares. But — leave you ? More of you seems yet to reach ! I stay for what I just begin to see. Lur. So that you turn not to the Past! Dom. You trace Nothing but ill in it — my selfish im- pulse. Which sought its ends and disregarded yours ? Lur, Speak not against your nature .: best, each keep His own — you, yours — most, now, when I keep mine, — At least, fall by it, having too weakly stood. God's finger marks distinctions, all so fine. We would confound : the lesser has its use. Which, when it apes the greater, is . foregone. I, born a Moor, lived half a Florentine ; But, punished properly, can end, a Moor. Beside, there is what makes me under- stand Your nature : I have seen it. Dom. Aught like mine ? Lur. In my own East if you would stoop and help My barbarous illustration ! it sounds ill- Yet there 's no wrong at bottom — rather, praise. Dom. Well? Imr. We have creatures there, which if you saw The first time, you would doubtless marvel at. For their surpassing beauty, craft, and strength. And though it were a lively moment's shock ACT V] LURIA 341 Wherein you found the purpose of those tongues That seemed innocuous in their lambent play, Yet, once made know such grace re- quires such guard. Your reason soon would acquiesce, I think. In the wisdom which made all things for the best- — So, take them, good with ill, con- tentedly. The prominent beauty with the secret sting. I am glad to have seen you wondrous Florentines : Yet . . . Dom. I am here to listen. Lur. My own East ! How nearer God we were ! He glows above With scarcean intervention, pressesclose And palpitatingly. His soul o'er ours ! We feel Him, nor by painful reason know ! The everlasting minute of creation Is felt there ; Now it is, as it was Then ; All changes at His instantaneous will. Not by the operation of a law Whose maker is elsewhere at other work ! His hand is still engaged upon His world — Man's praise can forward it, Man's prayer suspend. For is not God all-mighty ? — To recast The world, erase oH things and make them new. What costs it Him ? So, man breathes nobly there ! And inasmuch as Feeling, the East's gift, Is quick and transient — comes, and lo, is gone — While Northern Thought is slow and durable. Surely a mission was reserved for me. Who, born witha perception of the power And use of the North's thought for us of the East, Should have stayed there and turned it to account. Giving Thought's character and per- manence To the too-transitory Feeling there — Writing God's messages in mortal words ! Instead of which, I leave my fated field For tliis where such a task is needed least, Whereall are born consummate in the art I just perceive a chance of making mine, — And then, deserting thus my early post, I wonder that the men I com© among Mistake me ! There, how all had understood. Still brought fresK stuff for me to stamp and keep, Fresh instinct to translate them into law ! Me, who . . . Dom. Who here the greater task achieve, More needful even : who have brought fresh stuff For us to mould, interpret and prove right,— New feelings fresh from God, which, could we know 0' the instant, where had been our need of them 1 — Whose life re-teaches us what life should be. What faith is, loyalty and simpleness. All, their revealment taught us so long since That, having mere tradition of the fact, — Truth copied falteringly from copies faint. The early traits all dropped away, — we said On sight of faith like yours, ' so looks not faith We understand, described and taught before.' But still, the truth was shovyn ; and though at first It suffer from our haste, yet trace by trace Old memories reappear, the likeness grows. Our slow Thought does its work, and all 's re-known. 342 LURIA [act V Oh, noble Luria ! what you have decreed I see not, but no animal revenge. No brute-like punishment of bad by worse — It cannot be, the gross and vulgar way Traced for me by convention and mistake. Has gained that calm approving eye and brow ! Spare Florence, after all ! LetLuria trust To his own soul, and I will trust to him ! Lur. In time ! Dom. How, Luria ? Lur. It.is midnight now. And they arrive from Florence with my fate. Dom. I hear no step. Lur. I feel it, as»you say. Enter Hosain. Hus. The man returned from Flor- ence ! Lur. As I knew. Hus. He seeks thee. Lur. And I only wait for him. Aught else ? HVfS. A movement of the Lucohese troops Southward — Lur. Toward Florence ? Have out instantly . . . Ah, old use clings ! Puccio must care henceforth ! In — quick — 'tis nearly midnight ! Bid him come ! Elder TiBnRzio, Bracoio, and Puccio. Lur. Tiburzio ? — not at Pisa ? Tib. I return From Florence : I serve Pisa, and must think By such procedure I haveservedherbest. A people is but the attempt of many To rise to the completer life of one ; And those who live as models for the mass Are singly of more value than they all. Such man are you, and such a time is this That your sole fate concerns » nation more Than its apparent welfare ; and to prove Your rectitude, and duly crown the same. Imports it far beyond the day's event. Its battle's loss or gain : the mass remains, — Keep but the model safe, new men will rise To study it, and other days to prove How great a good was Luria's having lived. I might go try my fortune as you bade. And joining Lucca, helped by your disgrace, Repair our harm — so were to-day's work done ; But where find Luria for our sons to see ? No, I look farther. I have testified (Declaring my submission to your arms) Her full success to Florence, making clear Your probity, as none else could : I spoke — And it shone clearly ! Lur. Ah — till Braccio spoke ! Brae. Till Braccio told in just a word the whole — His old great error, and return to knowledge : Which told . . . Nay, Luria, / should droop the head, I, whom shame rests with ! yet I dare look up. Sure of your pardon when I sue for it. Knowing you wholly — so, let midnight end ! Sunrise approaches ! Still you answer not ? The shadow of the night is past away ; lOur circling faces here 'mid which it grew Are all that felt it : they close round you now To witness its completest vanishing. Speak, Luria ! Here begins your true career : Look up to It ! All now is possible, The glory and the grandeur of each dream : And every prophecy shall be fulfilled Save one — (nay, now your word must come at last) — That you would punish Florence ! Hus. ['pointing to Luria's dead body.'\ That is done. 343 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 1846 PART FIRST, BEING WHAT WAS CALLED THE POETRY OF CHIAPPINO'S LIFE : AND PART SECOND, ITS PROSE PART I Inside Luitoljto's house at Faenza. Chiappino, Eulalia. Eu. What is it keeps Luitolfo ? Night 's fast falling, And 'twas scarce sunset . . . had the Ave-bell Sounded before he sought the Provost's House ? I think not : all he had to say would take Few minutes, such a very few, to say ! How do you think, Chiappino ? If our lord The Provost were less friendly to your friend Than everybody here professes him, I should begin to tremble — should not you ? Why are you silent when so many times I turn and speak to you ? Ch. That 's good ! Eu. You laugh ? Ch. Yes. I had fancied nothing that bears price In the whole world was left to call my own ; And, may be, felt a little pride thereat. Up to a single man's or woman's love, Down to the right in my own flesh and blood. There 's nothing mine, I fancied, — till you spoke ! — Counting, you see, as ' nothing ' the permission To study this peculiar lot of mine In silence : well, go silence with the rest Of the world's good ! What can I say, shall serve ? Eu. This, — lest you, even more than needs, embitter Our parting : say your wrongs have cast, for once, A cloud across your spirit ! Oh. How a cloud ? Eu. No man nor woman loves you, did you say ? Oh. My God, were 't not for Thee ! Eu. Ay, God remains, Even did men forsake you. Ch. Oh, not so ! Were 't not for God, I mean, what hope of truth — Speaking truth, hearing truth, would stay with man ? I, now — the homeless, friendless, penni- less, Proscribed and exiled wretch who speak to you, — Ought to speak truth, yet could not, for my death, (The thing that tempts me most) help speaking lies About your friendship, and Luitolfo's courage, And all our townsfolk's equanimity, — Through sheer incompetence to rid myself Of the old miserable lying trick Caught from the liars I have lived with, —God, Did I not turn to Thee! it is Thy prompting I dare to be ashamed of, and Thy counsel Would die along my coward lip, I know — But I do turn to Thee ! This craven tongue. These features which refuse the soul its way. Reclaim Thou ! Give me truth — truth, power to speak — And after be sole present to approve 344 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY [part I The spoken truth spoken truth, Who knows but you. or, stay, that too, might approve Eu. Ah, well — Keep silence, then, Chiappino ! Ck. Ydu would hear. And shall now, — why the thing we're pleased to style My gratitude to you and all your friends For service done me, is just gratitude So much as yours was service — and no more. I was born here; so was Luitolfo, — both At one time, much with the same circumstance Of rank and wealth ; and both, up to this night Of parting company, have side by side Still fared', he in the sunshine^I, the shadow. ' Why ? ' asks the world : ' Because,' replies the world To its complacent self, ' these play- fellows, Who took at church the holy-water drop One from the other's finger, and so forth, — Were of two moods : Luitolfo was the proper Friend-making, everywhere friend-find- ing soul. Fit for the sunshine, so, it followed him. A happy-tempered bringer of the best Out of the worst ; whoi bears with what 's past cure. And puts so good a face on 't — wisely Where action 's fruitless, while he remedies In silence what the foolish rail against ; A man to smooth such natures as parade Of opposition must exasperate — No general gauntlet-gatherer for the weak Against the strong, yet over-scrupulous At lucky junctures ; one whO' won't foregO" The after-battle work of binding wounds. Because, forsooth, he'd have to bring himself To side with wound-inflictors for their leave ! ' — Why do you gaze, nor help me to repeat What comes so glibly, from the common mouth. About Luitolfo and his so-styled friend ? Su. Because, that friend's sense is obscured . . . CJi. I thought You would be readier with the other half ! Of the world's story,— my half ! — Yet, I 'tis true, I For all the world does say it i Say your worst ! True, I thank God, I ever said ' you sin,' When a man did sin : if I could' not say it, I glared it at him, — if I could not glare it, I prayed against him, — then my part seemed over ; God's may begin yet — so it will, I trust ! Bu. If the world outraged you, did we ? Ch. What 's • me ' That you use well or ill ? It 's Man, in me. All your successes are an outrage to. You all, whom sunshine follows, as you say! Here 's our Faenza birthplace ; they send here A Provost from Kavennat: how he rules, I You can at times be eloquent about. ' Then, end his rule 8 ' — ' Ahi yes, one stroke does that ! But patience under wrong works slow and sure. Must violence still bring peace forth t He, beside. Returns so blandly one's; obeisance ! ah — Some latent virtue may be lingering yet. Some human sympathy which, once excite. And all the lump were leavened quietly — PART I] A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 345 So, no more tal£ of striking, for this time ! ' But I, as one of those he rules, won't bear These pretty takings-up and layings- down Our cause, just as you think occasion suits ! Enough of earnest, is there ? You'li play, will you ? Diversify your tactics, — give submis- sion, Obsequiousness and flattery » turn, While we die in our misery patient deaths ? We all are outraged then, and I the first! I, for mankind, resent each shrug and smirk. Each beck and bend, each ... all you do and are, I hate ! Eu. We share a common censure, then. 'Tia well you have not poor Luitolfo's part Nor mine to point out in the wide offence. Ch. Oh, shall I let you so escape me, Lady ? Come, on your own ground, Lady, — from yourself, (Leaving the people's wrong, which most is mine,) What have I got to be so grateful for ? These three last fines, no doubt, one on the other Paid by Luitolfo ? Eu. Shame, Chiappino ! Ch. Shame Fall presently on who deserves it most ! — Which is to see. He paid my fines — my friend. Your prosperous smooth lover presently. Then, scarce your wooer, — soon, your husband : well — I loved you. Eu. Hold ! Ch. You knew it, years ago. When my voice faltered and my eyes grew dim Because you gave me your silk mask to hold— My voice that greatens when there 's need to curse The People's Provost to their heart's content, — My eyes, the Provost, who bears all men's eyes, Banishes now because he cannot bear, — You knew . . . but you do your parts — my part, I : So be it ! you flourish — I decay. All 's well! Eu. I hear this for the first time. Ch. The fault 's there ? Then, my days spoke not, and my nights of fire Were voiceless ? Then, the very heart may burst Yet all prove nought, because no mincing speech Tells leisurely that thus it is and thus ? Eulalia ! truce with toying for this once ! A banished fool, who troubles you to- night For the last time — why, what 's to fear from me ? You knew I loved you ! Eu. Not so, on my faith ! You were my now-affianced lover's friend — Came in, went out with him, could speak as he. All praise your ready parts and pregnant wit ; See how your words come from you in a crowd ! Luitolfo 's first to place you o'er himself In all that challenges respect and love : Yet you were silent then, who blame me now. I say all this by fascination, sure — I am all but wed to one I love, yet listen ! It must be, you are wronged, and that the wrongs Luitolfo pities . . . Ch. —You too pity ? Do ! But hear first what my wrongs are ; so began This talk and so shall end this talk. I say. Was 't not enough that I must strive (I saw) 346 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY [PART I To grow so far familiar with your charms As next contrive some way to win them — which To do, an age seemed far too little— for, see ! We all aspire to Heaven — and there is Heaven Above us — go there ! Dare we go ? no, surdy ! How dare we go without a reverent "pause, A growing less unfit for Heaven ? — Even so, I dared not speak : the greater fool, it seems ! Was 't not enough to struggle with such folly, But I must have, beside, the very man Whose slight, free, loose and incapacious soul Gave his tongue scope to say whate'er he would — Must have him load me with his benefits For fortune's fiercest stroke ? Eu. Justice to him That 's now entreating, at his risk Justice for you ! Did he once call those acts Of simple friendship — bounties, bene- fits ? Ch. No — the straight course had been to call them so — Then, I had flung them back, and kept myself Unhampered, free as he to win the prize We both sought — but ' the gold was dross,' he said, ' He loved me, and I loved him not — to spurn A trifle out of superfluity : He had forgotten he had done as much.' So had not I ! — Henceforth, try as I could To take him at his word, there stood by you My benefactor — who might speak and laugh And urge his nothings — even banter me Before you — but my tongue was tied. A dream ! Let 's wake : your liusband . . . how you shake at that ! Good — my revenge ! Eu. Why should I shake ? What forced. Or forces me to be Luitolfo's bride ? Ch. There 's my revenge, that nothing forces you. No gratitude, no liking of the eye Nor longing of the heart, but the poor bond Of habit — here so many times he came, So much he spoke, — all these compose the tie That pulls you from me. Well, ihe paid my fines. Nor missed a cloak from wardrobe, dish from cable — — He spoke a good word to the Provost here — Held me up when my fortunes fell away — It had not looked so well to let me drop — Men take pains to preserve a tree- stump, even. Whose boughs they played beneath — much more a friend. But one grows tired of seeing, after the first, Pains spent upon impracticable stuff Like me : I could not change — you know the rest. I've spoke my mind too fully out, for once. This morning to our Provost ; so, ere night I leave the city on pain of death : and now On my account there 's gallant inter- cession Goes forward — that 's so graceful I — and anon He'll noisily come back : ' the inter- cession Was made and fails — all 's over for us both— 'Tis vain contending — -1 would better go.' And I do go — and so, to you he turns Light of a load ; and ease of that permits PARTI] A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 347 His visage to repair its natural bland Oeoonomy, sore broken late to suit My discontent. Thus, all are pleased — you, with him, He with himself, and all of you with me — Who, say the citizens, had done far better In letting people sleep upon their woes. If not possessed with talent to relieve them When once they woke ; — but then I had, they'll say. Doubtless some unknown compensating pride In what I did ; and as I seem content With ruining myself, why, so should they be : And so they are, and so be with his prize The devil, when he gets them speedily ! Why does not your 'Luitolfo come ? I long To don this cloak and liake the Lugo path. It seems you never loved me, then ? Eu. Chiappino ! Ch. Never ? Eu. Never. Ch. That 's sad : say what I might, There was no helping being sure this while You loved me — love like mine must have return, I thought — no river starts but to some sea. And had you loved me, I could soon devise Some specious reason why you stifled love. Some fancied self-denial on your part. Which made you choose Luitolfo ; so, excepting R-om the wide condemnation of all here. One woman. Well, the other dream may break ! If I knew any heart, as mine loved you. Loved me, tho' in the vilest breast 'twere lodged, I should, I think, be forced to love again : Else there 's no right nor reason in the world. Eu. ' If you knew,' say you, — but I did not know : That 's where you're blind, Chiappino ! — a disease Which if I may remove, I'll not repent The listening to. You cannot, will not, see How, place you but in every circum- stance Of us, you are just now indignant at. You'd be as we. Gh. I should be ? . . . that, again ! I, to my Friend, my Country and my Love, Be as Luitolfo and these Faentines ? Eu. As we. Ch. Now, I'll say something to remember ! I trust in nature for the stable laws Of beauty and utility — Spring shall plant. And Autumn garner to the end of time : I trust in God — the right shall be the right And other than the wrong, while He endures : I trust in my own soul, that can per- ceive The outward and the inward, nature's good And God's : so, seeing these men and myself. Having a right to speak, thus do I I'll not curse . . . God bears with them — well may I — But I — protest against their claiming me. I simply say, if that 's allowable, I would not . . . broadly ... do as they ihavB done. — God curse this townful of born slaves, bred slaves. Branded into the blood and bone, slaves ! Curse Whoever loved, above his liberty. House, land or life ! and . . . [A knocking with(ntti — bless my hero-friend, Luitolfo ! Eu. How he knocks ! Ch. The peril, Lady 1 348 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY [PAKT I ' Chiappino, I have run a risk! My God! How when I prayed the Provost — (he 's my friend) — To grant you a week's respite of his sentence That confiscates your goods, and exiles you, He shrugged his shoulder — I say, shrugged it ! Yes, And fright of that drove all else from my head. Here 's a good purse of scudi — off with you ! Lest of that shrug come what God only knows ! The scudi — friend, they're trash — no thanks, I beg ! Take the north gate, — for San Vitale's suburb Whose double taxes you appealed against, In discomposure at your ill-success Is apt to stone you : there, there— only go! Beside, Eulalia here looks sleepily. Shake , . . oh, you hurt me, so you squeeze my wrist ! ' — Is it not thus you'll speak, adven- turous friend ? [As he opens the door, Luitolfo rushes in, his garments dis- ordered. Eu. Luitolfo ! Blood ? I/uit. There 's more — and more of it ! Eulalia — take the garment . . . no . . . you, friend ! You take it and the blood from me — you dare ! Eu. Oh, who has hurt you ? where 's the wound ? Ch. ' Who,' say you ? The man with many a touch of virtue yet! The Provost's friend has proved too frank of speech. And this comes of it. Miserable hound ! This comes of temporizing, as I said ! Here 's fruit of your smooth speeches and fair looks I Now see my way ! As God lives, I go straight To the palace and do justice, once for all ! Luit. What says he ? Ch. I'll do justice on him. Luit. Him ? Ch. The Provost. Luit. I've just killed him. Eu. Oh, my God ! Luit. My friend, they're on my trace — they'll have me — now ! They're round him, busy with him : soon they'll find He 's past their help, and then they'll be on me ! Chiappino ! save Eulalia ... I forget . . . Were you not bound . . . for . . . Ch. Lugo ! Luit. Ah — yes — yes — That was the point I prayed of him to change. Well — go — be happy ... is Eulalia safe? They're on me ! Ch. 'Tis through me they reach you, then ! Friend, seem the man you are ! Lock arms — that 's right. Now tell me what you've done ; explain how you That still professed forbearance, still preached peace. Could bring yourself . . . Luit. What was peace for, Chiappino ? I tried peace^did that promise, when peace failed. Strife should not follow ? All my peaceful days Were just the prelude to a day like this. I cried ' You call me " friend " — save my true friend ! Save him, or lose me ! ' Ch. But you never said You meant to tell the Provost thus and thus ! Luit. Why should I say it ? What else did I mean ? Ch. Well ? He persisted ? Luit. ' Would so order it You should not trouble him too soon again.' I saw a meaning in his eye and lip ; I poured my heart's store of indignant words Out on him : then — I know not ! He retorted, PART l] A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 349 And I . . . some staff lay there to hand —I think He bade his servants thrust me out — I struck . . . Ah, they come ! Fly you, save your- selves, you two ! The dead back-weight of the beheading axe ! The glowing trip-hook, thumbscrews and the gadge ! Eu. They do come ! Torches in the Place ! Farewell, Chiappino ! You can work no good to us — Much to yourself ; believe not, all the world Must needs be cursed henceforth ! Ch. And you ? Eu. I stay. Ch. Ha, ha ! Now, listen ! I am master here ! This was my coarse disguise ; this paper shows My path of flight and place of refuge — see — Lugo — Argenta — past San Nicolo — Ferrara, then to Venice and all 's safe ! Put on the cloak ! His people have to fetch A compass round about. There 's time enough Ere they can reach us — so you straight- way make For Lugo . . . Nay, he hears not ! On with it — The cloak, Luitolfo, do you hear me ? See- He obeys he knows not how. Then, if I must . . . Answer me ! . Do you know the Lugo gate? Eu. The north-west gate, over the bridge ! Luit. I know ! Ch. Well, there — you are not fright- ened J all my route Is traced in that : at Venice you'll escape Their power. Eulalia, I am master here ! \_8hovis from, without. He pushes out Luitolfo, wJio comjdies mechanically. In time ! nay, help me with him — So ! — he 's gone. Eu. What have you done ? On you, perchance, all know The Provost's hater, will men's ven- geance fall As our accomplice. Ch. Mere accomplice ? See ! [Pouting ore LuiTOLFo's vest. Now, Lady, am I true to my profession. Or one of these ? Eu. You take Luitolfo's place? Ch. Die for him. Eu. Well done ! IShouts increase. Ch. How the people tarry ! I can't be silent ... I must speak ... or sing- How natural to sing now ! Eu. Hush and pray ! We are to die ; but even I perceive 'Tis not a very hard thing so to die. My cousin of the pale-blue tearful eyes. Poor Ckjsoa, suffers more from one day's life With the stem husband ; Tisbe's heart goes forth Each evening after that wild son of hers, To track his thoughtless footstep through the streets : How easy for them both to die like this! I am not sure that I could live as they. Ch. Here they come, crowds ! They pass the gate ? Yes ! — No ! — One torch is in the court-yard. Here flock all. Eu. At least Luitolfo has escaped. What cries ! Ch. If they would drag one to the market-place. One might speak there ! Eu. List, list ! Ch. They mount the steps. Enter the Populace. Ch. I killed the Provost ! [The populace speaking together.} 'Twas Chiappino, friends ! Our saviour. — The best man at last as first! 350 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY [iPABT II He who first made us see what chains we wore. He Eblso strikes the blow that shatters them, Jle at last saves us-— our best citizen ! — Oh, have you only courage to speak now ! My eldest son was christened a year since ' Cino ' to keep Ghiappino's name in mind — Cino, for shortness merely, you observe ! The city 's in our hands. — The guards are fled; Do you, the cause of all, come down — come down — Come forth to counsel us, our chief, our king, Whato'er rewards you ! Choose your own reward ! The peril over, its reward' begins ! Come and harangue us in the market- place ! Eu. Chiappino ! Ch. Yes ... I understand your eyes ! You think I should have promptlier disowned This deed with its strange unforeseen success. In favour of !Luitolfo — but the peril. So far from ended, hardly seems begun. To-morrow, rather, when a calm succeeds. We easily shall make him full amends : And meantime ... if we save them as they pray, And justify the deed by its effects ? Eu. You would, for worlds, you had denied at once. Ch. I know my own intention, be assured ! All 's well ! Precede us, fellow-citizens ! PART II The Market-place. Luitolfo in dis- guise mingling with the Populace assembled opposite the Ptovost's Palace. First Bystander (To Luet.] You, a friend of Luitolf o's ? Then; your friend is vanished, — in all probability killed on the night that his- patron the tyran- nical Provost was loyally suppressed here; exactly a month ago; by our illustrious fellow-citizen, thrice-noble saviour, and new Provost that is like to be, this very morning,; — Chiappino ! Luit. He the new Provost ? Second Bys. Dp those steps will he go, and beneath yonder pillar stand, while Ogniben, the Pope's Legate from Ravenna, reads the new dignitary's title to the people; according to estab- lished usage : for which reason; there is the assemblage you inquire about. Luit. Chiappino — -the old Provost's successor ? Impossible ! But tell me of that presently. What I would know first of all is, wherefore Luitolfo must so necessarily have been killed on that memorable nighjt ? Third Bys. You were Luitolfo's friend ? So was I. Never, if you will credit me, did there exist so poor- spirited a milk-sop ! He, with- all the opportunities in the world, furnished by daily converse with our oppressor, would not stir a finger to help us : and, when Chiappino rose in solitary majesty and . . . how does one go on saying ? . . . dealt the godlike blow, — ^this Luitolfo; not unreasonably fearing the indigna- tion of an aroused and liberated people, fled precipitately. He may have got trodden to death in the press at the south-east gate, when the Provost's guards fled through it to Ravenna, with their wounded master, — if he did not rather hang himself under some hedge. Luit. Or why not sim-ply have lain perdue in some quiet corner, — such as San Cassiano, where his estate was, — receiving daily intelligence from some sure friend, meanwhile, as to the turn matters were taking here — how; for instance, the Provost was not dead after all, only wounded— or, as to-day's news would seem to prove, how Chiap- pino was not Brutus the Elder, after all, only the new Provost — and thus Luitolfo be enabled to watch a favour- able opportunity for returning — might it not have been so ! PART IlJ' A SOUKS TRAGEDY 351 Third Bys. Why, he may have taken that care of himself^ certainly, for he came of a cautious stock. I'll tell you how his uncle, just such another gingerly treader on tiptoes with finger on lip,— how he met his death in the great plague-year : dico vohis ! Hear- ing that the seventeenth house in a certain street was infected, he calculates to pass it in safety by taking plentiful ■breath, say, when he shall arrive at the eleventh house ; then scouring by, holding that breath, till he be got so far on the other side as number twenty- three, and. thus elude the danger. — And so did he begin ; but, as he arrived at thirteen, we will say, — thinking to improve on his precaution! by putting up a little prayer to St. Nepomucene of Prague, this exhausted so much of his lungs' reserve, that at sixteen it was clean spent, — consequently at the fatal seventeen he inhaled with a vigour and persistence enough to suck you any latent venom out of the heart of a stone — Ha, ha ! Luit. [^Aside.'