Title: Plays
Author: John Davidson
Language: English
Produced by C. P. Boyko
PLAYS by John Davidson
Being: An Unhistorical Pastoral: A Romantic Farce: Bruce, A Chronicle
Play: Smith, A Tragic Farce: and Scaramouch in Naxos, A Pantomime
London: Elkin Mathews and John Lane
Chicago: Stone and Kimball
1894
AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL
(Glasgow, 1877)
PERSONS
Alardo, King of Belmarie.
Rupert, Alardo's Son.
Conrad, }
Guido, }
Felice, } Nobles of Belmarie.
Bruno, }
Torello, }
Cinthio, Conrad's Son.
Sebastian, a Sea-Captain.
Scipio, }
Ivy, } Rustics.
Green, }
Celio, a Shepherd.
Oberon.
Puck.
Eulalie.
Faustine, Guido's Daughter.
Sylvia, a Shepherdess.
Onesta, Faustine's Maid.
Martha.
Titania.
A Servant.
Fairies.
Mayers.
Officers.
Scene: Belmarie.
In Grenade, at the siege had he be
Of Algesir, and ridden in Belmarie.
Chaucer.
AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL
ACT I
SCENE I.—The Sea-Coast.
Enter Alardo and Conrad.
Alardo. Safe, sound, on land, and our own land at last.
How long, Conrad, have we been seafarers?
Conrad. On our disastrous and untimely cruise,
In early spring we merrily embarked.
The trees are greener now than when we sailed,
More softly breathes the air: my lord, I think
About this time last year our ills began,
A honeymoon on ocean's breast gone by.
If I be right—for judgment here is wide,
Since in escapes from icebergs, pirates, perils
Of krakens, quicksands, bloody cannibals,
Storms merciless, and nights of many days—
The married life of those who wed the deep—
All reckoning was lost—hoar, doting time
Repeats the seasons' epic where our ears
Ceased to attend the world-old history,
One year's discordant interlude between.
Alardo. Well-tempered discord strengthens: if my son
Be but alive and well, life's music glides
In sweeter, richer cadence for this crash.
If in deep ocean's unrobbed tomb, or white
And all unsepulchred, on some bleak coast
His bones lie withering, discord is the theme
Shall din my hearing to eternity.
Do you remember when the envious wave,
Begrudging me so beautiful a boy,
With swift abduction snatched him from the poop,
And swept him from our ken? Mind you his cry
That pierced the howling storm, nor through that shield
Did with a gentler wound transfix our ears?
Saw you his begging hand finger the air,
Then vanish, lastly visible of him?
Conrad. 'Tis deeply graven in my memory.
Alardo. Ay, as a moving picture's strong impress;
But I was of it—you, a looker-on.
I watched the sneaking waves, the subtle waves,
The sly, the pitiless, the sinewy waves,
Swarm from the cuttle-sea like suckers lithe,
And steal my son to feed its hungry maw.
Conrad. Indeed, my lord, not to that tongueless grief
Which seized you then, and held you captive long,
Was I prisoner; but I sorrowed both
For your bereavement and my own past lost.
Alardo. O, you, too, mourn a son!
Conrad. In infancy
One was reft from me.
Alardo. Blessed then are you
That know