\ (If I had not lent that man the money he wanted last spring, I should fear this bitterness was attri- butable to me.) Luitolfo is dead then, one may conclude ? Third Bys. Why, he had a house here, and a woman to whom he was affianced; and as they both pass naturally to the new Provost, his friend and heir ... Luil. Ah, I suspected you of imposing on me with your pleasantry ! I know Chiappino better. First Bys. (Our friend has the bile ! after all, I do not dislike finding some- body vary a little this general gape of admiration at Chiappino's glorious qualities.) Pray, how much may you know of what has taken place in Faenza since that memorable night ? Luit. It is most to the purpose, that I know Chiappino to have been by profession a hater of that very office of Provost, you now charge him with proposing to accept. First Bys, Sir, I'll tell you. That night was indeed memorable ; up we rose, a mass of us, men, womeii, j children — out fled the guards with the body of the tyrant — we were to defy the world : but, next grey morning, ' What will Kome say ? ' began every- body — (you know we are governed by Ravenna, which is governed by Rome). And quietly into the town, by the Ravenna road, comes on muleback a portly personage, Ogniben by name, Iwith the quality of Pontifical Legate — itrots briskly through the streets hum- ming a 'Cur fremuere gentes,^ and makes directly for the Provost's Palace — there it faces you. ' One Messer Chiappino is your leader ? I have known three-and-tweaty leaders of revolts ! ' (laughing gently to himself) — ' Give me the help of your arm from my mule to yonder steps under the pillar — So ! And now, my revolters and good friends, what do you want ? The guards burst into Ravenna last night bearing your wounded Provost — and, having had a Uttle talk with him, ;I take on myself to come and try appease the disorderliness, before Rome, hearing of it, resort to another method : 'tis I come, and not another, from a certain love I confess to, of composing differences. So, do you understand, you are about to experience this un- }heard-of tyranny from me, that there shall be no heading nor hanging, no confiscation nor exile, — I insist on your simply pleasing yourselves, ^and now, pray, what does please you ? To. live without any government at all ? Or having decided for one, to see its minister murdered by the first of your body that chooses to find himself wronged, or disposed, for reverting to first principles and a justice anterior to all institutions],. — and so vrill you carry matters, that the rest of the world must at length unite and put down such a den of wild beasts ? As for ven- geance on what has just taken place, — once for all, the wounded man assures me he cannot conjecture who struck him— and this so earnestly, that one may be sure he knows perfectly well what intimate acquaintance could find 352 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY [PABT U admission to speak with him late last evening. I come not for vengeance therefore, but from pure curiosity to hear what you will do next.' — And thus he ran on, easily and volubly, till he seemed to arrive quite naturally at the praise of law, order, and paternal government by somebody from rather a distance. AH our citizens were in the snare, and about to be friends with so congenial an adviser ; but that Chiappino suddenly stood forth, spoke out indignantly, and set things right again. Luit. Do you see ? I recognize him there ! Third Bys. Ay, but mark you, at the end of Chiappino's longest period in praise of a pure republic, — ' And by whom do I desire such a government should be administered, perhaps, but by one like yourself ? ' — returns the Legate : thereupon speaking for a quarter of an hour together, on the natural and only legitimate govern- ment by the best and wisest. And it should seem there was soon discovered to be no such vast discrepancy at bottom between this and Chiappino's theory, place but each in its proper light. ' Oh, are you there ? ' quoth Chiappino : — ' In that, I agree,' re- turns Chiappino, and so on. Luit. But did Chiappino cede at once to this ? First Bys. Why, not altogether at once. For instance, he said that the difference between him and all his fellows was, that they seemed all wish- ing to be kings in one or another way, — ' whereas what right,' asked he, ' has any man to wish to be superior to another ? ' — whereat, ' Ah, Sir,' answers the Legate, ' this is the death of me, so often as I expect something is really going to be revealed to us by you clearer-seers, deeper-thinkers — this — that your right hand (to speak by a figure) should be found taking up the weapon it displayed so ostentatiously, not to destroy any dragon in our path, as was prophesied, but simply to cut off its own fellow left-hand : yourself set about attacking yourself — for see now ! Here are you who, I make sure, glory exceedingly in knowing the noble nature of the soul, its divine impulses, and so forth ; and with such a know- ledge you stand, as it were, armed to encounter the natural doubts and fears as to that same inherent nobility, that are apt to waylay us, the weaker ones, in the road of life. And when we look eagerly to see them fall before you, lo, round you wheel, only the left hand gets the blow ; one proof of the soul's nobility destroys simply another proof, quite as good, of the same,- — you are found delivering an opinion like this ! Why, what is this perpetual yearning to exceed, to subdue, to be better than, and a king over, one's fellows,^all that you so disclaim, — but the very tendency yourself are most proud of, and under another form, would oppose to it, — only in a lower stage of mani- festation ? You don't want to be vulgarly superior to your fellows after their poor fashion — to have me hold solemnly up your gown's tail, or hand you an express of the last importance from the Pope, with all these bystanders noticing how unconcerned you look the while : but neither does our gaping friend, the burgess yonder, want the other kind of kingship, that consists in understanding better than his fellows this and similar points of human nature, nor to roll under his tongue this sweeter morsel still, — the feeling that, through immense philosophy, he does »io< feel, he rather thinks, above you and me ! ' And so chatting, they glided off arm in arm. Luit. And the result is . . . First Bys. Why, that a month having gone by, the indomitable. Chiappino, marrying as he will Lui-' tolfo's love — at all events succeeding to Luitolfo's goods, — becomes the first inhabitant of Faenza, and a proper aspirant to the Provostship ; which we assemble here to. see conferred on him- this morning. The Legate's Guard to clear the way ! He will follow pre- sently. PAET II] A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 353 Luil. (witMrawing a little.) I under- stand the drift of Eulalia's communica- tions less than ever. Yet she surely said, in so many words, that Chiappino was in urgent danger : wherefore, dis- regarding her injunction to continue in my retreat and await the result of, what she called, some experiment yet in process — I hastened here without her leave or knowledge — what could I else ? — But if what they say be true — if it were for such a purpose, she and Chiappino kept me away . . , Oh, no, no ! I must confront him and her before I believe this of them. And at the word, see ! Enter Chiappino and Eulalia. Eu. We part here, then ? The change in your principles would seem to be complete; Ch. Now, why refuse to see that in my present course I change no prin- ciples, only re-adapt them and more adroitly ? I had despaired of, what you may call the material instrumen- tality of life; of ever being able to rightly operate on mankind through such a deranged machinery as the existing modes of government : but now, if I suddenly discover how to inform these perverted institutions with fresh purpose, bring the functionary limbs once more into immediate com- munication with, and subjection to, the soul I am about to bestow on them — do you see ? Why should one desire to invent, as long as it remains possible to renew and transform ? When all further hope of the old organization shall be extinct, then, I grant you, it may be time to try and create another. Eu. And there being discoverable some hope yet in the hitherto much- abused old system of absolute govern- ment by a Provost here, you mean to take your time about endeavouring to realize those visions of a perfect State, we once heard of ? Gh. Say, I would fain realize my conception of a Palace, for instance, and that there is, abstractedly, but a, single way of erecting one perfectly. Here, in the market-place is my allotted building-ground ; here I stand without a stone to lay, or a labourer to help me, — stand, too, during a short day of life, close on which the night comes. On the other hand, circumstances suddenly offer me . . . turn and see it . . . the old Provost's House to experiment upon — ruinous, if you please, wrongly con- structed at the beginning, and ready to tumble now. But materials abound, a crowd of workmen ofEer their services ; here, exists yet a Hall of Audience of originally noble proportions, there, a Guest-chamber of symmetrical design enough : and I may restore, enlarge, abolish or unite these to heart's con- tent. Ought I not rather make the best of such an opportunity, than continue to gaze disconsolately with folded arms on the flat pavement here, while the sun goes slowly down, never to rise again ? Since you cannot understand this nor me, it is better we should part as you desire. Eu. So, the love breaks away too ! Ch. No, rather my soul's capacity for love widens — needs more than one object to content it,^and, being better instructed, will not persist in seeing all the component parts of love in what is only a single part, — nor in finding the so many and so various loves, united in the love of a woman, — mani- fold uses in one instrument, as the savage has his sword, sceptre and idol, all in one club-stick. Love is a very compound thing. I shall give the intellectual part of my love to Men, the mighty dead, or illustrious living ; and determine to call a mere sensual instinct by as few fine names as possible. What do I lose ? Eu. Nay, I only think, what do I lose ? and, one more word — which shall complete my instruction — does friendship go too ? What of Luitolfo, the author of your present prosperity ? Gh. How the author ? — Eu. That blow now called yours . . . Ch. . Struck without principle or purpose, as by a blind natural operation — yet to which all my thought and life N" 354 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY [part II directly and advisedly tended. I would have struck it, and could not. He would have done his utmost to avoid striking it, yet did so. I dispute his right to that deed of mine — a final action with him, from the first effect of which he fled away — a mere first step with me, on which I base a whole mighty superstructure of good to follow. Could he get good from it ? Eu. So we profess, so we perform ! Enter Ogniben. Eulalia stands apart. Ogni. I have seen three-and-twenty leaders of revolts ! — By your leave. Sir ! Perform ? What does the lady say of Performing ? Ch. Only the trite saying, that we must not trust Profession, only Per- formance. Ogni. She'll not say that. Sir, when she knows you longer ; you'll instruct her better. Ever judge of men by their professions ! For though the bright moment of promising is but a moment and cannot be prolonged, yet, if sincere in its moment's extravagant goodness, why, trust it and know the man by it, I say — not by his performance — which is half the world's work, interfere as the world needs must, with its accidents and circumstances, — the profession was purely the man's own. I judge people by what they might be, — not are, nor will be. Ch. But have there not been found, too, performing natures, not merely promising ? Ogni. Plenty. Little Bindo of our town, for instance, promised his friend, great ugly Masaccio, once, ' I wiU repay you ! ' — for a favour done him : so, when his father came to die, and Bindo succeeded to the inheritance, he sends straightway for Masaccio and shares all with him — gives him half the land, half the money, half the kegs of wine in the cellar. 'Good,' say you — and it is good. But had little Bindo found himself possessor of all this wealth some five years before — on the happy nigl}t when Masaccio procured him that interview iu the garden with his pretty cousin Lisa — instead of being the beggar he then was, — I am bound to believe that in the warm moment of promise he would have given away all the wine- kegs, and all the money, and all the land, and only reserved to himself some hut on a hill-top hard by, whence he might spend his life in looking and seeing his friend enjoy himself : he meant fully that much, but the world interfered. — To our business ! Did I understand you just now within-doors ? You are not going to marry your old friend's love, after all ? Ch. I must have a woman that can sympathize with, and appreciate me, I told you. Ogni. Oh, I remember ! you, the greater nature, needs must have a lesser one ( — avowedly lesser — contest with you on that score would never do !) — such a nature must comprehend you, as the phrase is, accompany and testify of your greatness from point to point onward. Why, that were being not merely as great as yourself, but greater considerably ! Meantime, might not the more bounded nature as reasonably count on your appreciation of it, rather ? — on your keeping close by it, so far as you both go together, and then going on by yourself as far as you please? Thus God serves us ! Ch. And yet a woman that could understand the whole of rae, to whom I could reveal alike the strength and the weakness — Ogni. Ah, my friend, wish for nothing so foolish ! Worship your Love, give her the best of you to see ; be to her like the western lands (they bring us such strange news of) to the Spanish Court — send her only your lumps of gold, fans of feathers, your spirit-like birds, and fruits and gems — so shall you, what is unseen of you, be supposed altogether a Paradise by her, — as these western lands by Spain — though I warrant there is filth, red baboons, ugly reptiles and squalor enough, which they bring Spain as few samples of as possible. Do you want your mistress to respect your body generally ? Offer her your mouth to PAKT II] A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 355 kiss : don't strip oft your boot and put your foot to her lips ! You understand my humour by this time ? I help men to carry out their own principles : if they please to say two and two make five, 1 assent, so they will but go on and say, four and four make ten ! Ch. But these are my private affairs ; what I desire you to occupy yourself about, is my public appearance present- ly ; for when the people hear that I am appointed Provost, though you and I may thoroughly discern — and easily, too — the right principle at bottom of such a movement, and how my republicanism remains thoroughly unaltered, only takes a form of expression hitherto com- monly judged . . . and heretofore by myself . . . incompatible with its exist- ence — when thus I reconcile myself to an old form of government instead of proposing a new one . . . Ogni. Why, you must deal with people broadly. Begin at a distance from this matter and say, — new truths, old truths ! sirs, there is nothing new possible to be revealed to us in the moral world — we know all we shall ever know, and it is for simply reminding us, by their various respective expedients, how we do know this and the other matter, that men get called prophets, poets and the like. A philosopher's life is spent in discovering that, of the half-dozen truths he knew when a child, such an one is a lie, as the world states it in set terms ; and then, after a weary lapse of years, and plenty of hard-thinking, it becomes a truth again after all, as he happens to newly consider it and view it in a different relation with the others : and so he restates it,, to the confusion of somebody else in good time. As for adding to the original stoclj of truths, — impossible ! Thus, you see the expres- sion of them is the grand business : — you have got a truth in your head about the right way of governing people, and you took a mode of expressing it which now you confess to be imperfect — but what then ? There is truth in falsehood, falsehood in truth. No man ever told one great truth, that I know, without the help of a good dozen of lies at least, generally unconscious ones : and as when a child comes in breathlessly and relates a strange story, you try to con- jecture from the very falsities in it, what the reality was, — do not conclude that he saw nothing in the sky, because he assuredly did not see a flying horse there as he says, — so, through the con- tradictory expression, do you see, men should look painfully for, and trust to arrive eventually at, what you call the true principle at bottom. ' Ah, what an answer is there ! to what will it not prove applicable ! — ' Contradictions ? ' — Of course there were, say you ! Ch. Still, the world at large may call it inconsistency, and what shall I urge in reply ? Ogni. Why, look you, when they tax you with tergiversation or duplicity, you may answer — you begin to perceive that, when all 's done and said, both great parties in the State, the advocators of change in the present system of things, and the opponents of it, patriot and anti-patriot, are found working to- gether for the common good, and that in the midst of their efforts for and against its progress, the world somehow or other still advances — to which result they contribute in equal proportions, those who spent their Ufe in pushing it onward as those who gave theirs to the business of pulling it back. Now, if you found the world stand still between the opposite forces, and were glad, I should conceive you : but it steadily advances, you rejoice to see ! By the side of such a rejoicer, the man who only winks as he keeps cunning and quiet, and says, ' Let yonder hol^headed fellow fight out my battle ; I, for one, shall win in the end by the blows he gives, and which I ought to be giving ' — even he seems graceful in his avowal, when one con- siders that he might say, ' I shall win quite as much by the blows our antago- nist gives him, and from which he saves me — I thank the antagonist equally ! ' Moreover, you may enlarge on the loss of the edge of party-animosity with age and experience . . . 356 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY [PABT II Ch. And naturally time must wear o£E such asperities : the bitterest adver- saries get to discover certain points of similarity between each other, common sympatlues — do they not ? Ogni. Ay, had the young David but sat first to dine on Ms cheeses with the Phihstine, he had soon discovered an abundance of such common sympathies. He of Gath, it is recorded, was bom of a father and mother, had brothers and sisters like another man, — they, no more than the sons of Jesse, were used to eat each other. But, for the sake of. one broad antipathy that had existed from the beginning, David slung the stone, cut oS the giant's head, made a spoil of it, and after ate his cheeses alone, with the better appetite, for all I can learn. My friend, as you, with a quickened eye-sight, go on discovering much good on the worse side, remember that the same process should propor- tionably magnify and demonstrate to you the much more good on the better side. And when I profess no sympathy for the Goliaths of our time, and you object that a large nature should sym- pathize with every form of intelligence, and see the good in it, however limited — ^I answer, so I do ; but preserve the proportions of my sympathy, however finelier or wideUer I may extend its action. I desire to be able, with a quickened eye-sight, to descry beauty in corruption where others see foulness only, — but I hope I shall also continue to see a redoubled beauty in the higher forms of matter, where already every- body sees no foulness at all. I must retain, too, my old power of selection, and choice of appropriation, to apply to such new gifts ; else they only dazzle instead of enlightening me. God has His archangels and consorts with them : though He made top, and intimately sees what is good in^ the worm. Observe, X speak only as you profess to think and so ought to speak : I do justice to your own principles, that is all. Ch. But you very well know that the two parties do, on occasion, assume each other's characteristics. What more disgusting, for instance, than to see how promptly the newly emancipated slave will adopt, in his own favour, the very measures of precaution, which pressed soreliest on himself as institutions of the tyranny he has just escaped from ? Do the classes, hitherto without opinion, get leave to express it ? there is a con- federacy immediately, from which — exercise your individual right and dis- sent, and woe be to you ! Ogni. And a journey over the sea to you ! — That is the generous way. Cry — emancipated slaves, the first excess, and off I go ! The first time a poor devil, who has been bastinadoed steadily his whole life long, finds himself let alone and able to legislate, so, begins pettishly, while he rubs his soles, ' Woe be to whoever brings anything in the shape of a stick this way ! ' — you, rather than give up the very innocent pleasure of carrying one to switch flies with, — you go away, to everybody's sorrow. Yet you were quite reconciled to staying at home while the governors used to pass, every now and then, some such edict as ' Let no man indulge in owning a stick which is not thick enough to chastise our slaves, if need require.' Well, there are pre-ordained hierarchies among us, and a profane vulgar subjected to a different law altogether ; yet I am rather sorry you should see it so clearly : for, do you know what is to — aU but save you at the Day of Judgment, all you men of genius ? It is this — that, while you generally began by pulling down God, and went on to the end of your life, in one effort at setting up your own genius in His place, — stiU, the last, bitterest concession wrung with the ut- most unwillingness from the experience of the very loftiest of you, was invariably — would one think it ? — that the rest of mankind, down to the lowest of the mass, stood not, nor ever could stand, just on a level and equality with yourselves. That will be a point in the favour of all such, I hope and beUeve ! Ch. Why, men of genius are usually charged,.! think, with doing just the reverse ; and at once acknowledging PART II] A SOUL'S TRAGEDY 357 the natural inequality of mankind, by themselves participating in the universal craving after, and deference to, the civil distinctions which represent it. You wonder they pay such undue respect to titles and badges of superior ranic. Ogni. Not I ! (always on your own ground and showing, be it noted!) Who doubts that, with a weapon to brandish, a man is the more formidable ? Titles and badges are exercised as such a weapon, to which you and I look up wistfully. We could pin lions with it moreover, while in its present owner's hands it hardly prods rats. Nay, better than a mere weapon of easy mastery and obvious use, it is a mysterious divining rod that may serve ua in undreamed-of ways. Beauty, strength, intellect — men often have none of these, and yet conceive pretty accurately what kind of advantages they would bestow on the possessor. We know at least what it is we make up our mind to forego, and so can apply the fittest substitute in our power ; wanting beauty, we cultivate good humour ; missing wit, we get riches : but the mystic unimaginable operation of that gold collar and string of Latin names which suddenly turned poor stupid little peevish Cecco of our town into natural Lord of the best of us — a Duke, he is now ! there indeed is a virtue to be reverenced ! Ch. Ay, by the vulgar : not by Mes- sere Stiatta the poet, who pays more assiduous court to him than anybody. Ogni. What else should Stiatta pay court to ? He has talent, not honour and riches : men naturally covet what they have not. Ch. No — or Cecco would covet talent, which he has not, whereas he covets more riches, of which he has plenty already. Ogni. Because a purse added to a purse makes the holder twice as rich : but just such another talent as Stiatta's, added to what he now possesses, what would that profit him ? Give the talent a purse indeed, to do something with ! But lo, how we keep the good people waiting. I only desired to do justice to the noble sentiments which animate you, and which you are too modest to duly enforce. Come, to our main business : shall we ascend the steps ? I am going to propose you for Provost to the people ; they know your antecedents, and will accept you with a joyful unanimity: whereon I confirm their choice. Rouse up ! are you nerving yourself to an effort ? Beware the disaster of Messere Stiatta we were talking of ; who, determining to keep an equal mind and constant face on whatever might be the fortune of his last new poem with our townsmen, — heard too plainly ' hiss, hiss, hiss,' increase every moment : till at last the man fell senseless — not per- ceiving that the portentous sounds had all the while been issuing from between his own nobly clenched teeth, and nostrils narrowed by resolve. Ch. Do you begin to throw off the mask ? — to jest with me, having got me effectually into your trap ? Ogni. Where is the trap, my friend ? You hear what I engage to do, for my part : you, for yours, have only to fulfil your promise made just now within doors, of professing unlimited obedience to Rome's authority in my person. And I shall authorize no more than the simple re-establishment of the Provostship and the conferment of its privileges upon yourself : the only novel stipulation being a birth of the peculiar circumstances of the time. Ch. And that stipulation ? Ogni. Just the obvious one — that in the event of the discovery of the actual assailant of the late Provost . . . Ch. Ha! Ogni. Why, he shall suffer the proper penalty, of course; what did you expect ? Ch. Who heard of this ? Ogni. Rather, who needed to hear of this ? Ch. Can it be, the popular rumour never reached you . . . Ogni. Many more such rumours reach me, friend, than I choose to receive : those which wait longest have best chance. Has the present one sufficiently waited ? Now is its time for entry with 358 A SOUL'S TRAGEDY [part II effect. See the good people crowding about yonder palace-steps — which we may not have to ascend, after all ! My good friends — (nay, two or three of you will answer every purpose) — who was it fell upon and proved nearly the death of your late Provost ? — his successor desires to hear, that his day of inaugural tion may be graced by the actof prompt, bare justice we all anticipate. Who dealt the blow that night, does anybody know ? Luitolfo. [coming forward.] I ! All. Luitolfo ! Luit. I avow the deed, justify and approve it, and stand forth now, to relieve my friend of an unearned respon- sibility. Having taken thought, I am grown stronger : I shall shrink from nothing that awaits me. Nay, Chiap- pino — we are friends still : I dare say there is some proof of your superior nature in this starting aside, strange as it seemed at first. So, they tell me, my horse is of the right stock, because a shadow in the path frightens him into a frenzy, makes him dash my brains out. I understand only the dull mule's way of standing stockishly, plodding soberly, suffering on occasion a blow or two with due patience. Eu. I was determined to justify my choice, Chiappino ; to let Luitolfo's nature vindicate itself. Henceforth we are undivided, whatever be our fortune. Ogni. Now, in these last ten minutes of silence, what have I been doing, deem you ? — Putting the finishing stroke to a homily of mine, I have long taken thought to perfect, on the text ' Let whoso thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall.' To your house, Luitolfo ! Still silent, my patriotic friend ? Well, that is a good sign, however. And you will go aside for a time ? That is better still. I understand — it would be easy for you to die of remorse here on the spot and shock us all, but you mean to live and grow worthy of coming back to us one day. There, I will tell every- body ; and you only do right to believe you must get better as you get older. All men do so, — they are worst in child- hood, improve in manhood, and get ready in old age for another world. Youth, with its beauty and grace, would seem bestowed on us for some such reason as to make us partly endurable till we have time for really becoming so of our- selves, without their aid ; when they leave us. The sweetest child we all smile on for his pleasant want of the whole world to break up, or suck in his mouth, seeing no other good in it — would be rudely handled by that world's inhabitants, if he retained those angelic infantine desires when he has grown six feet high, black and bearded : but, Uttle by little, he sees fit to forego claim after claim on the world, puts up 'with a less and less share of its good as his proper portion, — and when the octogenarian asks barely a sup of gruel and a fire of dry sticks, and thanks you as for his full allowance and right in the common good of life, — hoping nobody may murder him, — he who began by asking and expecting the whole of us to bow down in worship to him, — why, I say he is advanced, far onward, very far, nearly out of sight like our friend Chiappino yonder. And now — (Ay, good-bye to you ! He turns round the north-west gate: going to Lugo again ? Good-bye!) — And now give thanks to God, the keys of the Provost's Palace to me, and your- selves to profitable meditation at home. I have known Jowr-and-twenty leaders of revolts. 359 IN A BALCONY A SCENE 1855 In a Balcony. CoNSTASCE and Nobbebt. Nor. Now. Con. Not now. Nor. Give me them again, those hands — Put them upon my forehead, how it throbs ! Press them before my eyes, the fire comes through. You cruellest, you dearest in the world. Let me ! the Queen must grant whate'er I ask — How can I gain you and not ask the Queen ? There she stays waiting for me, here stand you. Some time or other this was to be asked ; Now is the one time — what I ask, I gain — Let me ask now. Love ! Con. Do, and ruin us. Nor. Let it be now. Love ! All my soul breaks forth. How I do love you ! give my love its way ! A man can have but one life and one death. One heaven, one hell. Let me fulfil my fate — Grant me my heaven now. Let me know you mine. Prove you mine, write my name upon your brow. Hold you and have you, and then die away If God please, with completion in my soul. Con. I am not yours then ? how con- tent this man ? I am not his, who change into himself, Have passed into his heart and beat its beats, ' Who give my hands to him, ray eyes, my hair. Give all that was of me away to him So well, that now, my spirit turned his own. Takes part with him against the woman here. Bids him not stumble at so mere a straw As caring that the world be cognisant How he loves her and how she worships him. You have this woman, not as yet that world. Go on, I bid, nor stop to care for me By saving what I cease to care about, The courtly name and pride of circum- stance — The name you'll pick up and be cum- bered with Just for the poor parade's sake, nothing more; Just that the world may slip from under you— Just that the world may cry ' So much for him — The man predestined to the heap of crowns : There goes his chance of winning one, at least ! ' Nor. The world ! Con. You love it. Love me quite as well, And see if I shall pray for this in vain ! Why must you ponder what it knows or thinks ? Nor. You pray for — what, in vain ? Con. Oh my heart's heart, How I do love you, Norbert ! — that is right ! But listen, or I take my hands away. You say, ' let it be now ' — you would go now And tell the Queen, perhaps six steps from us, 360 IN A BALCONY You love me — so you do, thank God ! Nor. Thank God ! Con. Yes, Norbert, — but you fain would tell your love. And, what succeeds the telling, ask of her My hand. Now take this rose and look at it, Listening to me. You are the minister. The Queen's first favourite, nor without a cause. To-night completes your wonderful year's- work (This palace-feast is held to celebrate) Made memorable by her life's success. That junction of two crowns, on her sole head, Herhouse had only dreamedof anciently. That this mere dream is grown a stable truth, To-night's feast makes authentic. Whose the praise ? Whose genius, patience, energy, a^- chieved What turned the many heads and broke the hearts ? You are the fate — ^your minute 's in the heaven. Next comes the Queen's turn. ' Name your own reward ! ' With leave to clench the Past, chain the To-come, Put out an arm and touch and take the sun And fix it ever f uU-faced on your earth. Possess yourself supremely of her life, — You choose the single thing she will not grant ; Nay, very declaration of which choice Will turn the scale and neutralize your work. At best she will forgive you, if she can. You think I'll let you choose — her cousin's hand ? Nor, Wait. First, do you retain your old belief The Queen is generous, — nay, is just ? Con. There, there ! So men make women love them, while they know No more of women's hearts than . . . look you here. You that are just and generous beside. Make it your own case. For example now, I'll say — I let you kiss me and hold my hands — Why ? do you know why ? I'll instruct you, then — The kiss, because you have a name at court, This hand and this, that you may shut in each A jewel, if you please to pick up such. That's horrible! Apply it to the Queen — Suppose, I am the Queen to whom you ' I was a nameless man ; you needed me: Why did I proffer you my aid ? there stood A certain pretty cousin at your side. Why did I make such common cause with you ? Access to her had not been easy else. You give my labours here abundant praise ? 'Faith, labour, which she overlooked, grew play. How shall your gratitude discharge it- self ? Give me her hand ! ' Nor. And still I urge the same. Is the Queen just ? just — generous or no ! Con. Yes, just. You love a rose ; no harm in that : But was it for the rose's sake or mine You put it in your bosom ? mine, you said — Then, mine you stiU must say or else be false. You told the Queen you served her for herself : If so, to serve her was to serve yourself. She thinks, for all your unbelieving face ! I know her. In the hall, six steps from us. One sees the twenty pictures ; there 's a life Better than life, and yet no life at all. Conceive her born in such a magic dome. Pictures all round her ! why, she sees the world. Can recognize its given things and facts. The fight of giants or the feast of gods. Sages in senate, beauties at the bath, IN A BALCONY 361 Chaces and battles, the whole earth's display, Landscape and sea-piece, down to flowers and fruit — And who shall question that she knows them all. In better semblance than the things outside ? Yet bring into the silent gallery Some live thing to contrast in breath and blood, Some lion, with the painted lion there — You think she'll understand com- posedly ? ■ — Say, that 's his fellow in the hunting- piece Yonder, I've turned to praise a hundred times ? ' Not so. Her knowledge of our actual earth, Its hopes and fears, concerns and sym- pathies. Must be too far, too mediate, too unreal. The real exists for us outside, not her : How should it, with that life in these four walls. That father and that mother, first to last No father and no mother — friends, a heap, Lovers, no lack — a husband in due time. And every one of them alike a lie ! Things painted by a Bubens out of nought Into what kindness, friendship, love should be ; All better, all more grandiose than life. Only no life ; mere cloth and surface- paint. You feel, while you admire. How should she feel ? Yet now that she has stood thus fifty years The sole spectator in that gallery. You think to bring this warm real strug- gling love In to her of a sudden, and suppose She'll keep her state untroubled? Here 's the truth — She'll apprehend its value at a glance. Prefer it to the pictured loyalty ? You only have to say ' so men are made. For this they act ; the th/ng has many names. But this the right one : and now. Queen, be just ! ' And life sUps back ; you lose her at the word : You do not even for amends gain me. He will not understand ! oh, Norbert, Norbert, Do you not understand ? Nor. The Queen 's the Queen, I am myself — no picture, but alive In every nerve and every muscle, here At the palace-window o'er the people's street, As she in the gallery where the pictures glow : The good of life is precious to us both. She cannot love ; what do I want with rule? When first I saw your face a year ago I knew my life's good, my soul heard one voice — ' The woman yonder, there 's no use of hfe But just to obtain her ! heap earth's woes in one And bear them — make a pile of all earth's joys And spurn them, as they help or help not this ; Only, obtain her ! ' — How was it to be ? Ifound you were the cousin of the Queen; I must then serve the Queen to get to you. No other way. Suppose there had been one. And I, by saying prayers to some white star With promise of my body and my soul. Might gain you, — should I pray the star or no ? Instead, there was the Queen to serve ! I served. Helped, did what other servants failed to do. Neither she sought nor I declared my end. Her good is hers, my recompense be mine, I therefore name you asthat recompense. She dreamed that such a thing could never be ? Let her wake now. She thinks there was more cause 362 IN A BALCONY In love of power, high fame, pure loyalty ? Perhaps she fancies men wear out their lives Chasing such shades. Then, I've a fancy too ; I worked because I want you with my soul : I therefore ask your hand. Let it be now! Con. Had I not loved you from the very first, Were I not yours, could we not steal out thus So wickedly, so wildly, and so well, You might become impatient. What 's conceived Of us without here, by the folks within ? Where are you now ? immersed in cares of state — Where am I now ? — intent on festal robes — We two, embracing" under death's spread hand ! What was this thought for, what that scruple of yours Which broke the council up ! — to bring about One minute's meeting in the corridor ! And then the sudden sleights, strange secrecies, Complots inscrutable, deep telegraphs. Long-planned chance-meetings, hazards of a look, ' Does she know ? does she not know ? saved or lost ? ' A. year of this compression 's ecstasy All goes for nothing ! you would give this up For the old way, the open way, the world's. His way who beats, and his who sells his wife ! What tempts you ? — their notorious Ihat you're ashamed of ours ? The best you'll gain iVill be, the Queen grants all that you require. Concedes the cousin, rids herself of you And me at once, and gives us ample leave To live like our five hundred happy friends. The world will show us with ofiBoious hand Our chamber-entry and stand sentinel. Where we so oft have stolen across its traps ! Get the world's warrant, ring the falcons' feet. And make it duty to be bold and swift. Which long ago was nature. Have it so! We never hawked by rights tiU flung from fist ? Oh, the man's thought ! — no woman 's such a fool. 'Nor. Yes, the man's thought and my thought, which is more — One made to love you, let the world take note ! Have I done worthy work ? be love's the praise. Though hampered byrestrictions, barred against By set forms, blinded by forced secrecies ! Set free my love, and see what love can do Shown in my life — what work will spring from that ! The world is used to have its business done On other grounds, find great effects produced For power's sake, fame's sake, motives in men's mouth. So, good : but let my low ground shame their high ! Truth is the strong thing. Let man's life be true ! And love 's the truth of mine. Time prove the rest ! I choose to wear you stamped all over me, Your name upon my forehead and my breast. You, from the sword's blade to the ribbon's edge. That men may see, all over, you in me — That pale loves may die out of their pretence In face of mine, shames thrown on love fall off. Permit this, Constance ! Love has been so long Subdued in me, eating me through and through, IN A BALCONY 363 That now it 's all of me and must have way. Think of my work, that chaos of in- trigues. Those hopes and fears, surprises and delays; That long endeavour, earnest, patient, slow. Trembling at last to its assured result — Then think of this revulsion ! I resume Life after death, (it is no less than life. After such long unlovely labouring days) And liberate to beauty life's great need Of the beautiful, which, while it prompted work, Supprest itself erewhile. This eve 's the time — This eve intense with you first trembling star We seem to pant and reach ; scarce aught between The earth that rises and the heaven that bends ; All nature self-abandoned, every tree Flung as it will, pursuing its own thoughts And fixed so, every flower and every weed. No pride, no shame, no victory, no defeat ; All under God, each measured by itself. These statues round us stand abrupt, distinct. The strong in strength, the weak in weakness fixed. The Muse for ever wedded to her lyre. The Nymph to her fawn, the Silence to her rose : See God's approval on His universe ! Let us do so — aspire to live as these In harmony with truth, ourselves being true ! Take the first way, and let the second come ! My first is to possess myself of you ; The music sets the march-step — forward, then! And there 's the Queen, I go to claim you of. The world to witness, wonder and ap- plaud. Our flower of life breaks open. No delay ! Con. And so shall we be ruined, both of us. Norbert, I know her to the skin and bone — You do not know her, were not bom to it. To feel what she can see or cannot see. Love, she is generous,— ay, despite your smile. Generous as you are : for, in that thin frame Pain-twisted, punctured through and through with cares. There lived a lavish soul until it starved Debarred all healthy food. Look to the soul — Pity that, stoop to that, ere you begin (The true man's- way) on justice and your rights. Exactions and acquittance of the Past ! Begin so — see what justice she will deal ! We women hate a debt as men a gift. Suppose her some poor keeper of a school Whose business is to sit thro' summer- months And dole out children leave to go and play, Herself superior to such lightness — she In the arm-chair's state and psedagogio pomp. To the life, the laughter, sun and youth outside — We wonder such » face looks black on us ? I do not bid you wake her tenderness, (That were vain truly — none is left to wake) But, let her think her justice is engaged To take the shape of tenderness, and mark If she'll not coldly pay its warmest need! Does she love me, I ask you ? not a whit : Yet, thinking that her justice was en- gaged To help a kinswoman, she took me up — Did more on that bare ground than other loves Would do on greater argument. For me, I have no equivalent of such cold kind To pay her with, but love alone to give 364 IN A BALCONY If I give anything. I give her love : I feel I ought to help her, and I will. So, for her sake, as yours, I tell you twice That women hate a debt as men a gift. If I were you, I could obtain this grace — Could lay the whole I did to love's account. Nor yet be very false as courtiers go — Declaring my success was recompense ; It would be so, in fact : what were it else ? And then, once loose her generosity, — Oh, how I see it ! then, were I but you To turn it, let it seem to move itself. And make it offer what I really take. Accepting just, in the poor cousin's hand, Her value as the next thing to the Queen's' — Since none loves Queens directly, none dares that. And a thing's shadow or a name's mere echo Suffices those who miss the name and thing ! You pick up just a ribbon she has worn, To keep in proof how near her breath you came. Say, I'm so near I seem a piece of her — Ask for me that way — (oh, you under- stand) You'd find the same gift yielded with a gracfe. Which, if you make the least show to extort . . . — You'll see ! and when you have ruined both of us. Dissertate on the Queen's ingratitude I Nor. Then, if I turn it that way, you consent ? 'Tis not my way ; I have more hope in truth : Still, if you won't have truth — why, this indeed. Were scarcely false, as I'd express the sense. Will you remain here ? Con. best heart of mine. How I have loved you ! then, you take my way ? Are mine as you have been her minister. Work out my thought, give it effect for me, Paint plain my poor conceit and make it serve ? I owe that withered woman everything — Life, fortune, you, remember ! Take my part — Help me to pay her ! Stand upon your rights ? You, with my rose, my hands, my heart on you ? Your rights are mine — you have no rights but mine. Nor. Remain here. How you know me ! Con. Ah, but still \He breaks from her : she remains. Dance-music from within. Enter the Queen. Qvxen. Constance ! — She is here as he said. Speak ! quick ! Is it so? is it true— or false? One word! Con. True. Queen. MeroifuUest Mother, thanks to thee ! Con. Madam ! Queen. I love you, Constance, from my soul. Now say once more, with any words you will, 'Tis true, all true, as true as that I speak. Con. Why should yoa doubt it ? Queen. Ah, why doubt ? why doubt ? Dear, make me see it ! Do you see it so ? None see themselves ; another sees them best. You say ' why doubt it ? ' — you see him and me. It is because the Mother has such grace That if we had but faith — wherein we fail— Whate'er we yearn for would be granted us ; Howbeit we let our whims prescribe despair. Our very fancies thwart and cramp our will. And so, accepting life, abjure ourselves. Constance, I had abj ured the hope of love And of being loved, as truly as yon palm The hope of seeing Egypt from that plot. Con. Heaven I IN A BALCONY 365 Queen. But it was so, Constance, it was so ! Men say — or do men say it ? fancies say— ' Stop here, your life is set, you are grown old. Too late — no love for you, too late for love — Leave love to girls. Be queen : let Constance love ! ' One -takes the hint — half meets it like a child. Ashamed at any feeUngs that oppose. ' Oh, love, true, never think of love again ! I am a queen : I rule, not love, indeed.' So it goes on ; so a face grows like this. Hair Uke this hair, poor arms as lean as these. Till, — nay, it does not end so, I thank God! Con. I cannot understand — ■ Qiieen. The happier you ! Constance, I know not how it is with men : For women, (I am a woman now like you) There is no good of life hut love — but love !. What else looks good, is some shade flung from love — Love gilds it, gives it worth. Be warned by me. Never you cheat yourself one instant ! Love, Give love, ask only love, and leave the rest ! Constance, how I love you ! Con. I love you. Qv-een. I do believe that all is come through you. 1 took you to my heart to keep it warm When the last chance of love seemed dead in me ; t thought your fresh youth warmed my withered heart. Oh, I am very old now, am I not ? Not so ! it is true and it shall be true ! Con. Tell it me : let me judge if true or false. Queen. Ah, but I fear you ! you will look at me And say " she 's old, she 's grown un- lovely quite Who ne'er was beauteous : men want beauty still.' Well, so I feared — the curse ! so I felt sure. Con. Be calm. And now you feel not sure, you say ? Queen. Constance, he came, — the coming was not strange — Do not I stand and see men come and go? I turned a half-look from my pedestal Where I grow marble — ' one young man the more ! He will love some one, — that is nought to me : What would he with my marble state- liness ? ' Yet this seemed somewhat worse than heretofore ; The man more gracious, youthful, like a god. And I still older, with less flesh to change — We two those dear extremes that long to touch. It seemed still harder when he flrst began Absorbed to labour at the state-affairs The old way for the old end — interest. Oh, to live with a thousand beating hearts Around you, swift eyes, serviceable hands. Professing they've no care but for your cause. Thought but to help you, love but for yourself, And you the marble statue all the time They praise and point at as preferred to life. Yet leave for the first breathing woman's cheek, First dancer's, gipsy's, or street bala- dine's ! Why, how I have ground my teeth to hear men's speech Stifled for fear it should alarm my ear, Their gait subdued lest step should startle me. Their eyes declined, such queendom to respect. 366 m A BALCONY Their hands alert, such treasure to preserve. While not a man of them broke rank and spoke. Or wrote me a vulgar letter all of love. Or caught my hand and pressed it like a hand. There have been moments, if the sen- tinel Lowering his halbert to salute the queen. Had flung it brutally and clasped my knees, I would have stooped and kissed him with my soul. Con. Who could have comprehended? Qaeen. Ay, who — who ? Why, no one, Constance, but this one who did. Not they, not you, not I. Even now perhaps It comes too late — would you but tell the truth. Con. I wait to tell it. Queen. Well, you see, he came, Outfaced the others, did a work this year Exceeds in value all was ever done. You know — it is not I who say it — all Say it. And so (a second pang and worse) I grew aware not only of what he did. But why so wondrously. Oh, never work Like his was done for work's ignoble sake — It must have finer .aims to lure it on ! I felt, I saw, he loved — loved somebody. And Constance, my dear Constance, do you know, I did beUeve this while 'twas you he loved. Con. Me, madam ? Queen. It did seem to me, your face Met him where'er he looked : and whom but you Was such a man to love ? it seemed to me. You saw he loved you, and approved the love. And so you both were in intelligence. You could not loiter in the garden, step Into this balcony, but I straight was stung And forced to understandi It seemed so true, So right, so beautiful, so like you both. That all this work should have been done by him Not for the vulgar hope of recompense. But that at last — suppose, some night like this — Borne on to claim his due reward of me, He might say, ' Give her hand and pay me so.' And I (O Constance, you shall love me now !) Ithought,surmounting all the bitterness, — ' And he shall have it. I will make her blest. My flower of youth, my woman's self that was. My happiest woman's self that might have been ! These two shall have their joy and leave me here.' Yes — yes — Con. Thanks ! Queen. And the word was on my lips When he burst in upon me. I looked to hear A mere calm statement of his just desire For payment of his labour. When — O Heaven, How can I tell you ? cloud was on my you And thunder in my ears at that first word Which told 'twas love of me, of me, did all— He loved me — from the first step to the last, Loved me ! Con. You did not hear . thought he spoke Of love ? what if you should mistake ! Queen. No, no — No mistake ! Ha, there shall be no mistake ! He had not dared to hint the love he felt— You were my reflex — (how I under- stood !) He said you were the ribbon I had worn, He kissed my hand, he looked into my eyes. IN A BALCONY 367 And love, love was the end of every phrase. Love is begun — this much is come to pass, The rest is easy. Constance, I am yours — I will learn, I will place my life on you. But teach me how to keep what I have won. Am I so old ? this hair was early grey ; But joy ere now has brought hair brown And joy will bring the cheek's red back, I feel. I could sing once too ; that was in my youth. Still, when men paint me, they declare me . . . yes. Beautiful — for the last French painter did! I know they flatter somewhat ; you are frank — I trust you. How I loved you from the first ! Some queens would hardly seek a cousin out • And set her by their side to take the eye: I must have felt that good would come from you. I am not generous — like him — like you ! But he is not your lover after all — It was not you he looked at. Saw you him ? You have not been mistaking words or looks ! He said you were the reflex of myself — And yet he is not such a paragon To you, to younger women who may choose Among a thousand Norberts. Speak the truth ! You know you never named his name to me — You know, I cannot give him up — ah God, Not up now, even to you ! Con. Then calm yourself. Queen. See, I am old — look here, you happy girl, I will not play the fool, deceive myself ; 'Tis all gone — put your cheek beside my cheek — Ah, what a contrast does the moon behold ! But then I set my life upon one chance. The last chance and the best — am / not left. My soul, myself ? AU women love great men If yoUng or old — it is in all the tales — Young beauties love old poets who can love — Why should not he, the poems in my soul. The love, the passionate faith, the sacrifice. The constancy ? I throw them at his feet. Who cares to see the fountain's veny shape. And whetherit be aTriton's or aNymph's That pours the foam, makes rainbows all around ? You could not praise indeed the empty conch ; But I'll pour floods of love and hide myself. How I will love him ! cannot men love love ? Who was a queen and loved a poet once Humpbacked, a dwarf ? ah, women can do that ! Well, but men too ; at least, they tell you so. Theylove so many women in their youth. And even in age they all love whom they please ; And yet the best of them confide to friends That 'tis not beauty makes the lasting love — They spend a day with such and tire the next ; They like soul, — well then, they like phantasy. Novelty even. Let us confess the truth. Horrible though it be — that prejudice. Prescription . . . curses ! they will love a queen. They will — they do. And will not, does not — he ? Con. How can he 1 You are wedded — 'tis a name We know, but still a bond. Your rank remains. 368 IN A BALCONY His rank remains. How can he, nobly souled As you believe and I incline to think. Aspire to be your favourite, shame and all? Queen. Hear her ! there, there now — could she love like me ? What did I say of smooth-cheeked youth and grace ? See all it does or could do ! so, youth loves ! Oh, tell him, Constance, you could never do What I will — you, it was not bom in ! I Will drive these difficulties far and fast As yonder mists curdling before the moon. I'll use my light too, gloriously retrieve My youth from its enforced calamity, Dissolve that hateful marriage, and be his. His own in the eyes alike of God and man. Con. You will do — ^^dare do . . . pause on what you say ! Queen. Hear her ! I thank you. Sweet, for that surprise. You have the fair face : for the soul, see mine ! I have the strong soul : let me teach you, here. I think I have borne enough and long enough, And patiently enough, the world remarks, To have my own way now, unblamed by all. It does so happen (I rejoice for it) This most unhoped-for issue cuts the knot. There 's not a better way of settling claims Than this ; God sends the accident express : And were it for my subjects' good, no more, 'Twere best thus ordered. I am thank- ful now. Mute, passive, acquiescent. I receive. And bless God simply, or should almost fear » To walk so smoothly to my ends at last. Why, how I baffle obstacles, spurn fate ! How strong I am ! could Norbert see me now ! Con. Let me consider. It is all too strange. Queen. You, Constance, learn of me ; do you, like me ! You are young, beautiful : my own, best girl. You will have many lovers, and love one — Light hair, not hair like Norbert's, to suit yours. And taller than he is, for yourself are tall. Love him, like me ! give all away to him ; Think never of yourself ; throw by your pride, Hope, fear, — your swn good as you saw it once. And love him simply for his very self. Kemember, I (and what am I to you ?) Would give up all for one, leave throne, lose life, Do all but just unlove him ! He loves me. Con. He shall. Queen. You, step inside my inmost heart. Give me your own heart : let us have one heart. I'll come to you for counsel ; ' this he This he does ; what should this amount to, pray ? Beseech you, change it into current coin. Is that worth lasses ? shall I please him there ? ' And then we'll speak in turn of you — what else ? Your love, according to your beauty's worth. For you shall have some noble love, all gold: Whom choose you ? we will get him at your choice. — Constance, I leave you. Just a minute since, I felt aa I must die or be alone Breathing my soul into an ear like yours : Now, I would face the world with my new life. IN A BALCONY 369 With my new crown. I'll walk around the rooms. And then come back and tell you how it feels. How soon a smile of God can change the world ! How we are made for happiness — how work Grows play, adversity a winning fight ! True, I have lost so many years. What then ? Many remain: God has been very good. You, stay here. 'Tis as different from dreams. From the mind's cold calm estimate of bUss, As these stone statues from the flesh and blood. The comfort thou hast caused mankind, God's moon ! [She goes out, leaving Constance. Dance-music from within. NoRBERT enters. Nor. Well ! we have but one minute and one word. Con. I am yours, Norbert ! Nor. Yes, mine. Con. Not till now ! You were mine. Now I give myself to you. Nor. Constance ! Con. Your own ! I know the thriftier way Of giving — haply, 'tis the wiser way. Meaning to give a treasure, I might dole Coin after coin out (each, as that were all. With a new largess still at each despair) And force you keep in sight the deed, preserve Exhaustless till the end my part and yours, My giving and your taking ; both our joys Dying together. Is it the wiser way ? I choose the simpler ; I give all at once. Know what you have to trust to, trade upon ! Use it, abuse it, — anything but think Hereafter, ' Had I known she loved me so. And what my means, I might have thriven with it.' This is your means. I give you all my- ■ self. Nor. I take you and thank God. Con. Look on through years ! We cannot kiss, a second day like this ; Else were this earth, no earth. Nor. With this day's heat We shall go on through years of cold. Con. So, best ! I try to see those years — I think I see. You walk quick and new warmth comes; you look back And lay all to the first glow — not sit down For ever brooding on a day like this While seeing the embers whiten and love die. Yes, love lives best in its effect ; and mine. Full in its own life, yearns to live in yours. Nor. Just so. I take and know you all at once. Your soul is disengaged so easily. Your face is there, I know you ; give me time. Let me be proud and think you shall know me. My soul is slower : in a life I roll The minute out whereto you condense yours — The whole slow circle round you I must move. To be just you. I look to a long life To decompose this minute, prove its worth. 'Tis the sparks' long succession one by one Shall show you, in the end, what fire was crammed In that mere stone you struck : how could you know. If it lay ever unproved in your sight, As now my heart lies ? your own warmth would hide Its coldness, were it cold. Con. But how prove, how ? Nor. Prove in my life, you ask ? Con. Quick, Norbert — how ? Nor. That 's easy told. I count life just a stuff To try the soul's strength on, educe the man. 370 IN A BALCONY Who keeps one end in view makes all things serve. As with the body — he who hurls a lance Or heaps up atone on stone, shows strength alike, So I will seize and use all means to prove And show this soul of mine you crown as yours. And justify us both. Con. Could you write books. Paint pictures ! one sits down in poverty And writes or paints, with pity for the rich. Nor. And loves one's painting and one's writing, then, And not one's mistress ! All is best, believe. And we best as no other than we are. We live, and they experiment on life — Those poets, painters, all who stand aloof To overlook the farther. Let us be The thing they look at ! I might take your face And write of it and paint it — to what end ? For whom ? what pale diotatress in the air Feeds, smiling sadly, her fine ghost-like form With earth's real blood and breath, the beauteous life She makes despised for ever ? Yon are mine. Made for me, not for others in the world. Nor yet for that which I should call my art. The cold calm power to see how fair you look. I come to you — I leave you not, to write Or paint. You are, I am. Let Rubens there Paint us. Con. So, best ! Nor. I understand your soul. You live, and rightly sympathize with life. With action, power, success. This way is straight ; And days were short beside, to let me change The craft my childhood learnt : my craft shall serve. Men set me here to subjugate, enclose. Manure their barren lives, and force the fruit First for themselves, and afterward for me In the due tithe ; the task of some one man. By ways of work appointed by them- selves. I am not bid create — they see no star Transfiguring my browto warrantthat — But bind in one and carry out their wills. So I began : to-night sees how I end. What if it see, too, my first outbreak here Amid the warmth, surprise and sym- pathy. And instincts of the heart that teach the head ? What if the people have discerned at length The dawn of the next nature, the new man Whose will they venture in the place of theirs, And who, they trust, shall find them out new ways To heights as new which yet he only sees ? I felt it when you kissed me. See this Queen, This People — in our phrase, this mass of men — See how the mass lies passive to my hand And how my hand is plastic, and you by To make the muscles iron ! Oh, an end Shall crown this issue as this crowns the first ! My will be on this People ! then, the strain. The grappling of the potter with hisclay, The long uncertain struggle, — the suc- cess And consummation of the spirit-work. Some vase shaped to the curl of the god's lip, While rounded fair for lower men to see The Graces in a dance all recognize With turbulent applause and laughs of heart ! IN A BALCONY 371 So triumph ever shall renew itself ; Ever shall end in efforts higher yet. Ever begin . . . Con. I ever helping ? Nor. Thus ! [As he embraces her, the Queen enters. Con. Hist, madam — so I have per- formed my part. You see your gratitude's true decency, Norbert ? a little slow in seeing it ! Begin, to end the sooner. What 's a kiss ? Nor. Constance ! Con. Why, must I teach it you again ? You want a witness to your dullness, sir 1 What was I saying these ten minutes long ? Then I repeat — when some young hand- some man Like you has acted out a part like yours. Is pleased tofall in lovewithone beyond. So very far beyond him, as he says — So hopelessly in love, that but to speak Would prove him mad, — he thinks judiciously, And makes some insignificant good soul Like me, his friend, adviser, confidant And very stalking-horse to cover him Infollowingafterwhathedaresnotface — When his end 's gained— (sir, do you understand ?) When she, he dares not face, has loved him first, — May I not say so, madam ? — tops his hope, And overpasses so his wildest dream. With glad consent of all, and most of her The confidant who brought the same about — Why, in the moment when such joy explodes, I do hold that the merest gentleman Will not start rudely from the stalking- horse, Dismiss it with a 'There, enough of you !' Forget it, show his back unmannerly ; But like a liberal heart will rather turn And say, ' A tingling time of hope was ours — Betwixt the fears and f alterings~we two lived A chanceful time in waiting for the prize : The confidant, the Constance, served not ill ! And though I shall forget her in due time, Her use being answered now, as reason bids. Nay as herself bids from her heart of hearts. Still, she has rights, the first thanks go to her, ' The first good praise goes to the pros- perous tool. And the first — which is the last — re- warding kiss.' Nor. Constance ? it is a dream — ah see, you smile ! Con. So, now his part being properly performed, Madam, I turn to you and finish mine As duly ; I do justice in my turn. Yes, madam, he has loved you — long and well ; He could not hope to tell you so — 'twas I Whoserved to prove your soul accessible. I led his thoughts on, drew them to their place When else they had wandered out into despair. And kept love constant towards its natural aim. Enough, my part is played ; you stoop half-way And meet us royally and spare our fears : 'Tis like yourself. He thanks you, so doL Take him — with my full heart ! my work is praised By what comes of it. Be you happy, both! Yourself — the only one on earth who can — Do all for him, much more than a mere heart Which though warm is not useful in its warmth As the silk vesture of a queen ! fold that Around him gently, tenderly. For him — For him, — he knows his own part. Nor. Have you done ? 372 IN A BALCONY I take the jest at last. Should I speak now ? Was yours the wager, Constance, foolish child. Or did you but accept it ? Well — at least You lose by it. Con. Nay, madam, 'tis your turn ! Kestrain him still from speech a little more. And make him happier and more con- fident !* Pity him, madam, he is timid yet ! Mark, Norbert ! do not shrink now ! Here I yield My whole right in you to the Queen, observe ! With her go put in practice the great schemes You teem with, follow the career else closed — Be all you cannot be except by her ! Behold her ! — Madam, say for pity's Anything — frankly say you love him ! Else He'll not believe it : there 's more earnest in His fear than you conceive : I know the man. Nor, I know the woman somewhat, and confess I thought she had jested better : she begins To overcharge her part. I gravely wait Your pleasure, madam : where is my reward ? Queen. Norbert, this wild girl (whom I recognize Scarce more than you do, in her fancy-fit, Eccentric speech and variable mirth. Not very wise perhaps and somewhat bold. Yet suitable, the whole night's work being strange) — May still be right : I may do well to speak And make authentic what appears a dream To even myself. For, what she says, is true — Yes, Norbert — what you spoke but now of love. Devotion, stirred no novel sense in me. But justified a warmth felt long before. Yes, from the first — I loved you, I shall say: Strange ! but I do grow stronger, now 'tis said. Your courage helps mine : you did well to speak To-night, the night that crowns your twelvemonths' toil — But still I had not waited to discern Your heart so long, believe me. From the first The source of so much zeal was almost plain. In absence even of your own words just now Which opened out the truth. 'Tis very strange. But takes a happy ending — in your love Which mine meets : be it so : .as you choose me. So I choose you. Nor. And worthily you choose ! I will not be unworthy your esteem. No, madam. I do love you ; I will meet Your nature, now I know it. This was well. I see, — you dare and you are justified : But none had ventured such experiment. Less versed than you in nobleness of heart. Less confident of finding such in me. I joy that thus you test me ere you grant The dearest, richest, beauteousest and best Of women to my arms : 'tis like yourself. So — back again into my part's set words — Devotion to the uttermost is yours, But no, you cannot, madam, even you. Create in me the love our Constance does. Or — something truer to the tragic phrase — ■ Not yon magnoUa^bell superb with scent Invites a certain insect — that 's myself — But the small eye-fiower nearer to the ground. I take this lady. Con. Stay — not hers, the trap — Stay, Norbert — that mistake were worst of all. He is too cunning, madam ! It was I, IN A BALCONY 373 I, Norbert, who . . . Nor. You, was it, Con- stance ? Then, But for the grace of this divinest hour Which gives me you, I might not pardon here. I am the Queen's : she only knows my brain — She may experiment therefore on my heart And I instruct her too by the result. But you. Sweet, you who know me, who so long Have told my heart-beats over, held my Ufe In those white hands of yours, — it is not well ! Con. Tush ! I have said it, did I not say it all ? The life, for her — the heart-beats, for her sake ! Nor. Enough ! my cheek grows red, I tliink. Your test ? There 's not the meanest woman in the world, Not she I least could love in all the world. Whom, did she love me, did love prove itself, I dared insult as you insult me now. Constance, I could say, if it must be said, ' Take back the soul you offer — I keep mine ' But — ' Take the soul still quivering on your hand. The soul so offered, which I cannot use. And, please you, give it to some playful friend. For — what 's the trifle he requites me with ? ' I, tempt a woman, to amuse a man. That two may mock her heart if it suc- cumb ? No ! fearing God and standing 'neath His heaven, 1 would not dare insult a woman so. Were she the meanest woman in the world. And he, I cared to please, ten emperors ! Con. Norbert ! Nor. I love once as I live but once. What case is this to think or talk about ? Hove you. Would it mend the caseat all Should such a step as this kill love in me ? Your part were done : account to God for it. But mine — could murdered love get up again. And kneel to whom you pleased to designate. And make you mirth ? It is too horrible. You did not know this, Constance ? now you know That body and soul have each one life, but one : ' And here 's my love, here, , living, at your feet. Con. See the Queen ! Norbert — this one more last word — If thus you have taken jest for earnest — thus Loved me in earnest . . . Nor. Ah, no jest holds here ! Where is the laughter in which jests break up. And what this horror that grows palpable ? Madam — why grasp you thus the bal- cony ? Have I done ill ? Have I not spoken the truth ? How could I other ? Was it not your test. To try me, and what my love for Con- stance meant ? Madam, your royal soul itself approves, The first, that I should choose thus ! so one takes A beggar — asks him what would buy his child. And then approves the expected laugh of scorn Returned as something noble from the rags. Speak, Constance, I'm the beggar ! Ha, what 's this ? You two glare each at each like panthers now. Constance, the world fades ; only you stand there ! You did not, in to-night's wild whirl of things. Sell me — your soul of souls, for any price? No — no — 'tis easy to believe in you. Was it your love's mad trial to o'ertop Mine by this vain self-saorifioe ? well, stills 374 IN A BALCONY Though I should curse, I love you. I am love And cannot change : love's self is at your feet. [The Queen goes out. Con. Feel my heart ; let it die against your own ! Nor. Against my own ! explain not ; let this be. This is life's height. Con. Yours ! Yours ! Yours ! Nor. You and I — Why care by what meanders we are here In the centre of the labyrinth ? men have died Trying to find this place, which we have Con. Found, found ! Nor. Sweet, never fear what she can do ! We are past harm now. Con. On the breast of God. I thought of men — as if you were a man. Tempting him with a crown ! Nor. This must end here — It is too perfect ! Con. There 'a the music stopped. What measured heavy tread ? it is one blaze About me and within me. Nor. Oh, some death Will run its sudden finger round this spark And sever us from the rest — Con. And so do well. Now the doors open — Nor. 'Tis the guard comes. Con, Kiss ! STRAFFORD A tragedy"? » DEDICATED, IN AIL AFFECTIONATE ADMIRATION, April 23, 1837. TO WILLIAM C. MACREADY Peesons. Wentworth, Charles I. Earl of Holland. Lord Savile. Sir Henry Vane. Wentworth, Viscount Earl of Strafford. John Pym. John Hampden. The younger Vane. Denzil Hollis. Benjamin Rudyard. ACT I Scene I. A House near Whitehall. — Hampden, Holus, the younger Vane, Ritdyard, Fieknes, and many of the Presbyterian Party : Loudon and other Scots, Commis- sioners. Vane. I say, if he be here — ) Bui. (And he is here !)' — Nathaniel Fiennes. Earl of Loudon. Maxwell, Usher of the Black Rod. Balfour, Constable of the Tower. A Puritan. Queen Henrietta. Lucy Percy, Countess of Carlisle. Presbyterians, Scots Commissioners, Adherents of Strafford, Secretaries, Officers of the Court, &o. Two of Strafford's Children. Hoi. For England's sake let every man be still Nor speak of him, so much as say his name. Till Pym rejoin us ! Rudyard ! Henry Vane ! One rash conclusion may decide our course And with it England's fate — think— England's fate I ACT I, SC. l] STRAFFORD , ^,»->-vA-*--«<-/<^ 375 Hampden, for England's sake they should be still ! Vane. You say so, Hollis ? Well, I must be still ! It is indeed too bitter that one man. Any one man's mere presence should suspend England's combined endeavour : little need To name him ! Rvd. For you are his brother, Hollis ! r Hamp. Shame on you, Rudyard ! time to tell him that, When he forgets the Mother of us all. Und. Do I forget her ? —- Hamp. You talk idle hate. Against her foe : is that so strange a thing ? Is hating Wentworth. all the help she needs ? A Puritan. The Philistine strode, cursing as he went : But David — five smooth pebbles from the brook Within his scrip . , . Bud. Be you as still as David ! Fien. Here 's Budyard not ashamed to -wag a tongue Stiff with ten years' disuse of Parlia- ments ; Why, when the last sat, Wentworth sat with us ! Sud. Let 's hope for news of them now he returns — He that was safe in Ireland, as we thought ! — But I'll abide Pym's coming. Vane. Now, by Heaven They may be cool who can, silent who win- some have a gift that way ! Wentworth is here. Here, and the King 'a safe closeted with him Ere this. And when I think on all that 's past Since that man left us, how his single arm Rolled the advancing good of England back And set the woeful Past up in its place, — Exalting Dagon where the Ark should be — How that man has made firm the fickle King (Hampden, I will speak out !J — in aught he feared To venture on before ; taught Tyranny Her dismal trade, the use of all her tools, To ply the scourge yet screw the gag so close That strangled agony bleeds mute to death — How he turns Ireland to a private stage For training infant villanies, new ways Of wringing treasure out of tears and blood, Unheard oppressions nourished in the dark To try how much man'snature can endure ■ — If he dies under it, what harm ! if not. Why, one more trick is added to the rest Worth a king's knowing, and what Ire- land bears England may learn to bear : how all this while That man has set himself to one dear task. The bringing Charles to relish more and more Power, power without law, power and blood too — —Can I be still ? Hamp. For that you should be still. Vane. Oh, Hampden, then and now ! The year he left us. The People in full Parliament could wrest The Bill of Rights from the reluctant King ; And now, he'll find in an obscure small room A stealthy gathering of great-hearted men That take up England's cause : England is here ! Hamp. And who despairs of England ? Hud. That do I, If Wentworth comes to rule her. I am sick To think her wretched masters, Hamil- ton, The muckworm Cottington, the maniac Laud, May yet be longed-for back again. I say, I do despair. Vane. And, Rudyard, I'll say this — 37G STRAFFORD [act I Which all true men say after me, not loud But solemnly and as you'd say a prayer ! This King, who treads our England underfoot, Has just so much — it may be fear or craft — As bids him pause at each fresh outrage ; friends. He needs some sterner hand to grasp his own. Some voice to ask, ' Why shrink ? — am I not by ? ' Now, one whom England loved for serving her. Found in his heart to say, ' I know where best The iron heel shall bruise her, for she leans Upon me when you trample.' Witness, you! So Wentworth heartened Charles, and England fell. But inasmuch as life is hard to take From England . . . Many Voices. Go on. Vane ! 'Tis well said. Vane ! Vane. — Who has not so forgotten Runnymead ! — Voices. 'Tis well and bravely spoken, Vane ! Go on ! Vane. There are some little signs of late she knows The ground no place for her ! She glances round, Wentworth has dropped the hand, is gone his way On other service : what if she arise ? No ! the King beckons, and beside him standi The same bad man once more, with the same smile And the -same gesture. Now shall England crouch. Or catch at us and rise ? Voices. The Renegade ! Haman ! Ahithophel ! Hamp. Gentlemen of the North, It was not thus, the night your claims were urged. And we pronounced the League and Covenant The cause of Scotland, England's cause as well ! Vane there, sat motionless the whole night' through. Vane. Hampden ! Fien. Stay, Vane ! Lou. Be j ust and patient, Vane ! Vane. Mind how you counsel patience, Loudon ! you Have still a Parliament, and this your League To back it ; you are free in Scotland still : While we are brothers, hope 's for England yet. But know you wherefore Wentworth comes ? to quench This last of hopes ? that he brings war •with him ? Know you the man's self ? what he dares ? Lou. We know, AlKknow — 'tis nothing new. XVane. And what 's new, then, In calling for his life ? Whv, Pym him- self— You must have heard — ere Wentworth dropped our cause He would see Pym first ; there were many more Strong on the people's side and friends of his, Eliot that 's dead, Rudyard and Hamp- den here. But for these Wentworth cared not; only, Pym He would see — Pym and he were sworn, 'tis said. To live and die together ; so, they lAet At Greenwich. Wentworth, you are sure, was long. Specious enough, the devil's argument Lost nothing on his lips ; he'd have Pym own A patriot could not play a purer part Than follow in his track ; they two com- bined Might put down England. Well, Pym heard him out ; One glance — you know Pym's eye — one word was all : ' You leave us, Wentworth ! while your head is on, SC. I] STRAFFORD 377 I'll not leave you.' Hamp. Has he left Went- worth, then ? Has England lost him ? Will you let him Or put your crude surmises in his mouth ? Away with this ! Will you have Pym or Vane ? Voices. Wait Pym's arrival ! Pym shall speak. Bamp. Meanwhile Let Loudon read the Parliament's report From Edinburgh : our last hope, as Vane says. Is in the stand it makes. Loudon ! Vane. No, no ! Silent I can be : not indifferent ! Hamp. Then each keep silence, pray- ing God to spare His anger, cast not England quite away In this her visitation ! A Puritan. Seven years long The Midianite drove Israel into dens And caves. Till God sent forth a mighty man, Pym enters. Even Gideon ! Pym. Wentworth 's come : nor sick- ness, care. The ravaged body nor the ruined soul. More than the winds and waves that beat his ship. Could keep him from the King. He has not reached Whitehall r they've hurried up a Council there To lose no time and find him work enough. Where 's Loudon ? your Soots' Parliar- ment . . . Lou. Holds firm : We were about to read reports. Pym. The King Has just dissolved your Parliament. Lou. and other Scots. Great God ! An oath-breaker ! Stand bv us, England, then ! Pym. The King 's too sanguine ; doubtless Wentworth 's here ; But still some little form might be kept up. Samp. Now speak. Vane ! Rudyard, you had much to say ! Hcil. The rumour 's false, then . . . Pym. Ay, the Court gives out His own concerns have brought him back : I know 'Tis the King calls him: Wentworth supersedes The tribe of Cottingtons and Hamiltona Whose part is played ; there 's talk enough, by this, — Merciful talk, the King thinks : time is now To turn the record's last and bloody leaf That, chronicling a, nation's great despair. Tells they were long rebellious, and their lord Indulgent, till, all kind expedients tried, He drew the sword on them and reigned in peace. Laud's laying his religion on the Scots Was the last gentle entry : the new page Shall run, the King thinks, ' Wentworth thrust it down At the sword's point.' A Puritan. I'll do your bid- ding, Pym, England's and God's — one blow ! Pym. A goodly thing — We all say, friends, it is a goodly thing To right that England ! Heaven grows dark above : Let 's snatch one moment ere the thun- der fall. To say how well the English spirit comes out Beneath it ! All have done their best, indeed, From lion Eliot, that grand Englishman, To the least here : and who, the least one here. When she is saved (for her redemption dawns. Dimly, most dimly, but it dawns — it dawns) Who'd give at any price his hope away Of being named along with the Great Men ? We would not — no, we would not give that up ! Hamp. And one name shall be dearer than all names. When children, yet unborn, are taught that name 378 STRAFFORD [act I After their fathers', — taught what matchless man . . . Pym. . . . Saved England ? What if Wentworth's should be still That name ? Bud. and others. We have just said it, Pym ! His death Saves he.' ! We said it — there 's no way beside ! I'll do God's bidding, Pym ! They struck down Joab And purged the land. Vane. No villanous striking-down ! Eud. No, a calm vengeance : let the whole land rise And shout for it. No Feltons ! Pym. Rudyard, no ! England rejects all Feltons ; most of all Since Wentworth . . Hampden, say the trust again Of England in her servants — but I'll think You know me, all of you. Then, I believe. Spite of the Past, Wentworth rejoins you, friends ! Vane and others. Wentworth ? apos- tate ! Judas ! double-dyed A traitor ! Is it Pym, indeed . . . Pym. . . . Who says Vane never knew that Wentworth, loved that man, Was used to stroll with him, arm locked in arm. Along the streets to see the people pass And read in every island-countenance Fresh argument for God against the King,— Never sat down, say, in the very house Where Eliot's brow grew broad with noble thoughts, (You've joined us, Hampden — HoUis, you as well,) And then left talking over Gracchus' death . . . Vane. To frame, we know it well, the choicest clause In the Petition of Eight: he framed such clause One month before he took at the King's hand His Northeto Presidency, which that Bill Denounced. J'ym. Too true ! Never more, never more Walked we together! Most alone I went. I have had friends — all here are fast my friends — But I shall never quiteforgetthatfriend. And yet it could not but be real in him ! You, Vane, — you Budyard, have no right to trust To Wentworth : but can no one hope with me ? Hampden, will Wentworth dare shed English blood Like water ? Hamp. Ireland is Aceldama. Pym. Will he turn Scotland to a hunting-ground To please the King, now that he knows the King ? The People or the King? and that King, Charles ! Hamp. Pym, all here know you : you'll not set your heart On any baseless dream. But say one deed Of Wentworth's, since he left us . . . [Shouting without. Vane. There ! he comes. And they shout for him ! Wentworth 's at Whitehall, The King embracing him, now, as we speak. And he, to be his match in courtesies, Taking the whole war's risk upon him- self. Now, while you tell us here how changed he is ! Hear you ? Pym. And yet if 'tis a dream, no more. That Wentworth chose their side, and brought the King To love it as though Laud had loved it first. And the Queen after ; — that he led their cause Calm to success, and kept it spotless through. So that our very eyes could look upon The travail of our souls and close content That violence, which something mars even right SC. l] STRAFFORD 379 Which sanctions it, had taken off no grace From its serene regard. Only a dream ! Hamp. We meet here to accomplish certain good By obvious means, and keep tradition up Of free assemblages, else obsolete. In this poor chamber : nor without effect Has friend met friend to counsel and confirm. As, listening to the beats of England's heart. We spoke its wants to Scotland's prompt reply By these her delegates. Remains alone That word grow deed, as with God's help it shall — But with the devil's hindrance, who doubts too ? Looked we or no that tyranny should turn Her engines of oppression to their use ? Whereof, suppose the worst be Went- worth here — Shall we break off the tactics which suc- ceed In drawing out our formidablest foe. Let bickering and disunion take their place ? Or count his presence as our conquest's proof. And keep the old arms at their steady play? Proceed to England's work ! Fiennes, read the list ! Fiennes. Ship-money is refused or fiercely paid In every county, save the northern parts Where Wentworth's influence . . . [shoiding.) Vane. I, in England's name. Declare her work, this way, at end ! Till now. Up to this moment, peaceful strife was best. We English had free leave to think ; till now. We had a shadow of a Parliament In Scotland. But all 's changed : they change the first. They try brute-force for law, they, first of all . . . Voices. Good ! Talk enough ! The old true hearts with Vane ! Vane. Till we crush Wentworth for her, there 's no act Serves England ! Voices. Vane for England ! Pym. Pym should be Something to England. I seek Went- ) worth, friends. Scene II. — Whitehall. Lady Carlisle and Wbntwoeth. Went. And the King ? Lady Car. Wentworth, lean on me ! sit then, — I'll tell you all ; this horrible fatigue Will kill you. Went. No ; or — Lucy, just your arm; I'll not sit till I've cleared this up with him : After that, rest. The King ? Lady Car. Confides in you. Went. Why ? or, why now ? — They have kind throats, the knaves ! Shout for me — they ! Lady Car. You come so strangely soon : Yet we took measures to keep off the crowd — Did they shout for you ? Went. Wherefore should they not ? Does the King take such measures for himself ? Beside, there 's such a dearth of mal- contents. You say ! Lady Car. 1 said but few dared carp at you. Went. At me ? at us, I hope ! The King and I ! He 's surely not disposed to let me bear The fame away from him of these late deeds In Ireland ? I am yet his instrument Be it for well or ill ? He trusts me, too ! Lady Car. The King, dearw Went- worth, purposes, I said. To grant you, in the face of all the Court . . . 380 STEAFFORD [act I 'Wtrd. All the Court ! Evermore the Court about ua ! Savile and Holland, Hamilton and Vane About us, — then the King will grant me —what ? That he for once put these aside and say— 'Tell me your whole mind, Wentworth ! ' Lady Gar. You professed You would be calm. Went. Luoy, and I am calm ! How else shall I do all I come to do. Broken, as you may see, body and mind, Howshall I serve the King ? time wastes meanwhile. You have not told me half. His foot- step ! No. Quick, then, before I meet him, — I am calm — Why does the King distrust me ? Laiy Car. He does not Distrust you. Werd. Lucy, you can help me ; you Have even seemed to care for me : one word ! Is it the Queen ! Laiy Car. No, not the Queen : the party That poisons the Queen's ear, Savile and Holland. Went. I know, I know : and Vane, too, he 's one too ? Go on — and he 's made Secretary. Well ? Or leave them out and go straight to the charge ; The charge ! Lady Car. Oh, there 's no charge, no precise charge ; Only they sneer, make light of — one may say. Nibble at what you do. 'We.nt. I know ! but Lucy, I reckoned on you from the first ! — Go on ! — Was sure could I once see this gentle friend When I arrived, she'd throw an hour away To help •her . . . what am I ? Lady Car. You thought of me. Dear Wentworth ? Weni. But go on ! The party here ! Lady Car. They do not think your Irish Government Of that surpassing value . . . Went. The one thing Of value ! The one service that the crown May count on ! All that keeps these very Vanes In power, to vex me — not that they do vex. Only it might vex some to hear that service Decried, the sole support that 's left the King ! Lady Car. So the Archbishop says. \ Went. Ah ? well, perhaps ' The only hand held up in my defence May be old Laud's ! These Hollands, then, these Saviles Nibble ? They nibble ?— that 's the very word ! Lady Car. Your profit in the Cus- toms, Bristol says. Exceeds the due proportion : while the tax . . . PTejiS. Enough ! 'tis too unworthy, — I am not So patient as I thought ! What 's Pym about ? Lady Gar. Pym ? WeraJ. Pym and the People. Ixidy Car. Oh, the Faction ! Extinct — of no account : there'll never be Another Parliament. We-rO. Tell Savile that ! You may know — (ay, you do^ — the creatures here Never forget !) that in my earliest life I Was not much that I am now ! The King May take my word on points concerning Pym Before Lord Savile's, Lucy, or if not, I bid them ruin their wise selves, not me, These Vanes and Hollands ! I'll not be their tool Who might be Pym's friend yet. But there 's the King ! Where is he ? Lady Gar. Just apprised that you arrive. WerA. And why not here to meet me ? I was told SC. II] STRAFFORD 381 He sent for me, nay, longed for me ! Lady Car. Because, — He is now ... I think a Council 's sitting now About this Scots affair. Went. A Council sits 1 They have not taken a decided course Without me in the matter ? Lady Car. I should say . . . Went. The war ? They cannot have agreed to that ? Not the Scots' war ? — without con- sulting me — Me, that am here to show how rash it is. How easy to dispense with ? — Ah, you too Against me ! well, — the King may take his time. — Forget it, Lucy ! cares make peevish: mine Weigh me (but 'tis a secret) to my grave. Lady Car. For Uf e or death I am your own, dear friend ! [Goes out. *'-''; Weni. Heartless ! but all are heart- less here. Go now. Forsake the People ! — I did not for- The People : they shall know it — when the King Will trust me ! — who trusts all beside at once. While I have not spoke Vane and Savile fair. And am not trusted : have but saved the Throne : Have not picked up the Queen's glove prettily. And am not trusted. But he'll see me now. Weston is dead : the Queen's half English now — More English : one decisive word will brush These insects from . . . the step I know so well ! The King ! But now, to tell him ... no — to ask What 's in me he distrusts : — or, best begin By proving that this frightful Scots affair Is j ust what I foretold. So much to say. And the flesh fails, now ! and the time is come. And one false step no way to be repaired ! \ You were avenged, Pym, could you look^' on me ! ■. , ■ •^ /. Pym enters. Went. I little thought of you just •'' then. Pym. No ? I Think always of you, Wentworth. Went. The old voice ! I wait the King, sir. Pym. True — you look so pale ! A Council sits within ; when that breaks up He'll see you. Went. Sir, I thank you. Pym. Oh, thank Laud ! You know when Laud once gets on Church affairs The case is desperate : he'll not be long To-day: he only means to prove, to-day. We English all are mad to have a hand In butchering the Scots for serving God After their fathers' fashion : only that ! Went. Sir, keep your jests for those who relish them ! (Does he enjoy their confidence ?) 'Tis EmH ■ ^-j—- ■ ■ To tell me what the Council does. Pym. You grudge ^ That I should know it had resolved on T war " Before you came ? no need : you shall have all The credit, trust me. Went. Have the Council dared — They have not dared . . . that is — I know you not. Farewell, sir : times are changed. Pym. — Since we two met At Greenwich ? Yes : poor patriots though we be. You cut a figure, makes some shght return For your exploits in Ireland ! Changed indeed. Could our friend Eliot look from out his grave ! Ah, Wentworth, one thing for acquain- tance' sake. 382 STRAFFORD [act I Just to decide a question ; have you, now. Pelt your old self since you forsook us ? Went. Sir ! Pym. Spare me the gesture ! you misapprehend ! Think not I mean the advantage is with me. I was about to say that, for my part, I never quite held up my head since then, — Was quite myself since then : for first, you see, I lost all credit after that event With those who recollect how sure I was Wentworth would outdo Eliot on our side. Forgive me : Savile, old Vane, Holland here. Eschew plain-speaking : 'tis a trick I keep. Went. How, when, where, Savile, Vane and Holland speak, Plainly or otherwise, would have my scorn, All of my scorn, sir . . . Pym. . . . Did not my poor thoughts Claim somewhat ? Went. Keep your thoughts ! believe the King Mistrusts me for their prattle, all these Vanes And Saviles ! make your mind up, o' God's love, That I am discontented with the King ! Pj/m. Why, you may be : I should be, that I know, Were I like you. Went. Like me ? Pym. I care not much Por titles : our friend Ehot died no Lord, Hampden 's no Lord, and Savile is a Lord : But you care, since you sold your soul for one. I can't think, therefore, your soul's purchaser T)id well to laugh you to such utter scorn When you twice prayed so humbly for its price. The thirty silver pieces ... I should say, The Earldom you expected, still expect. And may. Your letters were the movingest ! Console yourself : I've borne him prayers just now From Scotland not to be oppressed by Laud, Words moving in their way : he'll pay, be sure. As much attention as to those you sent. Went. False, sir ! — Who showed them you ? suppose it so. The King did very well . . . nay, I was When it was shown me : I refused, the first! John Pym, you were my friend — for- bear me once ! Pym. Oh, Wentworth, ancient brother of my soul. That all should come to this ! Went. Leave me ! Pym. My friend. Why should I leave you ? Went. To tell Rudyard this. And Hampden this ! Pym. Whose faces once were bright At my approach — now sad with doubt and fear. Because I hope in you — yes, Wentworth, you Who never mean to ruin England — you Who shake off, with God's help, an ob- scene dream In this Ezekiel chamber, where it crept Upon you first, and wake, yourself — your true And proper self, our Leader, England's Chief, And Hampden's friend ! This is the proudest day ! Come Wentworth ! Do not even see the King! The rough old room will seem itself again ! We'll both go in together : you've not seen Hampden so long : come : and there 's Fiennes : you'll have To know young Vane. This is the proudest day ! ' ^ [The Kino enters. Wentwokth \ lets fall Pym's hand. __ SC. II] STRAFFORD 383 Cka. Arrived, my Lord ? — This gen- tleman, we know, Was your old friend. The Scots shall be informed What we determine for their happiness. [Pym goes out. You have made haste, my Lord. Went. Sir, I am come . . . Cha. To see an old familiar — nay, 'tis well ; Aid us with his experience : this Scots' League And Covenant spreads too far, and we have proofs That they intrigue with France : the Faction, too. Whereof your friend there is the head and front. Abets them, — as he boasted, very like. Went. Sir, trust me ! but for this ' once, trust me, sir ! C?ia. What can you mean ? Went. That you ; , should trust me, sir ! 1 Oh — not for my sake ! but 'tis sad, so sad 'That for distrusting me, you suffer — you Whom I would die to serve : sir, do you think That I would die to serve you ? Cha. But rise, Wentworth ! Went. What shall convince you ? What does Savile do To prove him . . . Ah, one can't tear out one's heart And show it, how sincere a thing it is ! Cha. Have I not trusted you ? Went. Say aught but that ! There is my comfort, mark you : all will be So different when you trust me — as you shall ! It has not been your fault, — I was away. Mistook, maligned, how was the King to know ? I am here, now — he means to trust me, now — All will go on so well ! Cha. Be sure I do — I've heard that I should trust you : as you came. Your friend, the Countess, told me . . . Went. No. — hear nothing — Be told nothing about me ! you're not told Your right-hand serves you, or your children love you ! Cha. You love me, Wentworth : rise ! Went. I can speak now. I have no right to hide the truth. 'Tis I Can save you ; only I. Sir, what must be? Cha. Since Laud 's assured (the minutes are within) — Loath as I am to spill my subjects' blood . . . Went. That is, he'll have a war : what 's done is done ! Cha. They haveintrigued with France ; that 's clear to Laud. Went. Has Laud suggested any way to meet The war's expense ? Cha. He'd not decide so far Until you joined us. Went. Most considerate ! He 's certain they intrigue with \ France, these Scots ? j The People would be with us. Cha. Pym should know. Went. The People for us — were the People for us ! Sir, a great thought comes to reward ■your trust : Summon a Parliament ! in Ireland first. Then, here. Cha. In truth ? Went. That saves us ! that puts off The war, gives time to right their grievances — To talk with Pym. I know the Faction, as Laud styles it, tutors Scotland : all their plans Suppose no Parliament : in calling one You take them by surprise. Produce the proofs Of Scotland's treason ; then bid Eng- land help : Even Pym will not refuse. Cha. You would begin With Ireland ? Went. Take no care for that : that 'a sure To prosper. 384 STRAFFORD [act I Cha. You shall rule me. You were best Return at once : but take this ere you go! Now, do I trust you 2 You're an Earl : my Friend Of Friends : yes, while . . . You hear me not ! Went. Say it all o'er again — but once again : The first was for the music — ^once again ! Cha. Strafford, my friend, there may have been reports. Vain rumours. Henceforth touching Strafford is To touch the apple of my sight : why gaze So earnestly ? Went. I am grown young again. And foolish. What was it we spoke of ? Cha. Ireland, The Parliament, — Wevi. I may go when I will ? — Now ? Cha. Are you tired so soon of us ? Went. My King ! But you will not so utterly abhor A Parliament ? I'd serve you any way. Cha. You said just now this was the only way. Went. Sir, I will serve you ! Cha. Strafford, spare yourself — You are so sick, they tell me. Went. 'Tis my soul That 's well and prospers, now ! This Parliament — We'll summon it, the English one — I'll care For everything. You shall not need them much. Cha. If they prove restive . . . Went. I shall be with you. Cha. Ere they assemble ? Went. I will come, or else Deposit this infirm humanity r the dust. My whole heart stays with you, my King ! \_As Wentworth goes out, the Queen enters. Cha. That man must love me ! Queen. Is it over then ? Why, he looks yellower than ever ! well. At least we shall not hear eternally Of service — services : he 's paid at least. Cha. Not done with : he engages to surpass All yet performed in Ireland. Queen. I had thought Nothing beyond was ever to be done. The war, Charles — will he raise supplies enough ? Cha. We've hit on an expedient ; he . . . that is, I have advised ... we have decided on The calling — in Ireland — of a Pariia- ment. Queen. truly ! You agree to that ? Is that The first fruit of his counsel 2 But I As .much. Cha. This is too idle, Henriette ! I should know best. He will strain every nerve. And once a precedent established . . . Queen. Notice How sure he is of a long term of favours ! He'll see the next, and the next after that ; No end to Parliaments ! Cha. Well, it is done. He talks it smoothly, doubtless. If, in- deed. The Commons here . . . Queen. Here ! you will summon them Here 2 Would I were in France again to see A King ! Cha. But Henriette . . . Queen. Oh, the Scots see clear ! Why should they bear your rule 2 Cha. But listen, Sweet ! Queen. Let Wentworth listen — you confide in him ! Cha. I do not, Love — I do not so con- fide ! The Parliament shall never trouble us . . . Nay, hear me ! I have schemes, such schemes : we'll buy [The leaders off : without that, Went- worth's counsel ad ne'er prevailed on me. Perhaps I call it 'o have excuse for breaking it for ever, i^nd whose will then the blame be 2 See ' you not 2 SC. Il] STRAFFORD 385 Come, Dearest ! — look ! the little fairy, now, That cannot reach my shoulder ! Dearest, come ! ACT II Scene I.— (As in Act I, Scene I.) The same Party enters. End. Twelve subsidies ! Vane. O Eudyard, do not laugh At least ! Rud. True : Strafford called the Parliament — 'Tis he should laugh ! A Puritan. Out of the serpent's root Comes forth a cockatrice. Fien. — A stinging one, If that 's the Parliament : twelve sub- sidies ! A stinging one ! but, brother, where 's your word For Strafford's other nest-egg, the Scots' war ? The Puritan. His fruit shall be a fiery flying serpent. Fien. Shall be ? It chips the shell, man ; peeps abroad. Twelve subsidies ! — Why, how now, Vane ? Bud. Peace, Fiennes ! Fien. Ah ? — But he was not more a dupe than I, Or you, or any here, the day that Pym Keturned with the good news. Look up, friend Vane ! We all believed that Strafford meant us well In summoning the Parliament. Hampden enters. Vane. Now, Hampden, Clear me ! I would have leave to sleep again ; I'd look the People in the face again : Clear me from having, from the first, hoped, dreamed Better of Strafford ! Hump. You may grow one day A steadfast light to England, Henry Vane ! Bud. Meantime, by flashes I make shift to see Strafford revived our Parliaments ; before. War was but talked of ; there 's an army, now : Still, we've a Parliament ! Poor Ireland bears Another wi'ench (she dies the hardest death !) Why, speak of it in Parliament ! and, lo, 'Tis spoken ! so console yourselves. Fien. ' The jest ! We clamoured, I suppose, thus long, to win The privilege of laying on our backs A sorer burden than the King dares lay ! Bud. Mark now : we meet at length, complaints pour in From every county, all the land cries out On loans and levies, curses ship-money. Calls vengeance on the Star-chamber ; we lend An ear. ' Ay, lend them all the ears you have ! ' Puts in the King ; " my subjects, as you find. Are fretful, and conceive great things of you. Just listen to them, friends ; you'll sanction me The measures they most wince at, make them yours. Instead of mine, I know : and, to begin. They say my levies pinch them, — raise me straight Twelve subsidies ! ' Fien. All England cannot furnish Twelve subsidies ! Hoi. But Strafford, just returned From Ireland — what has he to do with that? How could he speak his mind ? He left before The Parliament assembled. Pym, who knows Strafford . . . Bud. Would I were sure we know ourselves ! What is for good, what, bad — who friend, who foe ! Hoi. Do you count ParUaments no gain ? 386 STRAFFORD [act II Rud. A gain ? While the King's creatures overbalance us ? — Tliere 's going on, beside, among our- selves A quiet, slow, but most effectual course Of buying over, sapping, leavening The lump till all is leaven. Glanville 's gone. I'll put a case ; had not the Court de- clared That no sum short of just twelve sub- sidies Will be accepted by the King^our House, I say, would have consented to that offer To let us buy off ship-money ! Hoi. Most like. If, say, six subsidies will buy it off. The House . . . Rud. Will grant them ! Hamp- den, do you hear ? Congratulate with me ! the King 's the king. And gains his point at last — our own To that detested tax ! all 's over, then ! There 's no more taking refuge in this room. Protesting, ' Let the King do what he will. We, England, are no party to our shame : Our day will come ! ' Congratulate with me ! Pym enters. Vane. Pym, Strafford called this Parliament, you say. But we'll not have our Parliaments like those In Ireland, Pym ! Rud. Let him stand forth, your friend ! One doubtful act hides far too many sins ; It can be stretched no more, and, to my mind. Begins to drop from those it covered. Other Voices. Good ! Let him avow himself ! No fitter time ! We wait thus long for you. Rud. Perhaps, too long ! Since nothing but the madness of the Court, In thus unmasking its designs at once. Has saved us from betraying England. Stay — This Parliament is Strafford's : let us vote Our list of grievances too black by far To suffer talk of subsidies : or best. That ship-money 's disposed of long ago By England : any vote that 's broad enough : And then let Strafford, for the love of it. Support his Parliament ! Vane. And vote as well No war 's to be with Scotland ! Hear you, Pym ? We'll vote, no war ! No part nor lot in it For England ! Many Voices. Vote, no war ! Stop the new levies ! No Bishop's war ! At once ! When next we meet ! Pym. Much more when next we meet ! Friends, which of you Since first the course of Strafford was in doubt. Has fallen the most away in soul from me? Vane. I sat apart, even now, under God's eye. Pondering the words that should de- nounce you, Pym, In presence of us all, as one at league With England's enemy. Pym. You are a good And gallant spirit, Henry. Take my hand And say you pardon me for all the pain Till now ! Strafford is wholly ours. Many Voices. Sure ? sure ? Pym. Most sure : for Charles dis- solves the Parliament While I speak here. ■ — And I must speak, friends, now ! Strafford is ours. The King detects the change. Casts Strafford off for ever, and resumes His ancient path : no Parliament for us. No Strafford for the King ! Come, all of you, To bid the King farewell, predict success To his Scots' expedition, and receive so. I] STRAFFORD 387 Strafford, our comrade now. The next will be Indeed a Parliament ! Vane. Forgive me, Pym ! Voices. This looks like truth : Straf- ford can have, indeed. No choice. Pym. Friends, follow me ! He 's with the King. Come, Hampden, and come, Budyard, and come. Vane ! This is no sullen day for England, sirs ! Strafford shall tell you ! Voices. To Whitehall then ! Come ! Scene II. — Charles and Strafford. Glut. Strafford ! Straf. Is it a dream ? my papers, here — Thus, as I left them, all the plans you found So happy — (look ! the track you pressed my hand For pointing out) — and in this very room. Over these very plans, you tell me, sir. With the same face, too, — tell me just one thing That ruins them ! How 's this ? What mdy this mean ? Sir, who has done this ? Cha. Strafford, who but I ? You bade me put the rest away : indeed You are alone. Siraf. Alone, and like to be ! No fear, when some unworthy scheme 's grown ripe. Of those, who hatched it, leaving me to loose The mischief on the world ! Laud hatches war. Falls to his prayers, and leaves the rest to me. And I'm alone. Cha. At least, you knew as much When first you undertook the war. Straf. My liege. Was this the way ? I said, since Laud would lap A little blood, 'twere befit to hurry over The loathsome business, not to be whole months At slaughter — one blow, only one, then, peace. Save for the dreams. I said, to please you both I'd lead an Irish army to the West, While in the South an English . . . but you look As though you had not told me fifty times 'Twas a brave plan ! My army is all raised, I am prepared to join it . . . Cha. Hear me, Strafford ! Siraf. . . . When, for some little thing, my whole design Is set aside — (where is the wretched paper ?) I am to lead — (ay, here it is) — to lead The English army : why ? Northum- berland That I appointed, chooses to be sick — Is frightened : and, meanwhile, who answers for The Irish Parliament ? or army, either ? Is this my plan ? Cha. So disrespectful, sir ? Straf. My liege, do not believe it ! I am yours. Yours ever : 'tis too late to think about: To the death, yours. Elsewhere, this untoward step Shall pass for mine ; the world shall think it mine. But, here ! But, here ! I am so seldom here. Seldom with you, my King ! I, soon to rush Alone upon a giant in the dark ! Cha. My Strafford ! Straf. [examines papers awhile.'] ' Seize the passes of the Tyne ' ! But, sir, you see — see all I say is true ? My plan was sure to prosper, so, no cause To ask the Parliament for help ; whereas We need them frightfully. Cha. Need the Parliament ? Straf. Now, for God's sake, sir, not one error more ! We can afford no error ; we draw, now. Upon our last resource : the Parliament Must help us ! 388 STRAFFORD [act II C%a. I've undone you, Strafford ! Slraf. Nay — Nay — why despond, sir ? 'tis not come to that ! I have not hurt you ? Sir, what have I said To hurt you ? I unsay it I Don't despond ! . Sir, do you turn from me ? Cha. My friend of triends ! Straf. We'll make a shift ! Leave me the Parliament ! Help they us ne'er so little and I'll make Sufficient out of it. We'll speak them fair. They're sitting, that 's one great thing ; that half gives Their sanction to us ; that 's much : don't despond ! Why, let them keep their money, at the worst ! The reputation of the People's help Is all we want : we'll make shift yet ! Cha. Good Strafford ! Straf. But meantime, let the sum be ne'er so small They offer, we'll accept it : any sum — For the look of it : the least grant tells the Scots The Parliament is ours — their staunch ally Turned ours : that told, there 's haK the blow to strike ! What will the grant be ? What does Glanville think ? Cha. Alas ! Straf. My liege ? Cha. Strafford ! Straf. But answer me ! Have they ... surely not refused us half? Half the twelve subsidies ? We never looked For all of them ! How many do they give ? Cha. You have not heard . . . Straf. (What has he done ?) — Heard what ? Butspeakatonce,sir,thisgrowsterrible! [The King continuing silent. You have dissolved them ! — I'll not leave this man. Cha. 'Twas , old Vane's ill-judged vehemence. Straf. Old Vane ? Cha. He told them, justabouttovote the half. That nothing short of all twelve sub- sidies Would serve our turn, or be accepted. Straf. ' Vane ! Vane ! Who, sir, promised me that very Vane . . . God, to have it gone, quite gone from me. The one last hope — I that despair, my hope — That I should reach his heart one day, and cure All bitterness one day, be proud again And young again, care for the sunshine too. And never think of Eliot any more,^ — God, and to toil for this, go far for this. Get nearer, and stiU nearer, reach this heart And find Vane there ! [Suddenly taking up a paper, and continuing with a forced calmness. Northumberland is sick : Well then; I take the army : Wilmot leads The Horse, and he with Conway must secure The passes of the Tyne : Ormond sup- plies My place in Ireland. Here, we'll try the City: If they refuse a loan — debase the coin And seize the bullion ! we've no other choice. Herbert . . . And this while I am here ! with you ! And there are hosts such, hosts like Vane ! I go. And, I once gone, they'll close around you, sir. When the least pique, pettiest mistrust, is sure To ruin me — and you along with me ! Do you see that ? And you along with me ! —Sir, you'll"not ever listen to these men, ' And I away, fighting your battle ? Sir, SC. Il] STRAFFORD 389 If they — if She — charge me, no matter how — Say you, ' At any time when he returns His head is mine ! ' Don't stop me there ! You know My head is yours, but never stop me there ! Oha. Too shameful, Strafford ! You advised the war, And ... Slraf. I ! I ! that was never spoken with Till it was entered on ! That loathe the war ! That say it is the maddest, wickedest. . . Do you know, sir, I think, within my heart, That you would say I did advise the war; And if, through your own weakness, or what 's worse, These Scots, with God to help them, drive me back, You will not step between the raging People And me, to say . . . I knew it ! from the first I knew it ! Never was so cold a heart ! Remember that I said it — that I never Believed you for a moment ! — And, you loved me ? You thought your perfidy profoundly hid Because Icould not sharetbe whisperings With Vane ? With Savile ? What, the face was masked ? I had the heart to see, sir ! Face of flesh. But heart of stone — of smooth, cold, frightful stone ! Ay, call them ! Shall I call for you ? The Scots Goaded to madness ? Or the English — Pym— Shall I call Pym, your subject ? Oh, you think I'll leave them in the dark about it all ? They shall not know you ? Hampden, Pym shall not ? Pym, Hampden, Vane, Ac. enter. [Dropping on his Icnee.] Thus favoured with your gracious countenance What shall a rebel League avail against Your servant, utterly and ever yours ? So, gentlemen, the King 's not even left The privilege of bidding me farewell Who haste to save the People — that you style Your People — from the mercies of the Scots And France their friend ? [To Charles.] Pym's grave grey eyes are fixed Upon you, sir ! Your pleasure, gentlemen ? Hamp. The King dissolved us — 'tis the King we seek And not Lord Strafford. Straf. — Strafford, guilty too Of counselling the measure. [To Chaeles.] (Hush . . . you know^^ You have forgotten — sir, I counselled \ it) -^ A heinous matter, truly ! But the King Will yet see cause to thank me for a course Which now, perchance . . . (Sir, tell them so !) — he blames. Well, choose some fitter time to make your charge : I shall be with the Scots, you under- stand ? Then yelp at me ! Meanwhile, your Majesty Binds me, by this fresh token of your trust . . . [Under the pretence of an earnest farewell, Strafford conducts Charles to the door, in such a manner as to hide his agitation from the rest : as the King dis- appears, they turn as by one impulse to Pym, who has not changed his original posture of surprise. Hamp. Leave we this arrogant strong wicked man ! Vane and others. Hence, Pym ! Come out of this unworthy place To our old room again ! He 's gone. [Strafford, just about to follow the King, looks hack. \ Pym. Not gone ! ] [To Strafford.] Keep tryst! the old ! appointment 's made anew : Forget not we shall meet again ! 390 STRAFFORD [act II Straf. So be it ! And if an army follows me ? Vane. His friends Will entertain your army ! Pym. I'll not say You have misreokoned, Strafford : time shows. Perish, Body and spirit ! Fool to feign a doubt. Pretend the scrupulous and nice reserve Of one whose prowess should achieve the feat ! What share have I in it ? Shall I affect To see no dismal sign above your head When God suspends his ruinous thunder there ? Strafford is doomed. Touch him no one of you ! [Pym, Hampden, &c. go ovt. Straf. Pym, we shall meet again ! Lady Carlisle enters. '' You here, child ? Lady Car. Hush — I know it all : hush, Strafford ! Straf. Ah ? you know ? Well. I shall make a sorry soldier, Lucy ! All knights begin their enterprise, we read. Under the best of auspices ; 'tis morn, The Lady girds his sword upon the Youth (He 's always very young) — the trumpets sound, Cups pledge him, and, why, the King blesses him — You need not turn a, page of the Romance To learn the Dreadful Giant's fate. Indeed. We've the fair Lady here ; but she apart, — A poor man, rarely having handled lance. And rather old, weary, and far from sure His Squires are not the Giant's friends. All 's one : Let us go forth ! Lady Car. Go forth ? Slraf. What matters it ? We shall die gloriously — as the book says. Lady Car. To Scotland 1 not to Scot- land ? Straf. Am I sick Like your good brother, brave North- umberland ? Beside, these walls seem falling on me. Lady Car. Strafford, The wind that saps these walls can under- mine Your camp in Scotland, too. Whence creeps the wind ? Have you no eyes except for Pym ? Look here ! A breed of silken creatures lurk and thrive In your contempt. You'll vanquish Pym? Old Vane Can vanquish you ! And Vane you think to fly? Rush on the Soots ! Do nobly ! Vane's slight sneer Shall test success, adjust the praise. The faint result : Vane's sneer shall reach you there. — You do not listen ! Straf. Oh, — I give that up ; There 's fate in it : I give all here quite up. Care not what old Vane does or Holland does Against me ! 'Tis so idle to withstand — In no case tell me what they do ! Lady Car. But Strafford . . . Straf. I want a little strife, beside ; real strife ; jThis petty, palace-warfare does me harm : shall feel better, fairly out of it. Lady Car. Why do you smile ? Straf. I got to fear them, child ! I could have torn his throat at first, old Vane's, As he leered at me on his stealthy way To the Queen's closet. Lord, one loses heart ! I often found it in my heart to say ' Do not traduce me to her ! ' Lady Car. But the King . . . Straf. The King stood there, 'tis not so long ago, — There ; and the whisper, Lucy, ' Be my friend Of friends!' — My King! I would have. . . Lady Car. . . . Died for him ? SC. ll] STRAFFORD 391 Slraf. Sworn him true, Lucy : I can die for him. Lady Car. But go not, Strafford ! But you must renounce This project on the Scots ! Die ! where- fore die ? Charles never loved you. Straf. And he never will. He 's not of those who care the more for men - That they're unfortunate. Lady Car. Then wherefore die For such a master ? Straf. You that told me first How good he was — when I must leave true friends To find a truer friend ! — that drew me here From Ireland, — ' I had but to show myself And Charles would spurn Vane, Savile, and the rest ' — You, child, to ask me this ? , Lady Car. (If he have set JEis heart abidingly on Charles !) ' Then, friend, I shall not see you any more ! Straf. Yes, Lucy. There 's one man here I have to meet. -Lady Car. (The King ! /'What way to save him from the King ? My soul — That lent from Its own store the charmed disguise That clothes the King — he shall behold - my soul !) Strafford, — I shall speak best if you'll not gaze Upon me : I had never thought, indeed. To speak, but you would perish, too ! So sure ! Could you hut know what 'tis to bear, my friend. One image stamped within you, turning blank The else imperial brilliance of your mind, — A weakness, but most precious, — like a flaw I' the diamond, which should shape - forth some sweet face Yet to create, and meanwhile treasured there Lest Nature lose her gracious thought for ever ! Straf. When could it be ? no ! Yet . . . was it the day We waited in the anteroom, till Holland Should leave the presence-chamber ? Lady Car. What ? Straf. —That I Described to you my love for Charles ? Lady Car. (Ah, no — One must not lure him from a love like that! Oh, let him love the King and die ! 'Tis past. I shall not serve him worse for that one brief And passionatehope, silent for evernow!) And you are really bound for Scotland, then? I wish you well : you must be very sure Of the King's faith, for Pym and all his crew Will not be idle — setting Vane aside ! Straf. If Pym is busy, — you may write of Pym. Lady Car. What need, since there 's your King to take your part ? He may endure Vane's counsel ; but for Pym — Think you he'll suffer Pym to . . . Straf. Child, your hair Is glossier than the Queen's ! Lady Car. Is that to ask A curl of me ? Straf. Scotland the weary way ! Lady Car. Stay, let me fasten it. ^'" — A rival's, Strafford ? Straf. [showing the George.'] He hung it there : twine yours around it, child ! Lady Car. No — no — another time — I trifle so ! And there 's a masque on foot. Fare- well. The Court Is dull ; do something to enliven us In Scotland : we expect it at your hands. Straf. I shall not fall in Scotland. Lady Car. Prosper — if You'll think of me sometimes ! Straf. How think of him And not of you ? of you, the lingering streak 392 STRAFFORD [act III (A golden one) in my good fortune's eve. Lady Car. Strafiord . . . Well, when the eve has its last streak The night has its first star. [Shegoesout. Straf. That voice of hers — You'd think she had a heart sometimes! His voice ^ Is soft too. ■ Only God can save him now. Be Thou about his bed, about his path ! His path ! Where 's England's path ? Diverging wide And not to join again the track my-foot Must follow — whither ? All that forlorn way Among the tombs ! Far — far — till . . . What, they do Then join again, these paths ? For, huge in the dusk, Th 3re 's — Pym to face ! Why then, I have a foe To close with, and a fight to fight at last Worthy my soul ! What, do they beard the King, And shall the King want Strafford at his need ? Am I not here ? Not in the market- place, Pressed on by the rough artisans, so proud To catch a glance from Wentworth ! They'll lie do*n Hungry and smile ' Why, it must end some day — Is he not watching for our sake ? ' — Not there ! But in Whitehall, the whited sepulchre. The . . . Curse nothing to-night ! Only one name They'll curse in all those streets to- night. Whose fault ? Did I make kings ? set up, the first, a man To represent the multitude, receive All love in right of them — supplant them so. Until you love the man and not the king The man with the mild voice and mourn- ful eyes Which send me forth. — To breast the bloody sea That sweeps before me : with one star for guide. Night has its first, supreme, forsaken star. ACT in Scene I. — Opposite Westminster Hail. Sib Heney Vane, Loed Savile, Lord Holland, and others of the Court. Sir H. Yam. The Commons thrast you out .' Savile. And what kept you From sharing their civility ? Sir H.. Vane. Kept me ? Fresh news from Scotland, sir ! worse than the last, If that may be ! All 's up with Strafford there : Nothing to bar the mad Scots marching hither Next Lord's-day morning. That de- tained me, sir ! Well now, before they thrust you out, — go on, — Their Speaker — did the fellow LenthaU say All we set down for him ? Hoi. Not a word missed. Ere he began, we entered, Savile, I And Bristol and some more, with hope to breed Awholesome awe in the new Parliament. But such a gang of graceless ruffians. Vane, As glared at us ! Vane. So many ? Savile. Not a bench Withoutits complementof burly knaves ; Your hopeful son among them : Hamp- den leant Upon his shoulder — ^think of that ! Vane. I'd think On Lenthall's speech, if I could get at it. Urged he, I ask.howgrateful they should prove For this unlooked-for summons from the King ? Hcil. Just as we drilled him. Vane. That the Scots will march On London ? Hoi. All, and made so much of it, A dozen subsidies at least seemed sure =C. I] STRAFFORD 393 To follow, when . . . Vane. Well ? Hoi. 'Tis a strange thing now ! I've a vague memory of a sort of sound, A voice, a kind of vast, unnatural voice — Pym, sir, was speaking ! Savile, help me out : What was it all ! Sav. Something about ■ a matter ' — No, — ' a work for England.' Hoi. ' England's great revenge ' He talked of. Sav. How should I get used to Pym More than yourselves ? Hoi. However that may be, 'Twas something with which we had nought to do. For we were ' strangers ' and 'twas ' England's work ' — (All this while looking us straight in the face) In other words, our presence might be spared. So, in the twinkling of an eye, before I settled to my mind what ugly brute Was likest Pym just then, they yelled us out. Locked the doors after us, and here are we. Vane. Eliot's old method . . . Sav. Prithee, Vane, a truce To Eliot and his times, and the great Duke, And how to manage Parliaments ! 'Twas you Advised the Queen to summon this : why, Strafford (To do him justice) would not hear of it. Vane. Say, rather, you have done the best of turns To Strafford: he's at York, we all know why. I would you had not set the Scots on Strafford Till Strafford put down Pym for us, my lord! Sav. Was it I altered Strafford's plans ? did I . . . ' A Messenger enters. Mee. The Queen, my lords — she sends me : follow me O At once ; 'tis very urgent ! she requires Your counsel : something perilous and strange Occasions her command. Sav. We follow, friend ! Now, Vane ; — your Parliament will plague us all ! Vane. No Strafford here beside ! Sav. If you dare hint I had a hand in his betrayal, sir . . . Hoi. Nay, find a fitter time for quarrels — Pym Will overmatch the best of you ; and, think, The Queen ! Vane. Oome on, then : understand, I loathe Strafford as much as any — but his use ! To keep off Pym — to screen a friend or two ! I would we had reserved him yet awhile. Scene II. — Whitehall. The Queen and Lady Caklisle. , Queen. It cannot be. Lady Car. It is so. Queen. Why, the House Have hardly met. Lady Car. They met for that. Queen. No, no ! Meet to impeach Lord Strafford ? 'Tis a jest. Lady Gar. A bitter one. Queen. Consider ! 'Tis the House We summoned so reluctantly, which nothing But the disastrous issue of the war Persuaded us to summon. They'll wreak all Their spite on us, no doubt ; but the old way Is to begin by talk of grievances : They have their grievances to busy them. Lady Car. Pym has begun his speech. Qufien. Where 's Vane ? — That is, Pym will impeach Lord Strafford if he leaves His Presidency; he 's at York, we know. Since the Scots beat him : why should • he leave York ? Lady Car. Because the King sent for him. 394 STRAFFORD [act III Queen. Ah — but if The King did send for him, he let him know We had been forced to call a Parliament — A step which Strafford, now I come to think. Was vehement against. Lady Car. The policy Escaped him, of first striking Parlia- ments To earth, then setting them upon their feet And givingthemasword: butthisis idle. Did the King send foe Strafford ? He will come. Queen,. And what am I to do ? Lady Car. What do ? Fail, madam ! Be ruined for his sake ! what matters how. So it but stand on record that you made An effort, only one ? Queen. The King 's away At Theobalds. Lady Car. Send for him at once : he must Dissolve the House. Queen. Wait till Vane finds the truth Of the report : then . . . Lady Car. — It will matter little What the King does. Strafford that lends his arm. And breaks his heart for you ! Sir H. Vane enters. Vane. The Commons, madam. Are sitting with closed doors. A huge debate. No lack of noise ; but nothing, I should guess, Concerning Strafford : Pym has cer- tainly Not spoken yet. Queen. [To Lady Cablislb.] You hear ? Lady Car. I do not hear That the King 's sent for ! Sir H. Vane. Savile will be able To tell you more. Holland enters. Queen. The last news, Holland ? Hoi. Pym Is raging like a fire. The whole House means To follow him together to Whitehall And force the King to give up Straf- ford. Queen. Strafford ? Mol. If they content themselves with Strafford ! Laud Is talked of, Cottington and Windebank too, Pym has not left out one of them — I would You heard Pym raging ! Queen. Vane, go find the King ! Tell the King, Vane, the People follow Pym To brave us at Whitehall ! Savilb enters. Savile. Not to Whitehall — 'Tis to the Lords they go : they'll seek redress On Strafford from his peers — the legaJ way. They call it. Queen. (Wait, Vane !) Sav. But the adage gives Long life to threatened men. Strafford can save Himself so readily : at York, remember. In his own county, what has he to fear ? The Commons only mean to frighten him From leaving York. Surely, he will not come. Queen. Lucy, he will not come ! Lady Car. Once more, the King Has sent for Strafford. He will come. Vane. Oh, doubtless ! And bring destruction with him ; that 's his way. What but his coming spoilt all Conway'9 plan ? The King must take his counsel, choose his friends. Be wholly ruled by him ! What 's the result ? The North that was to rise, Ireland to help, — What came of it ? In my poor mind, a fright Is no prodigious punishment. Lady Car. A fright ? SC. II] STRAFFORD 395 Pym will fail worse than Strafford if he thinks To frighten him. {To the Queen.] You will not save him, then ? Sav. When something like a charge is made, the King Will best know how to save him : and 'tis clear, While Strafford suffers nothing by the matter. The King may reap advantage : this in question. No dinning you with ship-money com- plaints ! Queen. {To Lady Carlisle.] If we dissolve them, who will pay the army ? Protect us from the insolent Scots ? Lady Car. In truth I know not, madam. Strafford's fate concerns Me little : you desired to learn what course Would save him : I obey you. Vane. Notice, too, There can't be fairer ground for taking full Kevenge — (Strafford 's revengeful) — than he'll have Against his old friend Pym. Queen. Why, he shall claim Vengeance on Pym ! Vane. And Strafford, who is he To 'scape unscathed amid the accidents That harass all beside ? I, for my part. Should look for something of discom- fiture Had the King trusted me so thoroughly And been so paid for it. Hd. He'll keep at York : All will blow over : he'll return no worse. Humbled a little, thankful for a place Under as good a man. Oh, we'll dis- pense (With seeing Strafford for a month or two! / Strafford enters. "^ Queen. You here ! Straf. The King sends for me, madam. ~ Queen: ___ Sir, The King . . . Straf. An urgent matter that imports the King. [ToliABY Carlisle.] Why, Lucy, what 's ( in agitation now i' That all this muttering and shrugging,! see, j Begins at me ? They do not speak ! j' Car. 'Tis welcome ! For we are proud of you — happy and proud To have you with us, Strafford ! you were staunch At Durham : you did well there ! Had you not Been stayed, you might have ... we said, even now. Our hope 's in you ! Sir H. Vane. \To Lady Carlisle.] The Queen would speakwith you. Straj. Will one of you, his servants here, vouchsafe To signify my presence to the King ? Sav. An urgent matter ? Straf. None that touches you. Lord Savile ! Say, it were some trea- cherous. Sly, pitiful intriguing with the Scots — You would go free, at least ! (They half divine My purpose !) Madam, shall I see the King? The service I would render, much con- cerns His welfare. Queen. But his Majesty, my lord. May not be here, may . . . Straf. Its importance, then. Must plead excuse for this withdrawal, madam. And for the grief it gives Lord Savile here. Queen, [who has been conversing with Vane and Holland.] The King will see you, sir. [To Lady Carlisle.] Mark me: Pym's worst Is done by now : he has impeached the Earl, Or found the Earl too strong for him, by now. ■iret us not seem instructed ! We should work 396 STRAFFORD [act in No good to Strafford, but deform our- selves With shame in the world's eye'. [To ' STRAFroBD.] His Majesty Has much to say with you. Slraj. Time fleeting, too ! \To Lady Carlisle.] No means of getting them away ? And She — What does she whisper ? Does she know my purpose ? What does she think of it ? Get them away ! Queen. [jToLADr Carlisle] He comes to baffle Pym — he thinks the danger Far off : tell him no word of it ! a time For help will come; we'll not be wanting j^' Straf. then. him in play, Lucy — you, self- Keep And calm ! \To Strafford,] To spare your Lordship some delay I will myself acquaint the King. \To Lady Carlisle.] Beware ! [The Queen, Vahe, Holland, and Savile, go out. Straf. She knows it ? Lady Car. Tell me, Strafford ! Straf. Afterward ! This moment's the great moment of all time. She knows my purpose ? Lady Car. Thoroughly : just now She bade me hide it from you. Straf. Quick, dear child. The whole o' the scheme ? Lady Car. (Ah, he would learn if they Connive at Pym's procedure ! Could they but Have once apprised the King ! But, there 's no time For falsehood, now.) Strafford, the whole is known. | Straf. Known and approved ? Lady Car. Hardly discountenanced. Straf. And the King — say, the King consents as well ? Lady Car. The King 's not yet in- formed, but will not dare To interpose. Straf. What need to wait him, then ? He'll sanction it ! I stayed, child, tell him, long I It vexed me to the soul — this waiting here. You know him, there 's no counting on the King. Tell him I waited long ! Lady Car. (What can he mean ? Rejoice at the King's hollo wness !) Straf. I knew They would be glad of it, — all over once, I knew they would be glad : but he'd contrive. The Queen and he, to mar, by helping it. An angel's making. Lady Car. (Is he mad ?J Dear Strafford, You were not wont to look so happy. Sweet, I tried obedience thoroughly. I took The King's wild plan : of course, ere I could reach My army, Conway ruined it. I drew The wrecks together, raised all heaven and earth. And would have fought the Scots : the King at once Made truce with them. Then, Lucy, then, dear child, God put it in my mind to love, serve, die For Charles, but never to obey him more ! While he endured their insolence at Ripon I fell on them at Durham. But you'll tell The King I waited ! All the anteroom Is filled with my adherents. Lady Car. Strafford — Strafford, What daring act is this you hint ? Straf. No, no ! 'Tis here, not daring if you knew ! all i here ! I [Drawing papers from his breast. pull proof, see, ample proof — does the J Queen know p[ have such damning proof ? Bedford |i and Essex, •Broke, Warwick, Savile (did you notice Savile ? The simper that 1 spoilt ?), Saye, Mandeville — Sold to the Scots, body and soul, by Pym! Lady Car. Great heaven ! SC. II] STRAFFORD 397 Straf. From Savile and his lords, to Pym And his losels, crushed ! — Pym shall not ward the blow Nor Savile creep aside from it ! The Crew And the Cabal — I crush them ! Ladi/ Car. And you go — Strafford, — and now you go ? — Straf. — About no work In the background, I promise you ! I go Straight to the House of Lords to claim these knaves. Mainwaring ! Lady Car. Stay — stay, Strafford ! Straf. She'll return, The Queen — some little project of her own ! No time to lose : the King takes fright perhaps. Lady Car. Pym 's strong, remember ! Straf. Very strong, as fits The Faction's head — with no offence to Hampden, Vane, Kudyard, and my loving HoUis — one And all they lodge within the Tower to- night In just equality. Bryan! Mainwaring! [Mant/ of Ms Adherents enter. The Peers debate just now (a lucky chance) On the Scots' war ; my visit 's oppor- tune. When all is over, Bryan, you'll proceed To Ireland : these dispatches, mark me, Bryan, Are for the Deputy, and these for Ormond : We want the army here — my army, raised At such a cost, that should have done such good. And was inaotiveall the time! no matter, We'll find a use for it. Willis ... or, no — You ! You, friend, make haste to York : bear this, at once . . . Or, — better stay for form's sake — see yourself The news you carry. You remain with me To execute the Parliament's command. Mainwaring ! help to seize the lesser knaves ; Take care there 's no escaping at back- doors : I'll not have one escape, mind me — not one ! I seem revengeful, Lucy ? Did you know What these men dare ! Lady Car. It is so much they dare ! Straf. I proved that long ago ; my turn is now ! Keep sharp watch. Goring, on the citizens ; Observe who harbours any of the brood That scramble off : be sure they smart for it ! Our coffers are but lean. And you, child, too. Shall have your task ; deliver this to Laud. Laud will not be the slowest in my praise : ' Thorough ' he'll say ! — Foolish, to be so glad ! This life is gay and glowing, after all : ( 'Tis worth while, Lucy, having foes like mine Just for the bUss of crushing them. To- day Is worth the living for. Lady Car. That reddening brow ! You seem . . . Straf. WeU— do I not ? I would be well — I could not but be well on such a day ! And, this day ended, 'tis of slight im- port How long the ravaged frame subjects the soul In Strafford. Lady Car. Noble Strafford ! Straf. No farewell ! I'll see you anon, to-morrow — the first thing. — If She should come to stay me ! Lady Car. Go — 'tis nothing — Only my heart that swells : it has been thus Ere now : go, Strafford ! Straf. To-night, then, let it be. I must see Him : you, the next after Him. 398 STRAFFORD [act III I'll tell you how Pym looked. Follow me, friends ! You, gentlemen, shall see a sight this hour To talk of all your lives. Close after me ! ' My friend of friends ! ' [Stbafford and the rest go out. Lady Car. The King — ever the King ! No thought of one beside, whose little word Unveils the King to him — one word from me. Which yet I do not breathe ! Ah, have I spared Strafford a pang, and shall I seek reward Beyond that memory ? Surely too, some way He is the better for my love. No, no — He would not look so joyous — I'll believe His very eye woiJd never sparkle thus. Had I not prayed for him this long, long while. Scene III. — The Antechamber of the House of Lords. Many of the Presbyterian Parly. The Adherents of Straepord, «fcc. A Group of Presbyterians. — 1. I tell you he struck Maxwell : Max- well sought To stay the Earl : he struck him and passed on. 2. Fear as you may, keep a good countenance Before these rufflers. 3. Strafford here the first. With the great army at his back ! 4. No doubt. I would Pym had made haste : that 's Bryan, hush — The gallant pointing. Strafford's Followers. — 1. Mark these worthies, now ! 2. A goodly gathering ! ' Where the carcass is There shall the eagles ' — what 's the rest ? 3. For eagles Say crows. A Presbyterian. Stand back, sirs ! One of Strafford's Followers. Are we in Geneva ? A Presbyterian. No — nor in Ireland ; we have leave to breathe. One of Strafford's Followers. Truly ? Behold how privileged we be To serve ' King Pym ' ! There 's Some- one at Whitehall Who skulks obscure; but Pym struts . . . The Presbyterian. Nearer. A Follower of Strafford. Higher, We look to see him. [ToAwCompanions.] I'm to have St. John In charge ; was he among the knaves just now That followed Pym within there ? Another. The gaunt man Talking with Rudyard. Did the Earl expect Pym at his heels so fast ? I like it not. Maxwell enters. AnotJier. Why, man, they rush into the net ! Here 's Maxwell — Ha, Maxwell ? How the brethren flock around The fellow ! Do you feel the Earl's hand yet Upon your shoulder. Maxwell ? Max. Gentlemen, Stand back ! A great thing passes here. A Follower of Strafford. [To another.] The Earl Is at his work ! [To M.] Say, Maxwell, what great thing ! Speak out ! [To a Presbyterian.] Friend, I've a kindness for you ! Friend, I've seen you with St. John : stockishness ! Wear such a ruff, and never call to mind St. John's head in a charger ? How, the plague, Not laugh ! Anot&r. Say, Maxwell, what great thing ! Another. Nay, wait : The jest will be to wait. First. And who 's to bear These demure hypocrites ? You'd swear they came . . . Came . . . just as we come ! so. lU] STRAFFORD 399 [A Puritan enters hastily and without .observing Stbajford's Followers. The Puritan. How goes on the work ? Has Pym . . . A Follower of Strafford. The secret 's out at last. Aha, The carrion 's scented ! Welcome, crow the first ! Gorge merrily, you with the blinking eye! ' King Pym has fallen ! ' The Puritan. Pym ? A Strafford. Pym ! A Presbyterian. Only Pym ? Many of Strafford's Followers. No, brother, not Pym only ; Vane as well, Rudyard as well, Hampden, St. John as well ! A Presbyterian. My mind misgives : can it be true ? Aiiother. Lost ! Lost ! A Strafford. Say we true, Maxwell ? The Puritan. Pride before destruction, A haughty spirit goeth before a fall. Many of Strafford's Followers. Ah now ! The very thing ! A word in season ! A golden apple in a silver picture. To greet Pym as he passes ! [The doors at the back begin to open, noise and light issuing. Max. Stand back, all ! Many of the Presbyterians. I hold with Pym ! And I ! Strafford's Followers. Nowforthetext! He comes ! Quick ! The. Puritan. How hath the op- pressor ceased ! The Lord hath broken the staff of the wicked ! The sceptre of the rulers, he who smote The people in wrath with a continual stroke, That ruled the nations in his anger^he Is persecuted and none hindereth ! [The doors open, and Strafford issues in the greatest disorder, and amid cries from within of ' Void the House.' Straf. Impeach me ! Pym ! I never struck, I think. The felon on that calm insulting mouth When it proclaimed — Pym's mouth proclaimed me . . . God ! Was it a word, only a word ttat held The outrageous blood back on my heart — which beats ! Which beats ! Some one word — ' Traitor,' did he say. Bending that eye, brimfull of bitter fire. Upon me ? Max. In the Commons' name, their servant Demands Lord Strafford's sword. Straf. What did you say ? Max. The Commons bid me ask your Lordship's sword. Straf. Let us go forth : follow me, gentlemen ! Draw your swords too : cut any down that bar us. On the King's service ! Maxwell, clear the way ! [The Presbyterians prepare to dis' pute his passage. Straf. I stay : the King himself shall see me here. Your tablets, fellow ! [To Mainwaking.] Give that to the King! Yes, Maxwell, for the next half-hour, let be ! Nay, you shall take my sword ! [Maxwell advances to take it. Or, no — not that I Their blood, perhaps, may wipe out all thus far. All up to that — not that ! Why, fiiend, you see. When the King lays your head beneath my foot ' It will not pay for that. Go, all of you ! Max. I dare, my lord, to disobey : none stir ! Straf. This gentle Maxwell !— Do not touch him, Bryan ! [To the Presbyterians.] Whichever cur of you will carry this Escapes his fellows' fate. None saves his life ? 400 STRAFFORD [act IV None ? [Cries from toithin of ' Strafford.' Slingsby, I've loved you at least : make haste ! Stabme! Ihavenottime to tell you why. Y6u then, my Bryan ! Mainwaiing, you then! Is it because I spoke so hastily At AUerton ? The King had vexed me. [To the Presbyterians.] You ! — Not even you ? If I live over this, The King is sure to have your heads, you know ! But what if I can't live this minute through ? Pym, who is there with his pursuing smile ! [Louder crien of ' Strafford.' The King ! I troubled him, stood in the way Of his negotiations, was the one Great obstacle to peace, the Enemy Of Scotland : and he sent for me, from York, My safety guaranteed — ^having prepared A Parliament- — I see! And at Whitehall The Queen was whispering with Vane — I see The trap ! [Tearing off the George. I tread a gewgaw underfoot. And cast a memory from me. One stroke, now ! [His own adherents disarm, him. Renewed cries of ' Strafford.' England ! IseeThyarminthis and yield. Pray you now — Pym awaits me — pray you now ! [Strafford reaches the doors : they open wide. Hampden and a crowd discovered, and, at the bar, Pym standing apart. As Straf- ford kneels, the scene shvis. ACT IV Scene I. — Whitehall. The Kino, the Queen, Hollis, Lady Carlisle. (Vane, Holland, Savile, in the background. ) Lady Car. Answer them, Hollis, for his sake ! One word ! Cha. [To HoLns.] You stand, silent and cold, as though I were Deceiving you — my friend, my play- fellow Of other ti mes. What wonder after all ? Just so, I dreamed my People loved me. Hoi. Sir, It is yourself that you deceive, not me. You'll quit me comforted, your mind made up That, since you've talked thus much and grieved thus much, All you can do for Strafford has been done. Queen. If you kill Strafford — (come, we grant you leave, Suppose) — Hoi. I may withdraw, sir ? Lady Car. Hear them out ! 'Tis the last chance for Strafford I Hear them out ! Hoi. 'If we kill Strafford '—on the eighteenth day Of Strafford's trial—' We I ' Cha. Pym, nay good Hollis — Pym, I should say ! HoU Ah, true — sir, pardon me ! You witness our proceedings every day ; But the screened gallery, I might have Admits of such a partial glimpse at us, Pym takes up all the room, shuts out the view. Still, on my honour, sir, the rest of the place Is not unoccupied. The Commons sit — That 's England ; Ireland sends, and Scotland too. Their representatives ; the Peers that judge Are easily distinguished ; one remarks The People here and there : but the close curtain Must hide so much ! Queen. Acquaint your insolent crew. This day the curtain shall be dashed aside I It served a purpose. Hoi. Think ! This very day 1 Ere Strafford rises to defend himself ? Cha. I will defend him, sir ! — sanc- tion the Past This day : it ever was my purpose. Rage so. I] STRAFFORD 401 At me, not Strafford ! Lady Car. Nobly !— will he not Do nobly ? Hoi. Sir, you will do honestly ; And, for that deed, I too would be a king. Cha. Only, to do this now ! — ' deaf ' (in your style) ' To subjects' prayers,' — I must oppose them now. It seems their will the Trial should proceed, — So palpably their will ! Hoi. You peril much, But it were no bright moment save for that. Strafford, your prime support, the sole roof-tree That props this quaking House of Privi- lege, (Floods come, winds beat, and see— the treacherous sand !) Doubtless, if the mere putting forth an arm Could save him, you'd save Strafford. Cha. And they mean Calmly to consummate this wrong ! No hope ? This ineffaceable wrong ! No pity then ? Hoi. No plague in store for perfidy 1 — Farewell I You called me, sir — [To Lady Carlisle] you, lady, bade me come To save the Earl : I came, thank God for it. To learn how far such perfidy can go ! You, sir, concert with me on saving him Who have just ruined Strafford ! Cha. I ?— and how ? Hoi. Eighteen days long he throws, one after one, Pym's charges back : a blind moth- eaten law ! — He'll break from it at last : and whom to thank ? The mouse that gnawed the lion's net for him Got a good friend, — but he, the other mouse. That looked on while the lion freed him- self Fared he so well, does any fable say ? Cha. What can you mean ? Hoi. Pym never could have proved Strafford's design of bringing up the troops To force this kingdom to obedience : Vane — Your servant, not our friend, has proved it. Cha. 'Vane ? Hoi. This day. Did Vane deliver up or no Those notes which, furnished by his son to Pym, Seal Strafford's fate 1 Cha. Sir, as I live, I know Nothing that Vane has done ! What treason next ? I wash my hands of it. Vane, speak the truth! Ask Vane himself ! Hoi. I will not speak to Vane, Who speak to Pym and Hampden every day. Qv£en. Speak to Vane's master then ! What gain to him Were Strafford's death ? Hoi. Ha ? Strafford cannot turn As you, sir, sit there — bid you forth, demand If every hateful act were not set down In his commission ? — Whether you con- trived Or no, that all the violence should seem His work, the gentle ways — your own, his part TocoimteracttheKing'skindimpulses — While . . . but you know what he could say ! And then He might produce, — mark, sir, — a cer- tain charge To set the King's express command aside. If need were, and be blameless ! He might add . . . Cha. Enough ! Hoi. — Who bade him break the Parliament, Find some pretext for setting up sword- law ! Queen. Retire ! Cha. Once more, whatever Vane dared do, I know not : he is rash, a fool — I know Nothing of Vane ! 402 STRAFFORD [act IV Hoi. Well — I believe you. Sir, Believe me, in return, that . . . [Turning to Lady Caklisle.] Gentle lady. The few words I would say, the stones might hear Sooner than these, — I rather speak to you. You, with the heart ! The question, trust me, takes Another shape, to-day : not, if the King Or England shall succumb, — but, who shall pay The forfeit, Strafford or his master. Sir, You loved me once : think on my warning now ! \Ooes out. Cha. On you and on your warning both !— Carlisle ! That paper ! Qu^en. But consider ! Cha. Give it me ! There, signed — will that content you ? Do not speak ! You have betrayed me. Vane ! See ! any day. According to the tenor of that paper. He bids your brother bring the army up, Strafford shall head it and take full revenge. Seek Strafford ! Let him have the same, before He rises to defend himself ! Queen. In truth ? That your shrewd Hollis should have worked a change Like this ! You, late reluctant . . . Cha. Say, Carlisle, Your brother Percy brings the army up. Falls on the Parliament— (I'll think of you, My Hollis !) say, we plotted long — 'tis mine. The scheme is mine, remember ! Say, I cursed Vane's folly in your hearing ! If the Earl Does rise to do us shame, the fault shall lie With you, CarUsle ! Lady Car. Nay, fear not me ! but still That 's a bright moment, sir, you throw away. Tear down the veil and save him ! Queen. Go, Carlisle-? Lady Car. (I shall see Strafford — j speak to him : my heart / Must never beat so, then ! And if I tell I, ; The truth ? What 's gained by false-) hood ? There they stand i Whose trade it is, whose life it is ! How^ vain \ To gild such rottenness ! Strafford shallj know, ^"^ Thoroughly know them !) Queen. • Trust to me ! [To Carlisle.] Carlisle, You seem inclined, alone of all the Court, To serve poor Strafford : this bold plan of yours Merits much praise, and yet . . . Lady Car. Time presses, madam. Queen. Yet — may it not be some- thing premature ? Strafford defends himself to-day — reserves Some wondrous effort, one may well suppose ! Lady Car. Ay, Hollis hints as much. Cha. Why linger then ? Haste with the scheme — my scheme : I shall be there To watch his look. Tell him I watch his look ! ' Queen. Stay, we'll precede you ! Lady Car. At your pleasure. Cha. Say — Say, Vane is hardly ever at Whitehall ! I shall be there, remember ! Lady Car. Doubt me not. Cha. On our return, Carliste, we wait you here ! Lady Car. I'll bring his answer. Sir, I follow you. (Prove the King faithless, and I take away All Strafford cares to live for : let it be 'Tis the King's scheme ! My Strafford, I can save. Nay, I have saved you, yet am scarce content. SC. I] STRAFFORD 403 Because my poor name will not cross your mind. Strafford, how much I am unworthy you !) Scene II. — A passage adjoining West- minster Hall. Many groups of Spectators of the Trial. Officers of the Court, dec. First Spec. More crowd than ever ! Not know Hampden, man ? That 's he, by Pym, Pym that is speak- ing now. No, truly, if you look so high you'll see Little enough o£ either ! Second Spec. Stay : Pym's arm Points like a prophet's rod. Third Spec. Ay, ay, we've heard Some pretty speaking : yet the Earl escapes. Fourth Spec. I fear it : just a foolish word or two Abouthisohildren — and we see,f orsooth. Not England's foe in Strafford, but the man Who, sick, half-blind . . . Second Spec. What 's that Pym 's saying now Which makes the curtains flutter? look ! A hand Clutches them. Ah ! The King's hand ! Fifth Spec. I had thought Pym was not near so tall. What said he, friend ? Second Spec. ' Nor is this way a novel way of blood,' And the Earl turns as if to . . . look ! look! Many Spectators. There ! What ails him ? no — he rallies, see — goes on And Strafford smiles. Strange ! An Officer. Hasekig ! Many Spectators. Friend? Friend? The Officer. Lost, utterly lost ! just when we looked for Pym To make a stand against the ill effects Of the Earl's speech ! Is Hasehrig with- out ? Pym's message is to him. Third Spec. Now, said I true ? Will the Earl leave them yet at fault or uo ? First Spec. Never believe it, man ! These notes of Vane's Ruin the Earl. Fifth Spec. A brave end : not a whit Less firm, less Pym all over. Then, the Trial Is closed. No — Strafford means to speak again ? An Officer. Stand back, there ! Fifth Spec. Why, the Earl is coming hither ! Before the court breaks up ! His brother, look, — You'd say he deprecated some fierce act In Strafford's mind just now. An Officer. Stand back, I say ! Second Spec. Who 's the veiled woman that he talks with ? Many Spectators. Hush — The Earl ! the Earl ! [Enter Strafford, Slingsby, and other Secretaries, Hollis, Lady Carlisle, Maxwell, Balfour, dkc, Strafford converses with Lady Carlisle. Hoi. So near the end ! Be patient — Return ! Straf. [To his Secretaries.] Here — any- where — or, 'tis freshest here ! To spend one's April here, the blossom- month ! Set it down here ! [They arrange a table, papers, &c. So, Pym can quail, can cower Because I glance at him, yet more 's to do? What 's to be answered, Slingsby ? Let us end ! \To Lady Carlisle.] Child, I refuse his offer ; whatsoe'er It be ! Too late ! Tell me no word of him ! 'Tis something, Holhs, I assure you that — To stand, sick as you are, some eighteen days Fighting for life and fame against a pack Of very curs, that lie thro' thick and thin. Eat flesh and bread by wholesale, and can't say 404 STRAFFORD [act IV ' Strafiford ' if it would take my life ! Lady Car. Be moved ! Glance at the paper ! Straf. Already at my heels ! Pym's faulting bloodhounds scent the track again. Peace, child ! Now, Slingsby ! [Messengers from Lane and other of Steafeokd's Counsel within the Hall are coming and going during the Scene. Straj. [setting himself to virite and dic- tate.'] I shall beat you, Hollis ! Do you know that! In spiteof St. John's tricks. In spite of Pym — your Pym who shrank from me ! Eliot would have contrived it otherwise. [To a Messenger.] In truth ? This slip, tell Lane, contains as much As I can call to mind about the matter. Eliot would have disdained . . . [CaUing after the Messenger.] And Radcliffe, say, The only person who could answer Pym, Is safe in prison, just for that. Well, well ! It had not been recorded in that case, I baffled you. [To Lady Carlisle.] Nay, child, why look so grieved ? All 's gained without the King ! You saw Pym quail ? What shall I do when they acquit me, think you. But tranquilly resume my task as though Nothing had intervened since I proposed To call that traitor to account ! Such tricks, Trust me, shall not be played a second time, Say, even against Laud, with his grey hair — Your good work, Hollis ! Peace ! to make amends You, Lucy, shall be there when I im- peach Pym and his fellows. Hoi. Wherefore not protest Against our whole proceeding, long ago ? Why feel indignant now ? Why stand this while Enduring patiently? Child, I'll tell you— You, and not Pym — you, the slight graceful girl Tall for a flowering lily, and not Hollis — Why I stood patient ! I was fool enough To see the will of England in Pym's will, To fear, myself had wronged her, and to wait Her judgment, — when, behold, in place of it . . . [To a Messenger who lehispers.] Tell Lane to answer no such question ! Law, — I grapple with their law !■ I'm here to try My actions by their standard, not my own ! Their law allowed that levy : what 'a the rest To Pym, or Lane, any but God and me ? Lady Car. The King 's so weak ! Secure this chance ! 'Twas Vane, Never forget, who furnished Pym the notes — Straf. Fit, — very fit, those precious notes of Vane, To close the Trial worthily ! I feared Some spice of nobleness might linger yet And spoil the character of all the Past. Vane eased me . . . and I will go back and say As much — to Pym, to England ! Follow me ! I have a word to say ! There ! my defence Is done ! Stay ! why be proud ? Why care to own My gladness, my surprise ? — Nay, not surprise ! Wherefore insist upon the little pride Of doing all myself, and sparing him The pain ? Child, say the triumph is my King's ! When Pym grew pale, and trembled, and sank down, One image-was before me : could I fail ? Child, care not for the Past, so indistinct, Obscure — there's nothing toforgive in it 'Tis so forgotten ! From this day begins A new life, founded on a new belief In Charles. Hoi. In Charles ? Rather, believe in Pym ! SC. II] STRAFFORD 405 And here he comes in proof ! Appeal to Pym! Say how unfair . . . Slraf. To Pym ? I would say nothing ! I would not look upon Pym's face again. Lady Car. Stay, let me have to think I pressed your hand ! [Stbaffoed avd his friends go out. Enter Hampden and Vane. Vane. O Hampden, save that great misguided man ! Plead Strafford's cause with Pym ! I have remarked He moved no muscle when we all de- claimed Against him : you had but to breathe — he turned Those kind, calm eyes upon you. [Enter Pym, the Solicitor-General St. John, the Managers of the Trial, Fiennbs, Rudyabd, tfcc. Bud. Horrible ! Till now all hearts were with you : I withdraw For one. Too horrible ! But we mistake Your purpose, Pym : you cannot snatch away The last spar from the drowning man. Fien. He talks With St. John of it — see, how quietly ! \To other Presbyterians.] You'll join us? Strafford may deserve the worst : But this new course is monstrous. Vane, take heart ! This Bill of his Attainder shall not have One true man's hand to it. Vane. Consider, Pym ! Confront your Bill, your own Bill : what is it ? You cannot catch the Earl on any charge, — No man will say the law has hold of him On any charge ; and therefore you resolve To take the general sense on his desert. As though no law existed, and we met To found one. You refer to Parliament To speak its thought upon this hideous mass Of half-borne out assertions, dubious hints Hereafter to be cleared, distortions — ay. And wild inventions. Every man is saved The task of fixing any single charge On Strafford : he has but to see in him The enemy of England. Pym. A right scruple ! I have heard some called England's enemy With less consideration. Vane. Pity me ! Indeed you made me think I was your friend ! I who have murdered Strafford, how remove That memory from me ? Pym. I absolve you, Vane. Take you no care for aught that you have done ! Vane. John Hampden, not this Bill ! Reject this Bill ! He staggers through the ordeal : let him go, Strew no fresh fire before him ! Plead for us ! When Strafford spoke, your eyes were thick with tears ! Hamp. England speaks louder : who are we, to play The generous pardoner at her expense, Magnanimously waive advantages. And, if he conquer us, applaud his skill ? Vane. He was your friend. Pym. I have heard that before. Fien. And England trusts you. Hamp. Shame be his, who turns The opportunity of serving her She trusts him with, to his own mean account — Who would look nobly frank at her expense ! Fien. I never thought it could have come to this. Pym. But I have made myself familiar, Fiennes, With this one thought — have walked, and sat, and slept. This thought before me. I have done such things. Being the chosen man that should des- troy The traitor. You have taken up this thought 406 STRAFFORD [act IV To play with, for a gentle stimulant, To give a dignity to idler life By the dim prospect of emprise to come, But ever with the softening, sure belief, That all would end some strange way right at last. Fien. Had we made outsome weightier charge ! Pym. You say That these are petty charges : can we come To the real charge at all ? There he is safe In tyranny's stronghold. Apostasy Is not a crime, treachery not a crime : The cheek burns, the blood tingles, when you speak The words, but where 's the power to take revenge Upon them ? We must make occasion serve, — The oversight here, pay for the main sin That mocks us. Bud, But this unexampled course, This Bill ! Pym. By this, we roll the clouds away Of precedent and custom, and at once Bid the great beacon-light God sets in all. The conscience of each bosom, shine upon The guilt of Strafford : each shall lay his hand Upon his breast, and judge. Vane. I only see Strafford, nor pass his corpse for all beyond ! Bud. and others. Forgive him ! He would join us, now he finds What the King counts reward ! The pardon, too. Should be your own. Yourself should bear to Strafford The pardon of the Commons. Pym. Meet him ? Strafford ? Have we to meet once more, then ? Be it so ! And yet — the prophecy jeemed half fulfilled When, at the Trial, as he gazed, my youth. Our friendship, divers thoughts came back at once And left me, for a time . . . 'Tis very sad ! To-morrow we discuss the points of law With Lane — to-morrow ? Vane. Not before to-morrow — So, time enough ! I knew you would relent ! Pym. The next day, Haselrig, you introduce The Bill of his Attainder. Pray for me ! Scene III. — WhitehaU. The Kino. > Cha. My loyal servant ! — To defend himself Thus irresistibly, — withholding aught That seemed to implicate us ! We have done Less gallantly by Strafford. Well, the Future Must recompense the Past. She tarries long. I understand you, Strafford, now ! The scheme-;- Carlisle's mad scheme — he'll sanction it, 1 fear, For love of me. 'Twas too precipitate : Before the army 's fairly on its march. He'll be at large : no matter. ] Well, Carlisle ? Enter Pym. Pym. Fear me not, sir : — my mission is to save. This time. Cha. To break thus on me ! Un- announced ! Pym. It is of Strafford I would speak. Cha. No more Of Strafford ! I have heard too much from you. Pym. I spoke, sir, for the People : will you hear A word upon my own account ? Cha. Of Strafford ? (So, turns the tide already ? Have we tamed The insolent brawler ? — Strafford's elo- quence Is swift in its effect.) Lord Strafford, sir, Has spoken for himself. Pym. Sufficiently. SC. Ill] STRAFFORD 407 I would apprise you of the novel course The People take : the Trial fails. Oha. Yes — yes — We are aware, sir : for your part in it Means shall be found to thank you. Pym. Pray you, read This schedule ! I would learn from your own mouth — (It is a matter much concerning me) — Whether, if two Estates of us concede The death of Strafford, on the grounds set forth Within that parchment, you, sir, can resolve To grant your own consent to it. That Bill Is framed by me. If you determine, sir. That England's manifested will should guide Your judgment, ere another week such will Shall manifest itself. If not, — I cast Aside the measure. Cha. You can hinder, then. The introduction of this Bill ? Pym. I can. Cha. He is my friend, sir : I have wronged him : mark you. Had I not wronged him, this might be. You think Because you hate the Earl . . . (turn not away. We know you hate him) — no one else could love Strafford : but he has saved me, some affirm. Think of his pride ! And, do you know one strange. One frightful thing ? We all have used the man As though a drudge of ours, with not a source Of happy thoughts except in us ; and yet Strafford has wife and children, house- hold cares. Just as if we had never been. Ah, sir. You are moved, even you, a solitary man Wed to your cause — to England if you will! Pym. Yes — think, my soul — to Eng- land ! Draw not back ! Cha. Prevent that Bill, sir ! All your course seems fair Till now. Why, in the end, 'tis I should sign The warrant for his death ! You have said much I ponder on ; I never meant, indeed, Strafford should serve me any more. I take The Commons' counsel ; but this Bill is yours — Nor worthy of its leader : care not, sir, For that, however ! I will quite forget You named it to me. You are satisfied? Pym. Listen to me, sir ! Eliot iaid his hand. Wasted and white, upon my forehead once ; Wentworth — he 's gone now ! — has talked on, whole nights. And I beside him ; Hampden loves me : sir, How can I breathe and not wish Eng- land well. And her King well ? Cha. I thank you, sir ! who leave That King his servant. Thanks, sir ! Pym. Let me speak ! — Who may not sgeak again ; whose spirit yearns For a cool night after this weary day : — Who would not have my soul turn sicker yet In a new task, more fatal, more august, More full of England's utter weal or woe. I thought, sir, could I find myself with you. After this Trial, alone, as man to man — I might say something, warn you, pray you, save — Mark me. King Charles, save- you ! But God must do it. Yet I warn you, sir — (With Strafford's faded eyes yet full on me) As you would have no deeper question moved — ' How long the Many must endure the One,' Assure me, sir, if England give assent To Strafford's death, you will not inter- fere ! Or— 408 STRAFFORD [act V Cha. God forsakes me. I am in a net. And cannot move. Let all be as you say! Enter Lady Carlisle. Lady Car. He loves you— looking beautiful with joy Because you sent me ! he would spare you all The pain ! he never dreamed you would forsake Yoar servant in the evil day — nay, see Your scheme returned ! That generous heart of his ! He needs it not — or, needing it, disdains A course that might endanger you — you, sir. Whom Strafford from his inmost soul . . . [Seeing Pym.] Well met ! No fear for Strafford ! all that 's true and brave On your own side shall help us : we are now Stronger than ever. Ha — what, sir, is this ? All is not well ! What parchment have you there ? Pym. Sir, much is saved us both. Lady Car. This Bill ! Your lip Whitens — you could not read one line to me Your voice would falter so ! Pym. No recreant yet ! The great word went from England to my soul. And I arose. The end is very near. Lady Car. I am to save him ! All have shrunk beside — 'Tis only I am left ! Heaven will make strong The hand now as the heart. Then let both die ! ACT V ScENB L — Whitehall. HoLLis, liADY Carlisle. Hoi Tell the King, then ! Come in with me ! Lady Car. Not so ! He must not hear till it succeeds. Hd. Succeed ! No dream was half so vain — you'd rescue Strafford And outwit Pym ! I cannot tell you . . . lady. The block pursues me, and the hideous show To-day ... is it to-day ! And all the while He 's sure of the King's pardon. Think, I have To tell this man he is to die. The King May rend his hair, for me ! I'll not see Strafford ! Lady Car. Only, if I succeed, re- member Charles Has saved him ! He would hardly value life Unless his gift. My staunch friends wait. Go in — You must go in to Charles ! Hoi. And all beside Left Strafford long ago. The King has signed The warranffor his death : the Queen was sick Of the eternal subject. For the Court, — The Trial was amusing in its way. Only too much of it : the Earl withdrew In time. But you, fragile, alone, so young. Amid rude mercenaries — ^you devise A plan tosave him ! Even thoughit fails, What shall reward you ? Lady Car. I may go, you think. To France with him ! And you reward me, friend. Who lived with Strafford even from his youth Before he set his heart on state-affairs And they bent down that noble brow of his. I have learned somewhat of his latter life. And all the future I shall know : but, HoUis, I ought to make his youth my own as well. Tell me, when he is saved ! Hot. My gentle friend, He should know all and love you, but 'tis vain ! Lady Car. Love ? no — too late now ! Let him love the King 1 SC. I] STRAFFORD 409 'Tis the King's scheme ! I have your word, remember ! We'll keep the old delusion up. But, quick ! Quick ! Each of us has work to do, beside ! Go to the King ! I hope — Hollis — I hope ! Say nothing of my scheme ! Hush, while we speak Think where he is ! Now for my gallant friends ! Hd. Where he is ? Calling wildly upon Charles, Guessing his fate, pacing the prison- floor. Let the King tell him ! I'll not look on Strafford. Scene II. — The Tower. Steaitord sitting with his Children. They sing. O hdV andare Per barca in mare. Verso la sera Di Primavera ! William. The boat 's in the broad moonlight all this while — Verso la sera Di Primavera ! And the boat shoots from underneath the moon Into the shadowy distance ; only still You hear the dipping oar — Verso la sera. And faint, and fainter, and then all 's quite gone. Music and light and all, like a lost star. Anne. But you should sleep, father : you were to sleep. Straf. I do sleep, Anne ; or if not — you must know There 's such a thing as . . . Wil. You're too tired to sleep ? Slraf. It will come by-and-by and all day long. In that old quiet house I told you of : We sleep safe there. Anne. Why not in Ireland ? Straf. No ! Too many dreams ! — That song 's for Venice, WilUam : You know how Venice looks upon the map — Isles that the mainlandhardlycan letgo ? Wil. You've been to Venice, father ? Straf. I was young then. Wil. A city with no King ; that 's why I like Even a song that comes from Venice. Straf. William ! Wil. Oh, I know why ! Anne, do you love the King ? But I'll see Venice for myself one day. Straf. See many lands, boy — England last of all, — That way you'll love her best. Wil. Why do men say You sought to ruin her, then 1 Straf. Ah, — they say that. WU. Why ? Straf. I suppose they must have words to say, As you to sing. Anne. But they make songs beside : Last night I heard one, in the street beneath, That called you . . . Oh, the names ! Wil. Don't mind her, father ! They soon left off when I cried out to them. Straf. We shall so soon be out of it, my boy ! 'Tis notworth while: whoheeds a foolish song ? Wil. Why, not the King. Straf. Well : it has been the fate Of better ; and yet, — wherefore not feel sure That Time, who in the twilight comes to mend All the fantastic day's caprice, consign To the low ground once more the ignoble Term, And raise the Genius on his orb again, — That Time will do me right ! Anne. (Shall we sing, WiUiam ? He does not look thus when we sing.) Straf. For Ireland, Something is done : too little, but enough To show what might have been. Wil. (I have no heart 410 STRAFFORD [act V To sing now ! Anne, how very sad he looks ! Oh, I so hate the King for all he says !) Straf. Forsook them! What, the com- mon songs will run That I forsook the People ? Nothing more ? Ay, Fame, the busy scribe, will pause, no doubt. Turning adeaf ear to herthousand slaves Noisy to be enrolled, — will register The curious glosses, subtle notices. Ingenious clearings-up one fain would see Beside that plain inscription of The Name — The Patriot Pym, or the Apostate Strafford ! [The chUdren resume their song timidly, hut break off. Enter Hollis and an Attendant. Straf. No, — HoUis ? in good time ! — Who is he ? Hoi. One That must be present. Straf. Ah — I understand. They will not let me see poor Laud alone. How politic ! They'd use me by degrees To solitude : and just as you came in I was solicitous what life to lead When Strafford 's ' not so much as Constable In the King 's service.' Is there any means To keep one's self awake ? What would you do After this bustle, HoUis, in my place ? Hoi. Strafford ! Straf. Observe, not but that Pym and you Will find me news enough — news I shall hear Under a quince-tree by a fish-pond side At Wentworth. Garrard must be re- engaged J^ newsman. Or, a better project now — What if when all 's consummated, and the Saints Reign, and the Senate's work goes swimmingly, — What if I venture up, some day, unseen, To saunter through the Town, notice how Pym, Your Tribune, likes Whitehall, drop quietly Into a tavern, hea* a point discussed. As, whether Strafford's name were John or James — And be myself appealed to — I, who shall Myself have near forgotten ! Hoi. I would speak . . . Straf. Then you shall speak, — not now : I want just now. To hear the sound of my own tongue. This place Is full of ghosts. Hoi. Nay, you must hear me, Strafford ! Straf. Oh, readily ! Only, one rare thing more, — ■ The minister ! Who will advise the King, Turn hisSejanus, Richelieu and whatnot. And yet have health — children, for aught I know — My patient pair of traitors ! Ah, — but, William — • Does not his cheek grow thin ? WU. 'Tis you look thin. Father ! Straf. A scamper o'er the breezy wolds Sets all to-rights. Hoi. You cannot sure forget A prison-roof is o'er you, Strafford ! Straf. No, Why, no. I would not touch on that, the first. I left you that. Well, HoUis ? Say at once. The King can find no time to set me free ! A mask at Theobalds ? Hoi. Hold : no such affair Detains him. Straf. True : what needs so great a matter ? The Queen's lip may be sore. Well : when he pleases, — Only, I want the air : it vexes flesh To be pent up so long. Hoi. The King— I bear His message, Strafford : pray you, let me speak ! sc. a] STRAFFORD 411 Straf. Go, William ! Anne, try o'er your song again ! [The children retire. They shall be loyal, friend, at all events. I know your message : you have nothing new To tell me : from the first I guessed as much. I know, instead of coming here himself Leading me forth in public by the hand. The King prefers to leave the door ajar As though I were escaping — bids me trudge While the mob gapes upon some show prepared On the other side of the river ! Give at once His order of release! I've heard, as well, Of certain poor mancEuvrings to avoid The granting pardon at his proper risk ; First, he must prattle somewhat to the Lords, Must talk a triflewith theCommons first. Be grieved I should abuse his confidence, And far from blaming them, and . . . Where 's the order ? Hoi. Spare me ! Straf. Why, he'd not have me steal away ? With an old doublet and a steeple hat Like Prynne's ? Be smuggled into France, perhaps ? Hollis, 'tis for my children ! 'Twas for them I first consented to stand day by day And give your Puritans the best of words. Be patient, speak when called upon, observe Their rules, and not return them prompt their lie ! What 's in that boy of mine that he should prove Son to a prison-breaker ? I shall stay And he'll stay with me. Charles should know as much — He too has children ! [Turning to Hollis's com'panion.'] Sir, you feel for me ! No need to hide that face ! Though it have looked Upon me from the judgment-seat . . . I know Strangely, that somewhere it has looked on me . . . Your coming has my pardon, nay, my thanks. For there is One who comes not. Hoi. Whom forgive, As one to die ! Straf. True, all die, and all need Forgiveness : I forgive him from my soul. Eol. 'Tis a world's wonder : Straf- ford, you must die ! Straf. Sir, if your errand is to set me free This heartless jest mars much. Ha ! Tears in truth ? We'll end this ! See this paper,, warm — feel — warm With lying next my heart ! Whose hand is there ? Whose promise ? Read, and loud for God to hear ! ' Strafford shall take no hurt ' — read it, I say ! ' In person, honour, nor estate ' — Hoi. The King . . . Straf. I could unking him by abreath! You sit Where Loudon sat, who came to pro- phesy The certain end, and offer me Pym's grace If I'd renounce the King : and I stood firm On the King's faith. The King who lives . . . Hoi. To sign The warrant for your death. Straf. ' Put not your trust In princes, neither in the sons of men. In whom is no salvation ! ' Hoi. Trust in God. The scaffold is prepared : they wait for you: He has consented. Cast the earth behind ! Cha. You would not see me, Straf- ford, at your foot ! It was wrung from me ! Only curse me not! Hd. [To- Strafford.] As you hope grace and pardon in your need. 412 STRAFFORD [act V Be merciful to this most wretched man ! [ Voices from within. Verso la sera Di Primavera. Straj. You'll be good to those chil- dren, sir ? I know You'll not believe her, even should the Queen Think they take after one they rarely saw. I had intended that my son should live A stranger to these matters : but you are So utterly deprived of friends ! He too Must serve you — wiU you not be good to him ? Or, stay, sir, do not promise — do not swear ! You, HoUis — do the best you caufor me I I've not a soul to trust to : Wandes- ford 's dead, And you've got RadclifEe safe. Laud's turn comes next : I've found small time of late for my affairs, But I trust any of you, Pym himself — No one could hurt them : there 's an infant, too — . These tedious cares ! Your Majesty could spare them ! Nay — pardon me, my King ! I had for- gotten Your education, trials, much temptation. Some weakness : there escaped a peevish word — 'Tis gone : I bless you at the last. You know All 's between you and me : what has the world To do with it ? Farewell ! Cha. [at tJie door.] Balfour ! Balfour ! Enter Balfotte. The Parliament ! — go to them : I grant all Demands. Their sittings shall be per- manent : Tell them to keep their money if they will : I'll come to them for every coat I wear And every crust I eat : only I choose To pardon Strafford. As the Queen shall choose ! — You never heard the People howl for blood. Beside ! Bal. Your Majesty may hear them now: Thewalls can hardly keep their murmurs out : Please you retire ! Cha. Take all the troops, Balfour ! Bal. There are some hundred thou- sand of the crowd. Cha. Come with me,Strafford ! You'll not fear, at least ! Straf. Balfour, say nothing to the world of this ! I charge you, as a dying man, forget You gazed upon this agony of one . . . Of one . . . or if . . . why you may say, Balfour, The King was sorry : 'tis no shame in him: Yes, you may say he even wept, Balfour, And that I walked the lighter to the block Because of it. I shall walk lightly, sir ! Earth fades, Heaven breaks on me : I shall stand next Before God's throne : the moment 's close at hand When Man the first, last time, has leave to lay His whole heart bare before its Maker, leave To clear up the long error of a Ufe And choose one happiness for evermore. With all mortality about me, Charles, The sudden wreck, the dregs of violent death — What if, despite the opening angel-song, There penetrate one prayer for you ? Be saved Through me ! Bear witness, no one could prevent My death ! Lead on ! ere he awake — best, now ! All must be ready : did you say, Balfour, The crowd began to murmur ? They'll be kept Too late for sermon at St. Antholin's ! Now ! but tread softly — children are at In the next room. Precede ! I follow — SC. II] STRAFFORD 413 Enter Lady Carlisle, with many Attendants. Lady Car. Me ! Follow me, Strafford, and be saved ! The King ? \To the Kino.] Well — as you ordered, they are ranged without. The convoy . . . [^seeing the King's state.'] \To Strafford.] You know all, then ! Why, I thought It looked best that the King should save you, Charles Alone ; 'tis shame that you should owe me aught. Or, no, not shame ! Strafford, you'll not feel shame At being saved by me ? Hoi. All true ! Oh Strafford, She saves you ! all her deed ! this lady's deed ! And is the boat in readiness ? You, friend. Are Billingsley, no doubt ! Speak to her, Strafford ! See how she trembles, waiting for your voice ! The world 's to learn its bravest story yet! Lady Car. Talk afterward ! Long nights in France enough. To sit beneath the vines and talk of home ! Straf. You love me, child ! Ah, Strafford can be loved As well as Vane ! I could escape, then ? Lady Car. Haste ! Advance the torches, Bryan ! Straf. I will die. They call me proud : but England had no right. When she encountered me — her strength to mine — To find the chosen foe a craven. Girl, I fought her to the utterance, I fell, I am hers now, and I will die. Beside, The lookers-on ! Eliot is all about This place with his most uncomplaining brow. Lady Car. Strafford ! Straf. I think if you could know how much I love you, you would be repaid, my friend ! Lady Car. Then, for my sake ! Straf. Even for your sweet sake, I stay. Hoi. For their sake ! Straf. To bequeath a stain ? Leave me ! Girl, humour me and let me die ! Lady Car. Bid him escape — wake, King ! Bid him escape ! Straf. True, I will go ! Die, and for- sake the King ? I'll not draw back from the last service. Lady Car. Strafford ! Straf. And, after all, what is disgrace to me ? Let us come, child ! That it should end this way ! Lead then ! but I feel strangely : it was not To end this way. Lady Car. Lean — lean on me ! Straf. My King ! Oh, had he trusted me — his friend of friends ! — Lady Car. I can support him, Holhs ! Straf. Not this way ! This gate — I dreamed of it, this very gate. Lady Car. It opens on the river : our good boat Is moored below, our friends are there. Straf. The same. Only with something ominous and dark. Fatal, inevitable. Lady Car. Strafford ! Strafford ! Straf. Not by this gate ! I feel what will be there I I dreamed of it, I tell you : touch it not ! Lady Car. To save the King, — Straf- ford, to save the King ! I As Strafford opens the door, Pym is discovered with Hampden, Vane, ofcc. Strafford falls hack: Pym follows slowly and confronts him. Pym. Have I done well ? Speak, England ! Whose sole sake I still have laboured for, with disregard To my own heart, — for whom my youth was made Barren, my Future waste, to offer up Her sacrifice — this man, this Wentworth here — 414 STEAFFORD [act V, SC. II Who walked in youth with me, loved me, it may be, And whom, for his forsaking. England's cause, I hunted by all means (trusting that she Would sanctify all means) even to the block Which waits for him. And saying this, I feel No bitterer pang than first I felt, the hour I swore that Wentworth might leave us, but I Would never leave him : I do leave him now. I render up my charge (be witness, God!) To England who imposed it. I have done Her bidding — poorly, wrongly, — it may be. With ill effects — for I am weak, a man : Still, I have done my best, my human best. Not faltering for a moment. It is done. And this said, if I say . . . yes, I will say I never loved but one man — David not More Jonathan ! Even thus, I love him now : And look for my chief portion in that world Where great hearts led astray are turned again, (Soon it may be, and, certes, will be soon : My mission over, I shall not live long. ) — Ay, here I know I talk — I dare and must, Of England, and her great reward, as all I look for there ; but in my inmost heart, Believe, I think of stealing quite away To walk once more with Wentworth — my youth's friend Purged from all error, gloriously renewed, And Eliot shall not blame us. Then indeed . . . This is no meeting, Wentworth ! Tears increase Too hot. A thin mist — is it blood ? — enwraps The face I loved once. Then, the meet> ing be ! Straf. I have loved England too ; we'll meet then, Pym ! As well die now ! Youth is the only time To think and to decide onagreat course: Manhood with action follows ; but 'tis dreary To have to alter our whole life in age — The time past, the strength gone ! as well die now. When we meet, Pym, I'd be set right — not now ! Best die. Then if there 's any fault, it too Dies, smothered up. Poor grey old little Laud May dream his dream out of a perfect Church In some blind corner. And there 's no one left. I trust the King now wholly to you, Pym! And yet, I know not ! I shall not be there ! Friends fail — if he have any ! And he 's weak. And loves the Queen, and . . . Oh, my fate is nothing — Nothing ! But not that awful head — not that ! Pym, you help England ! I, that am to die, What I must see ! 'tis here — all here ! My God ! Let me but gasp out, in one word of fire. How Thou wilt plague him, satiating Hell! What ? England that you help, become through you A green and putrefying charnel, left Our children. . .some of us have children, Pym— Some who, without that, still must ever wear A darkened brow, an over-serious look. And never properly be young ! No word ? You will not say a word — to me — to Him? Pym. England, — I am thine owB ! Dost thou exact That service ? I obey thee to the end. 415 PAULINE ' A FRAGMENT OP A CONFESSION Pauline, mine own, bend o'er me — thy soft breast Shall pant to mine — bend o'er me — thy sweet eyes. And loosened hair, and breathing lips, and arms Drawing me to thee — these build up a screen To shut me in with thee, and from all fear, So that I might unlock the sleepless brood Of fancies from my soul, their lurking place. Nor doubt that each would pass, ne'er to return To one so watched, so loved, and so secured. But what can guard thee but thy naked love ? Ah, dearest ! whoso sucks a poisoned wound Envenoms his own veins, — thou art so good," So calm — if thou should'st wear a brow less light For some wild thought which, but for me, were kept From out thy soul, as from a sacred star. Yet till I have unlocked them it were vain To hope to sing; some woe would light on me ; Nature would point at one, whose quivering lip Was bathed in her enchantments — whose brow burned Beneath the crown, to which her secrets knelt ; Who learned the spell which can call up the dead. And then departed, smiling like a fiend Who has deceived God. If such one should seek Again her altars, and stand robed and crowned Amid the faithful : sad confession first, Kemorse and pardon, and old claims renewed. Ere I can be — as I shall be no more. I had been spared this shame, if I had sat By thee for ever, from the first, in place Of my wild dreams of beauty and of good, Or with them, as an earnest of their truth. No thought nor hope,- having been shut from thee. No vague wish unexplained — no wan- dering aim Sent back to bind on Fancy's wings, and seek Some strange fair world, where it might be a law ; But doubting nothing, had been led by thee, Thro' youth, and saved, as one at length awaked. Who has slept thro' a peril. Ah ! vain, vain ! Thou lovest me — the past is in its grave, Tho' its ghost haunts us — still this much is ours. To cast away restraint, lest a worse thing Wait for us in the darkness. Thou lovest me. And thou art to receive not love, but faith. For which thou wilt be mine, and smile, and take All shapes, and shames, and veil without a fear That form which music follows like a slave ; And I look to thee, and I trust in thee. As in a Northern night one looks alway Unto the East for morn, and spring and joy- Thflu seest then my aimless, hopeless state. t [Not in 1863 edition ; reprinted from the first edition, of 1S33.] 416 PAULINE And resting on some few old feelings, won Back by thy beauty, would'st that I essay The task, which was to me what now thou art : And why should I conceal one weakness more ? Thou wilt remember one warm morn, when Winter Crept aged from the earth, and Spring's first breath Blew soft from the moist hills — the blackthorn boughs. So dark in the bare wood ; when glis- tening In the sunshine were white with coming buds. Like the bright side of a sorrow — and the banks Had violets opening from sleep like eyes — I walked with thee, who knew not a deep shame Lurked beneath smiles and careless words, which sought To hide it — till they wandered and were mute; As we stood listening on a siinny mound To the wind murmuring in the damp copse. Like heavy breathings of some hidden thing Betrayed by sleep — until the feeling rushed That I was low indeed, yet not so low As to endure the calmness of thine eyes ; And so I told thee all, while the cool breast I leaned on altered not its quiet beating ; And long ere words, Uke a hurt bird's complaint. Bade me look up and bewhat I had been, I felt despair could never live by thee. Thou wilt remember : — thou art not more dear Than song was once to me ; and I ne'er sung But asoneentering bright halls, where all Will rise and shout for him. Sure I must own That I am fallen — having chosen gifts Distinct from theirs — that I am sad — and fain Would give up all to be but where I was ; Not high as I had been, if faithful found — But low and weak, yet full of hope, and sure Of goodness as of life — that I would lose All this gay mastery of mind, to sit Once more with them, trusting in truth and love. And with an aim — not being what I am. Oh, Pauline! I am ruined! who believed That tho' my soul had floated from its sphere Of wide dominion into the dim orb Of self — that it was strong and free as ever : — It has conformed itself to that dim orb. Reflecting aU its shades and shapes, and now Must stay where it alone can be adored. I have felt this in dreams — in dreams in which I seemed the fate from which I fled ; I felt A strange delight in causing my decay ; I was a fiend, in darkness chained for ever Within some ocean-cave ; and ages rolled. Till thro' the cleft rock, Uke a moon- beam, came A white swan to remain with me ; and ages Rolled, yet I tired not of my first joy In gazing on the peace ot its pure wings. And then I said, ' It is most fair to me. Yet its soft wings must sure have suf- fered change Prom the thick darkness — sure its eyes are dim — Its silver pinions must be cramped and numbed With sleeping ages here ; it cannot leave me, For it would seem, in light, beside its kind. Withered — tho' here to me most beauti- ful.' And then I was a young witch, whose blue eyes. PAULINE 417 As she stood naked by the river springs, Drew down a god — I watched his radiant form Growing less radiant^and it gladdened me ; Till one morn, as he sat in the sunshine Upon my knees, singing to me of heaven, He turned to look at me, ere I could lose The grin with which I viewed his perishing. And he shrieked and departed, and sat long By his deserted throne — but sunk at last. Murmuring, as I kissed his lips and curled Around him, ' I am still a god — to thee.' Still I can lay my soul bare in its fall. For all the wandering and all the weak- .'. ness Will be a saddest comment on the song. And if, that done, I can be young again, I.wiU give up all gained as willingly As one gives up a charm which shuts him out From hope, or part, or care, in human kind. As life wanes, all its cares, and strife, and toil. Seem strangely valueless, while the old trees Which grew by our youth's home — the waving mass Of climbing plants, heavy with bloom and dew — The morning swallows with their songs like words, — All these seem clear and only worth our thoughts. So aught connected with my early life My rude songs or my wild imaginings. How I look on them — most distinct amid The fever and the stir of after years ! I ne'er had ventured e'en to hope for this. Had not the glow I felt at His award Assured me all was not extinct within. Him whom all honour — whose renown springs up Like sunlight which will visit all the world ; So that e'en they who sneered at him at first Come out to it, as some dark spider crawls From his foul nets, which some lit torch invades Yet spinning still new films for his retreat.' — Thou didst sfnile, poet, — but, can we forgive ? Sun-treader — life and light be thine for ever ! Thou art gone from us — years go by, and spring Gladdens, and the young earth is beau- tiful. Yet thy songs come not — other bards arise. But none like thee ; — they stand — thy majesties, Like mighty works which tell some Spirit there Hath sat regardless of neglect and scorn, Till,its long task completed,it hath risen And left us, never to return : and all Rush in to peer and praise when all in vain. The air seems bright with thy past presence yet. But thou art still for me, as thou hast been When I have stood with thee, as on a throne With all thy dim creations gathered round Like mountains, — and I felt of mould like them. And creatures of my own were mixed with them. Like things half-lived, catching and giving life. But thou art still for me, who have adored, Tho' single, panting but to hear thy name, Which I beUeved a spell to me alone. Scarce deeming thou wert as a star to men — As one should worship long a sacred spring Scarce worth a moth's flitting, which long grasses cross, 418 PAULINE And one small tree embowers droop- ingly, Joying to see some wandering insect won, To live in its few rushes — or some locust To pasture on its boughs — or some wild bird Stoop for its freshness from the track- less air, And then should find it but the fountain- head. Long lost, of some great river — washing towns And towers, and seeing old woods which will live But by its banks, untrod of human foot. Which, when the great sun sinks, lie quivering In light as some thing lieth half of life Before God's foot, waiting a wondrous change ; — Tlien girt with rocks which seek to turn or stay Its course in vain, for it does ever spread Like a sea's arm as it goes rolling on, Being the pulse of some great country — so Wert thou to me — and art thou to the world. And I, perchance, half feel a strange regret. That I am not what I have been to thee : Like a girl one has loved long silently. In her first loveliness, in some retreat. When first emerged, all gaze and glow to view Her fresh eyes, and soft hair, and lips which bleed Like a mountain berry. Doubtless it is sweet To see her thus adored — but there have been Moments, when all the world was in his praise. Sweeter than all the pride of after hours. Yet, Sun-treader, all hail ! — from my heart's heart [ bid thee hail ! — e'en in my wildest dreams I am proud to feel I would have thrown up all The wreaths of fame which seemed o'er- hanging me. To have seen thee, for a moment, as thou art. And if thou livest — if thou lovest, spirit ! Remember me, who set this final seal To wandering thought — that one so pure as thou Could never die. Remember me, who fiung AH honour from my soul — yet paused and said, ' Thereisonesparkof loveremaining yet, For I have nought in common with him — shapes Which followed him avoid me, and foul forms Seek me, which ne'er could fasten on bis mind ; And tho' I feel how low I am to him. Yet I aim not even to catch a tone Of all the harmonies he called up. So one gleam still remains, altho' the last.' Remember me — who praise thee e'en with tears. For never more shall I walk calm with thee ; Thy sweet imaginings are as an air, A melody, some wond'rous singer sings. Which, though it haunt men oft in the still eve. They dream not to essay ; yet it no less. But more is honoured. I was thine in shame. And now when all thy proud renown is out, I am a watcher, whose eyes have grown dim With looking for some star — which breaks on him. Altered, and worn, and weak, and full of tears. Autumn has come^like Spring returned to us. Won from her girlishness — like one returned A friend that was a lover — nor forgets The first warm love, but full of sober thoughts Of fading years ; whose soft mouth quivers yet With the old smile — but yet so changed and still ! PAULINE 419 And here am I the scoffer, who have probed Life's vanity, won by a word again Into my old life — for one little word Of this sweet friend, who lives in loving me, Lives strangely on my thoughts, and looks, and words. As fathoms down some nameless ocean thing Its silent course of quietness and joy. dearest, if, indeed, I tell the past, May'stthou forget it as a sad sick dream; Or if it linger — my lost soul too soon Sinks to itself, and whispers, we shall be But closer linked — two creatures whom the earth Bears singly^ — with strange feelings, unrevealed But to each other ; or two lonely things Created by some Power, whose reign is done. Having no part in God, or his bright world, 1 am to sing ; whilst ebbing day dies soft. As a lean scholar dies, worn o'er his book. And in the heaven stars steal out one by one. As hunted men steal to their mountain watch. I must not think — lest this new impulse die In which I trust. I have no confidence, So I will sing on — fast as fancies come Rudely — the verse being as the mood it paints. I strip my mind bare — whose first ele- ments I shall unveil — not as they struggled forth In infancy, nor as they now exist. That I am grown above them, and can rule them. But in that middle stage, when they were full. Yet ere I had disposed them to my will ; And then I shall show how these ele- ments Produced my present state, and what it is. I am made up of an intensest life. Of a most clear idea of consciousness Of self — distinct from all its qualities. From all affections, passions, feelings, powers ; And thus far it exists, if tracked in all. But linked in me, to self-supremacy. Existing as a centre to all things. Most potent to create, and rule, and call Upon all things to minister to it ; And to a principle of restlessness Which would be all, have, see, know, taste, feel all — This is myself ; and I should thus have been. Though gifted lower than the meanest soul. And of my powers, one springs up to save From utter death a soul with such desires Confined to clay — which is the only one Which marks me — an imagination which Has been an angel to me — coming not In fitful visions, but beside me ever. And never failing me ; so tho' my mind Forgets not — not a shred of life forgets — Yet I can take a secret pride in calling The dark past up — to quell it regally. A mind like this must dissipate itself. But I have always had one lode-star ; now. As I look back, I see that I have wasted. Or progressed as I looked toward that star — A need, a trust, a yearning after God, A feeling I have analysed but late. But it existed, and was reconciled With a neglect of all I deemed his laws. Which yet, when seen in others, I ab- horred. I felt as one beloved, and so shut in From fear — and thence I date my trust in signs And omens — for I saw God everywhere ; And I can only lay it to the fruit Of a sad after-time that I could doubt Even his being — having always felt His presence — never acting from myself. Still trusting in a hand that leads me through All danger ; and this feeling still has fought Against my weakest reason and resolves. 420 PAULINE And I can love nothing — and this dull truth Has come the last — but sense supplies a love Encircling meand mingling with mylife. These make myself— I have sought in vain To trace how they were formed by circumstance, For I still find them — turning my wild youth Where they alone displayed themselves, converting All objects to their use — now see their course ! They came to me in my first-dawn of life, Which passed alone with wisest ancient books, All halo-girt with fancies of my own, And I myself went with the tale — a god. Wandering after beauty — or a giant. Standing vast in the sunset — an old hunter. Talking with gods — or a high-crested chief. Sailing with troops of friends to Tene- dos ; — * I tell you, nought has ever been so clear As the place, the time, the fashion of those lives. I had not seen a work of lofty art. Nor woman's beauty, nor sweet nature's face, Yet, I say, never morn broke clear as those On the dim clustered isles in the blue sea: The deep groves, and white temples, and wet caves — And nothing ever will surprise me now — Who stood beside the naked Swift- footed, Who bound my forehead with Proser- pine's hair. And strange it is, that I who could so dream. Should e'er have stooped to aim at aught beneath — Aught low, or painful, but I never doubted ; So as I grew, I rudely shaped my life To my immediate wants, yet strong beneath Was a vague sense of powers folded up — A sense that tho' those shadowy times were past, Their spirit dwelt in me, and I should rule. Then came a pause, and long restraint chained down My soul, till it was changed. I lost myself, .And were it not that I so loathe that time, I could recall how first I learned to turn My mind against itself ; and the effects. In deeds for which remorse were vain, as for The wanderings of delirious dream ; yet thence Came cunning, envy, falsehood, which so long Have spotted me^at length I was restored. Yet long the influence remained ; and nought But the still life I led, apart from all, Whichleftmysoultoseekitsolddelights, Could e'er have brought me thus far back to peace. As peace returned, I sought out some pursuit : And song rose — no new impulse — but the one With which all others best could be combined. My life has not been that of those whose heaven Was lampless, save where poesy shone out ; But as a clime, where gUttering moun- tain-tops. And glancing sea, and forests steeped in light. Give back reflected the far-flashing sun ; For music (which is earnest of a heaven, Seeing we know emotions strange by it. Not else to be revealed) is as a voice, A low voice calling Fancy, as a friend, To the green woods in the gay summer time. And she fills all the way with dancing PAULINE 421 Which have made painters pale ; and they go on While stars look at them, and winds call to them. As they leave life's path for the twilight world. Where the dead gather. This was not at first. For I scarce knew what I would do. I had No wish to paint, no yearning — but I san^. And first I sang, as I in dream have seen Music wait on a lyrist for some thought, Yet singing to herself until it came. I turned to those old times and scenes, where all That 's beautiful had birth for me, and made Rude verses on them all : and then I I had done nothing, so I sought to know What mind had yet achieved. No fear was mine As I gazed on the works of mighty bards, In the first joy at finding my own thoughts Recorded, and my powers exemplified. And feeling their aspirings were my own. And then I first explored passion and mind ; And I began afresh ; I rather sought To rival what I wondered at, than form Creations of my own ; so much was light Lent back by others, yet much was my own. I paused again — a change was coming on, I was no more a boy — ^the past was breaking Before the coming, and like fever worked. I first thought on myself — and here my powers Burst out. I dreamed not of restraint, but gazed On all things : schemes and systems went and came. And I was proud (being vainest of the weak). In wandering o'er them, to seek out some one To be my own ; as one should wander o'er The White Way for a star. On one, whom praise of mine would not offend. Who was as calm as beauty — being such Unto mankind as thou to me, Pauline, — Believing in them, and devoting all His soul's strength to their winning back to peace ; Who sent forth hopes and longings for their sake, Clothed in all passion's melodies, which first Caught me, and set me, as to a sweet task. To gather every breathing of his songs. And woven with them there were words, which seemed A key to a new world ; the muttering Of angels, of some thing unguessed by man. How my heart beat, as I went on, and found Much there I felt my own mind had conceived. But there living and burning ; soon the whole Of his conceptions dawned on me ; their praise Is in the tongues of men ; men's brows are high When his name means a triumph and a pride ; So my weak hands may well forbear to dim What then seemed my bright fate : I threw myself To meet it. I was vowed to liberty. Men were to be as gods, and earth as heaven. And I— ah ! what a life was mine to be. My whole soul rose to meet it. Now, Pauline, I shall go mad, if I recall that time. Oh let me look back, e'er I leave for ever The time, which was an hour, that one waits 422 PAULINE For a fair girl, that comes awitheredhag. And I was lonely, — far from woods and fields. And amid dullest sights, who should be loose As a stag — yet I was full of joy, who lived With Plato, and who had the key to life. And Ihad dimly shaped my first attempt, And many a thought did I build up on thought. As the wild bee hangs cell to cell — in vain ; For I must still go on : my mind rests not. 'Twas in my plan to look on real life. Which was all new to me ; my theories Were firm, so I left them, to look upon Men, and their cares, and hopes, and fears, and joys ; And, as I pondered on them all, I sought How best life's end might be attained — an end Comprising every joy. I deeply mused. And suddenly, without hear(> wreck, I awoke As fromadream — I said, 'twas beautiful, Yet but a dream ; and so adieu to it. As some world-wanderer sees in a far meadow Strange towers, and walled gardens, thick with trees, Where singing goes on, and delicious mirth, And laughing fairy creatures peeping over. And on the morrow, when he comes to live For ever by those springs, and trees fruit-flushed. And fairy bowers — all his search is vain. Well I remember . . . First went my hopes of perfecting man- kind. And faith in them — then freedom in itself. And virtue in itself — and then my motives' ends. And powers and loves ; and human love went last. I felt this no decay, because new powers Rose as old feelings left — wit, mockery, And happiness ; for I had oft been sad, Mistrusting my resolves : but now I cast Hope joyously away — I laughed and said, ' No more of this ' — I must not think ; at length I look'd again to see how all went on. My powers were greater — as some tem- ple seemed My soul, where nought is changed, and incense rolls Around the altar — only God is gone. And some dark spirit sitteth in his seat ! So I passed through the temple ; and to me Knelt troops of shadows ; and they cried, ' Hail, king ! We serve thee now, and thou shalt serve no more ! Call on us, prove us,let us worship thee! ' And I said, ' Are ye strong — let fancy bear me Far from the past.' — And I was borne away As Arab birds float sleeping in the wind. O'er deserts, towers, and forests, I being calm ; And I said, ' I have nursed up energies. They will prey on me.' And a band knelt low. And cried, ' Lord, we are here, and we will make A way for thee — in thine appointed life Oh look on us ! ' And I said, ' Ye will worship Me ; but my heart must worship too.' They shouted, ' Thyself — thou art our king ! ' So I stood there Smiling And buoyant and rejoicing was the spirit With which I looked out how to end my I felt once more myself — my powers were mine ; I found that youth or health solif ted me. That, spite of all life's vanity, no grief Came nigh me — I must ever be light- hearted ; And that this feeling was the only veil PAULINE 423 Betwixt me and despair: so if age came, I should be as a wreck linked to a soul Yet fluttering, or mind-broken, and aware Of my decay. So.a long summer morn Found me ; and e'er noon came, I had resolved No age should come on me, ere youth's hopes went, For I would wear myself out — like that morn Which wasted not a sunbeam — every joy I would make mine, and die. And thus I sought To chain my spirit down, which I had fed With thoughts of fame. I said : the troubled life Of genius, seen so bright when working forth Some trusted end, seems sad when all in vain — Most sad, when men have parted with all joy For their wild fancy's sake, which waited first As an obedient spirit when delight Came not with her alone ; but alters soon. Coming darkened, seldom, hasting to depart. Leaving a heavy darkness and warm tears. But I shall never lose her ; she will live Brighter for such seclusion — I but catch A hue, a glance of what I sing ; so pain Ts linked with pleasure, for I ne'er may tell The radiant sights which dazzle me ; but now They shall be all my own, and let them fade Untold — others shall rise as fair, as fast. And when all 's done, the few dim gleams transferred, — (For a new thought sprung up — that it were well To leave all shadowy hopes, and weave such lays As would encircle me with praise and love ; So I should not die utterly — I should bring One branch from the gold forest, like the knight Of old tales, witnessing I had been there,) — And when all 's done, how vain seems e'en success. And all the influence poets have o'er men ! 'Tis a fine thing that one, weak as my- self. Should sit in his lone room, knowing the words He utters in his solitude shall move Men hke a swift wind — that tho' he be forgotten, Faireyes shall glisten when his beaut eous dreams Of love come true in happier frames than his. Ay, the still night brought thoughts like these, but morn Came, and the mockery again laughed out At hollow praises, and smiles, almost sneers ; And my soul's idol seemed to whisper me To dwell with him and his unhonoured name — And I well knew my spirit, that would be First in the struggle, and again would make All bow to it ; and I would sink again. And then know that this curse will come on us. To see our idols perish — we may wither ; Nor marvel — we are clay ; but our low fate Should not extend them, whom trust- ingly We sent before into Time s yawning gulf. To face whate'er may lurk in darkness there — To see the painters' glory pass, and feel Sweet music move us not as once, or worst. To see decaying wits ere the frail body Decays. Nought makes me trust in love so really 424 PAULINE As the delight of the contented lowness With which I gaze on souls I'd keep for ever In beauty — I'd be sad to equal them ; I'd feed their fame e'en from my heart's best blood, Withering unseen, that they might flourish still. Pauline, my sweet friend, thou dost not forget How this mood swayed me, when thou first wert mine. When I had set myself to live this life, Defying all opinion. Ere thou earnest I was most happy, sweet, for old delights Had come like birds again ; music, my life, I nourished more than ever, and old lore Loyed for itself, and all it shows — the king Treading the purple calmly to his death, — While round him, like the clouds of eve, all dusk. The giant shades of fate, silently flitting. Pile the dim outline of the coming doom, — And him sitting alone in blood, while friends Are hunting far in the sunshine ; and the boy. With his white breast and brow and clustering curls Streaked with his mother's blood, and striving hard To tell his story ere his reason goes. And when I loved thee, as I've loved so oft. Thou lovedst me, and I wondered, and looked in My heart to find some feeling like such love. Believing I was still what I had been ; And soon I found all faith had gonefrom me. And the late glow of life — changing like clouds, 'Twas not the morn-blush widening into day. But evening, coloured by the dying sun While darkness is quick hastening : — I will tell My state as though 'twere none of mine — despair Cannot come near me — thus it is with me. Souls alter not, and mine must progress still ; And this I knew not -frhen I flung away My youth's chief aims. I ne'er sup- posed the loss Of what few I retained ; for no resource Awaits me — now behold the change of all. I cannot chain my soul, it will not rest In its clay prison ; this most narrow sphere — It has strange powers, and feelings, and desires. Which I cannot account for, nor explain. But which I stifle not, being bound to trust All feelings equally — to hear all sides : Yet I cannot indulge them, and they live. Referring to soijie state or life un- known . . . My selfishness is satiated not. It wears me like a flame ; my hunger for All pleasure, howsoe'er minute, is pain ; I envy — how I envy him whose mind Turns with its energies to some one end ! To elevate a sect, or a pursuit. However mean — so mystill baffled hopes Seek out abstractions ; I would have but one Delight on earth, so it were whoUymine; One rapture all my soul could fill — and this Wild feeling places me in dream afar. In some wide country, where the eye can see No end to the far hills and dales be- strewn With shining towers and dwellings. I grow mad Wellnigh, to know not one abode but holds Some pleasure — for my soul could grasp them all. But must remain with this vile form. Hook With hope to age at last, which quench- ing much. May let me concentrate the sparks it spares. PAULINE 425 This restlessness of passion meets in me A craving after knowledge : the sole proof Of a commanding will is in that power Repressed ; for f beheld it in its dawn. That sleepless harpy, with its budding wings, And I considered whether I should yield All hopes and fears, to live alone with it. Finding a recompense in its wild eyes ; And when I found that I should perish so, I bade its wild eyes dose from me for ever ; — And I am left alone with my delights, — So it lies in me a chained thing — still ready To serve me, if I loose its slightest bond — I cannot but be proud of my bright slave. And thus I know this earth is not my sphere, For I cannot so narrow me, but that I still exceed it ; in their elements My love would pass my reason — but since here Love must receive its objects from this earth. While reason will be chainless, the few truths Caught from its wanderings have suf- ficed to quell All love below ; — then what must be that love Which, with the object it demands, would quell Reason, tho' it soared with the sera- phim ? No — what I feel may pass all human love. Yet fall far short of what my love should be; And yet I seem more warped in this than aught. For here myself stands out more hid- eously. I can forget myself in friendship, fame. Or liberty, or love of mighty souls. But I begin to know what thing hate is- To sicken, and to quiver, and grow white. And I myself have furnished its first prey. All my sad wealuiesses, this wavering will, This selfishness, this still decaying frame . . . But I must never grieve while I can pass Far from such thoughts — as now — Andromeda ! And she is with me — years roll, I shall change. But change can touch her not — so beau- tiful With her dark eyes, earnest and still, and hair Lifted and spread by the salt-sweeping breeze ; And one red-beam, all the storm leaves in heaven, Resting upon her eyes and face and hair. As she awaits the snake on the wet beach, By the dark rock, and the white wave just breaking At her feet ; quite naked and alone, — a thing You doubt not, nor fear for, secure that God Will come in thunder from the stars to save her. Let it pass — I will call another change. I will be gifted with a wond'rous soul. Yet sunk by error to men's sympathy. And in the wane of life ; yet only so As to call up their fears, and there shall come A time requiring youth's best energies ; And straight I fling age, sorrow, sickness off. And I rise triumphing over my decay. And thus it is that I supply the chasm 'Twixt what I am and all that I would be. But then to know nothing — to hope for nothing — To seize on life's dull joys from a strange fear. Lest, losing them, all 's lost, and nought remains. P 3 426 PAULINE There 's some vile juggle with my reason here — I feel I but explain to my own loss These impulses — they live no less the same. Liberty ! what though I despair — my blood Rose not at a slave's name proudlier than now, And sympathy obscured by sophistries. Why have not I sought refuge in myself, But for the woes I saw and could not stay — And love ! — do I not love thee, my Pauline ? I cherish prejudice, lest I be left Utterly loveless — witness this belief In poets, tho' sad change has come there too ; No more I leave myself to follow them : . Unconsciously I measure me by them. Let me forget it ; and I cherish most My love of England — how her name — a word Of her's in a strange tongue makes my heart beat ! Pauline, I could doanything — not now- All 's fever — but when calm shall come again — I am prepared — I have made life my own — I would not be content with all the change One frame should feel — but I have gone in thought Thro' all conjuncture — I have lived all life When it is most alive — where strangest fate New shapes it past surmise — the tales of men Bit by some curse — or in the grasps of doom Half-visible and still increasing round. Or crowning their wide being's general aim. These are wild fancies, but I feel, sweet friend. As one breathing his weakness to the ear Of pitying angel — dear as a winter flower ; A slight flower growing alone, and offering Its frail cup of three leaves to the cold sun. Yet joyous and confiding, like the triumph Of a child — and why am I not worthy thee? I can Uve all the life of plants, and gaze Drowsily on the bees that flit and play, Or bare my breast for sunbeams which will kill. Or open in the night of sounds, to look For the dim stars ; I can mount with the bird. Leaping airily his pyramid of leaves And twisted boughs of some tall moun- tain tree, Or rise cheerfully springing to the heavens. Or like a fish breathe in the morning air In the misty sun-warm water, or with flowers And trees can smile in light at the sinking sun, Just as the storm comes — as a girl would look On a departing lover — most serene. Pauline, come with me — see how I could build A home for us, out of the world ; in thought — I am inspired — come with me, Pauline ! Night, and one single ridge of narrow path Between the sullen river and the woods Waving and muttering— for the moon- less night Has shaped them into images of life, Like the upraising of the giant-ghosts. Looking on earth to know how their sons fare. Thou art so close by me, the roughest swell Of wind in the tree-tops hides not the panting Of thy soft breasts ; no — we will pass to morning — PAULINE 427 Morning — the rooks, and valleys, and old woods. How the sun brightens in the mist, and here, — Half in the air, like creatures of the place. Trusting the element — living on high boughs That swing in the wind — look at the golden spray. Flung from the foam-sheet of the cataract. Amid the broken rocks — shall we stay here With the wild hawks ? — no, ere the hot noon come Dive we down — safe ; — see this our new retreat Walled in with a sloped mound of matted shrubs, Dark, tangled, old and green — still sloping down To a small pool whose waters lie Amid the traiUng boughs turned water- plants. And tall trees over-arch to keep us in, Breaking the sunbeams into emerald shafts, And in the dreamy water one small group Of two or three strange trees are got together, . Wondering at all around — as strange beasts herd Together far from their own land — all wildness — No turf nor moss, for boughs and plants pave all. And tongues of bank go shelving in the waters. Where the pale-throated snake reclines his head, And old grey stones lie making eddies there ; The wild mice cross them dry-shod — deeper in- Shut thy soft eyes — now look — still deeper in : This is the very heart of the woods — all round. Mountain-like, heaped above us ; yet even here One pond of water gleams — far o£E the river Sweeps Uke a sea, barred out from land ; but one — One thin clear sheet has over-leaped and wound Into this silent depth, which gained, it Ues Still, as but let by sufferance ; the trees bend O'er it as wild men watch a sleeping girl. And thro' their roots long creeping plants stretch out Their twined hair, steeped and spark- ling; farther on, Tall rushes and thick flag-knots have combined To narrow it ; so, at length, a silvei thread It winds, all noiselessly, thro' the deep wood. Till thro' a cleft way, thro' the moss and stone. It joins its parent-river with a shout. Up for the glowing day — ^leave the old woods : See, they part, like a ruined arch, the sky! Nothing but sky appears, so close the root And grass of the hill-top level with the air — Blue sunny air, where a great cloud floats, laden With light, like a dead whale that white birds pick. Floating away in the sun in some north sea. Air, air — fresh life-blood — thin and searching air — The clear, dear breath of God, that loveth us : Where small birds reel and winds take their delight. Water is beautiful, but not like air. See, where the solid azure waters lie. Made as of thickened air, and down below The fern-ranks, like a forest, spread themselves. As tho' each pore could feel the element ; Where the quick glancing serpent winds his way — 428 PAULINE Float with me there, Pauline, but not like air. Down the hill — stop — a clump of trees, see, set On a heap of rooks, which look o'er the far plains, And envious climbing shrubs would mount to rest, And peer from their spread boughs. There they wave, looking At the muleteers, who whistle as they go To the merry chime of their morning bells, and all The little smoking cots, and fields, and banks, And copses, bright in the sun ; my spirit wanders. Hedgerows for me — still, living, hedge- rows, where The bushes close, and clasp above, and keep Thought in — I am concentrated — I , feel ;— But my soul saddens when it looks beyond ; I cannot be immortal, nor taste all. Q God ' ■phcTf rlfjfg tliij) tfiiprl — thagp £truggling;.^inja.! ' What would lEave ? whatis this'sleep,' which seems To bound all J can there be a ' waking ' point Of crowning life ? The soul would never ^ rule- It would be first in all things — it wouldA have ( Its utmost pleasure filled, — but that | complete | Commanding for commanding sickens it. j The last point that I can trace is, rest i beneath ■ Some better essence than itself — in \ weakness ; ] This is ' myself ' — not what I think should be, And what is that I hunger for but God ?^ My God, my God ! let me for once look on thee As tho' nought else existed : we alone. And as creation crumbles, my soul's spark Expands tiU I can say, ' Even from my- self I need thee, and I feel thee, and I love thee ; I do not plead my rapture in thy works For love of thee — or that I feel as one Who cannot die — but there is that in me Which turns to thee, which loves, or which should love.' Why have I girt myself with this hell- dress ? Why have I laboured to put out my life ? Is it not in my nature to adore, And e'en for all my reason do I not Feel him, and thank him, and pray to him ? — Now. 1 Je crains bien que mon pauvre ami ne soit pas toiijours parfaitement compric dans ce qui reste a lire de cefc dtrange fragment — niais il est moins propre que tout autre ii ^claircir ce qui de &a nature ne peut jamais Hre que songe et confusion. D'ailleurs je ne sais trop si en cherchant k mieux co-ordonner certainea parties Ton ne courrait pas le risque de nuire au seul nitrite auquel ^me production si einguli6re peut pr^tendre — celui de donner une id^e assez precise du genre /qu'elle n'a fait quVbauclier. — Ce d^bub Siina pretention, ce remuement des passions qiii va \d'abord en accroissanb et puis s'apaise iiar degrds, ces dlans de r9i>ip, '^p r^tf^rr Fipi»1;iin anr eq{. mAwwyaty pfli^d o o sus-to«4>)Ja..toui:mu;aiiiespcit-t&tUa^j.xpti«MjJAr&dejnQn .ami, „rfindfill t les change- ffK.T?P1^'^'ian."^-^mpp!j!^j1;)leH. Les raisons qu'il fait valoir ailleuis, et d'autres encore plus piiissantes^ " ont fait trouver grace a mes yeux pour cet dcrit qu'autrenient je lui eusse conseilliS de jeter au fen.— Je n'en crois pas nioins au grand principe de toute composition— i ce principe de Slialcspeare, de Raffaelle, de Beethoven, d'oii il suit que laconcentr.ation desid^es est due bien plus a leur conception, qu'i leur niise en execution , . . j'ai tout lieu de craindre que la premifere de ces qualitds ne soit encore 6trang6re a. mon ami — et je doute fort qu'un redoublement de travail lui fasse acqu^rir Ja seconde. Le mieux serait de br^lcr ceci ; m,iis que faire? Je crois que dans ce qui suit it fait allusion k un certain exau\en qu'il fit autrefois de 1 ftme ou p]«t6t de son Ame, pour ddcouvrir la suite des objets auxquels il lui serait possible d'attendre, et dont cliacun une fois obtenu devait former une esp6ce de plateau d oil Ton pouvait apercevoir d'autres buts, d'autres projets, d'autres jouissances qui, i leur tour, djevaicnt £tre surmont^s. II en rdsultait que I'oubli et le sommeil devaient tout terminer. Cetba idfie que je ne saisis pas par- faitement lui est peut-gtre aussi intelligible qu'a moi, Paulixe. PAULINE 429 Can I forgo the trust that he loves me ? Do I not feel a love which only one . . . thou pale form, so dimly seen, deep- eyed, 1 have denied thee calmly — do I not Pant when I read of thy consummate deeds. And burn to see thy calm, pure truths out-flash The brightest gleams of earth's philo- sophy ? Do I not shake to hear aught question] thee ? . . . ■"'^ If I am erring save me, madden me. Take from me powers, and pleasures — let me die Ages, so I see thee : I am knit round As with a charm, by sin and lust and pride. Yet tho' my wandering dreams have seen all shapes Of strange dehght, oft have I stood by thee — Have I been keeping lonely watch with thee. In the damp night by weeping Olivet, Or leaning on thy bosom, proudly less — Or dying with thee on the lonely cross — Or witnessing thy bursting from the tomb ! A mortal, sin's familiar friend doth here Avow that he will give all earth's reward But to beUeve and humbly teach the faith. In suffering, and poverty, and shame. Only believing he is not unloved . . . And now, my Pauline, I am thine for ever ! [ feel the spirit which has buoyed me up Deserting me : and old shades gathering on ; Yet while its last light waits, I would say much. And cliiefly, I am glad that I have said That love which I have ever felt for thee, But seldom told ; our heart* so beat together, That speech is mockery, but when dark hours come ; And I feel sad; and thou, sweet, deem'st it strange ; A sorrow moves me, thou canst not 1 remove, took on this lay I dedicate to thee, fWhich thro' thee I began, and which I end. Collecting the last gleams to strive to tell That I am thine, and more than ever now — That I am sinking fast — yet tho' I sink. No less I feel that thou hast brought me bliss. And that I still may hope to win it back. Thou know'st, dear friend, I could not think all calm. For wild dreams followed me, and bore me off. And all was indistinct. Ere one was caught Another glanced : so dazzled by my wealth. Knowing not which to leave nor which to choose, For all my thoughts so floated, nought was fixed — And then thou said'st a perfect bard was one Who shadowed out the stages of all life. And so thou badest me tell this my first stage ; — 'Tis done ; and even now I feel all dim the shift Of thought. These are my last thoughts ; I discern Faintly immortal life, and truth, and good. And why thou must be mine is, that e'en now, In the dim hush of night — that I have done — With fears and sad forebodings : I look thro' And say, ' E'en at the last I have her still. With her delicious eyes as clear as heaven, When rain in a quick shower has beat down mist, And clouds float white in the sun like broods of swans.' How the blood lies upon her cheek, all spread As thinned by kisses ; only in her lips 430 PAULINE It wells and pulses like a living thing. And her neck looks, like marble misted o'er With love-breath, a dear thing to kiss and love, Standing beneath me — looking out to me. As I might kill her and be loved for it. Love me — love me, Pauline, love nought but me ; Leave me not. All these vpords are wild and weak : Believe them not, Pauline. I stooped so low But to behold thee purer by my side. To show thou art my breath — my life — a last Eesource — an extreme want : never believe Aught better could so look to thee, nor Again the world of good thoughts left for me. There were bright troops of undiscovered suns. Each equal in their radiant course. There were Clusters of far fair isles, which ocean kept For his own joy, and his waves broke on them Without a, choice. And there was a dim crowd Of visions, each a part of the dim whole. And a star left his peers and came with peace Upon a storm, and all eyes pined for him. And one isle harboured a sea^beaten ship. And the crew wandered in its bowers, and plucked Its fruits, and gave tip all their hopes for home. And one dream came to a pale poet's sleep. And he said, ' I am singled out by God, No sin must touch me.' I am very weak, But what I would express is, — Leave me not. Still sit by me — with beating breast, and hair Loosened — watching earnest by my side. Turning my books, or kissing me when I Look up — like summer wind. Be still to me A key to music's mystery, when mind fails, A reason, a solution, and a clue. You see I have thrown o£E my prescribed rules : I hope in myself — and hope, and pant, and love — You'll find me better — know me more than when You loved me as I was. Smile not ; I have Much yet to gladden you — to dawn on you. No more of the past — I'll look within no more — I have too trusted to my own wild wants — Too trusted to myself — to intuition, Draining the wine alone in the still night. And seeing how — as gathering films arose. As by an inspiration life seemed bare And grinning in its vanity, and ends Hard to be dreamed of, stared at me as fixed. And others suddenly became all foul. As a fair witch turned an old hag at night. No more of this — we will go hand in hand, I will go with thee, eTen as a child. Looking no further than thy sweet commands. And thou hast chosen where this life shall be — The land which gave me thee shall be our home. Where nature lies all wild amid her lakes And snow-swathed mountains, and vast pines all girt With ropes of snow — where nature lies all bare. Suffering none to view her but a race Most stinted and deformed — like the mute dwarfs PAULINE f i31 Which wait upon a naked Indian queen. And there (the time being when the heavens are thick With storms) I'll sit with thee while thou dost sing Thy native songs, gay as a desert bird Who crieth as he flies for perfect joy. Or telling me old stories of dead knights. Or I will read old lays to thee — how she. The fair pale sister, went to her chill grave With power to love, and to be loved, and live. Or we will go together, like twin gods Of the infernal world, with scented lamp Over the dead — to call and to awake — Over the unshaped images which lie WithJQ my mind's cave — only leaving all That tells of the past doubts. So when spring comes, And sunshine comes again like an old smile, And the fresh waters, and awakened birds. And budding woods await us — I shall be Prepared, and we will go and think again. And all old loves shall come to us — but changed As some sweet thought which harsh words veiled before ; Feeling God loves us, and that all that errs Is a strange dream which death will dissipate ; And then when I am firm we'll seek again My own land, and again I will approach My old designs, and calmly look on all The works of my past weakness, as one views Some scene where danger met him long before. Ah ! that such pleasant life should be but dreamed ! But whate'er come of it — and tno' it fade, And tho' ere the cold morning all be gone As it will be ; — tho' music wait for me. And fair eyes and bright wine, laughing like sin, Which steals back softly on a soul half saved ; And I be first to deny all, and despise This verse, and these intents which seem so fair : Still this is all my own, this moment's pride. No less I make an end in perfect joy. E'en in my brightest time, a lurking fear Possessed me. I well knew my weak resolves, I felt the witchery that makes mind Over its treasures — as one half afraid To make his riches definite — but now These feelings shall not utterly be lost, I shall not know again that nameless care. Lest leaving all undone in youth, some new And undreamed end reveal itself too late : Forthis song shall remain to tell for ever. That when I lost all hope of such a change, Suddenly Beauty rose on me again. No less I make an end in perfect joy. For I, having thus again been visited, Shall doubt not many another bliss awaits, And tho' this weak soul sink, and dark- ness come, Some little word shall light it up again, Andlshall see all clearer andlove better; I shall again go o'er the tracts of thought, As one who has a right ; and I shall live With poets — calmer — purer still each time, And beauteous shapes will come to me again. And unknown secrets will be trusted me. Which were not min? when wavering — but now I shall be priest and lover, as of old. Sun-tread vjr, I believe in God, and truth. And love ; and as one just escaped from death Would bind himself in bands of friends to feel 432 'PAULINE Helivesiadeed — so, I would lean on thesj Thou must be over witli me — moat in gloom Wlien such shall come^but chiefly when I die, For I seem dying, as one going in the dark To ficht a giant — and live thou for ever. And be to all whatthouhastbeentome — All in whom this wakes pleasant thoughts of me, Know my last state is happy — free from doubt, Or touch of fear. Love mo and wish me well I Richmond, Octoier'Jii, 1832. PARACELSUS INSCRIBED TO AM]i:D]<;E DE RIPERT-MONCLAR, BY HIS AFFECTIONATE FRIEND March lUth, 1835. R.B. Persons. AuRBOLUs Paraoelsds, a student. Festps and Miohal, his friends. ApRtLH, an Italian poet, I. PARACELSUS ASPIRES. SoBNB, Wilnbiirg ; a garden in the environs. 1512. Pesths, Paracelsus, Michal. Par, Come close to me, dear friends ; still closer ; thus ! Closo to the heart which, though long time roll by ICro it again beat quicker, pressed to yours, As now it beats — perchance a long, long time — At least henceforth your memories shall make Quiet and fragrant as befits their home. Nor shall my memory want a home in yours — Alas, that it requires too well such free Forgiving love as shall embalm it there ! For it you would remember nio aright, As I was born to be, you must forget All fitful, strange and moody wayward- ness Which o'er confused my better spirit, to dwell Only on moments such as these, dear friends I — My heart no truer, but my words nnd ways More true to it : as Michal, some months hence, Will say, ' this autumn was a pleasant time,' For some few sunny days ; and over- look Its bleak wind, hankering after pining loaves. Autumn would fniu be sunny ; 1 would look Liker my nature's truth : and both are frail, And both beloved, for all their frailty. Mich. Aureole I Par. Drop by drop I she is weeping like a child I Not so I I am content — more than con- tent ; Nay, autumn wins you best by this its mute Appeal to sympathy for its decay : Look up, sweet Michal, nor esteem the I'ARACJOLSUS 433 Your HtaiiKJcl and loom8 Hprinldod IIh w«iilth airionp; t 'I'lii'ii fur tlid windH -wlial. wind tlial, I'voi' raviMl HIiiUI vdx Uial, aHli wlii(!li ovorloolts you liotli. So proud it wiiarH itH lnirri(5H ? All, at loii^tli, 'I'lni old Hinilo iniiiit for' lior, the lady of MiIh Snipimtoroil iKiHt I -tlu'H IdngdoMi, lirriil.od AloiKi liy orio old populoiiH xre(^ii wall 'riiimiildd liy lliii iiviir-busy IlioH, (Jriiy c.ricikdtH and Mliy lizardH and (|iaick HpidiirH, Kaih family of thu Hilvor-tlimaded UIOHH — Wliidli, look Uirongli iidar, tliiH way, and it apprarH A Ntulibl(i-li(^lil or a <;aiiii'braku, a maiHli Of IxdriiHli wliitening in tlm Hiiti : langli now I Ii'aiKiy tlio cridkiilH, cai^li ono in liiH liunHU, liooking out, woniloring at tli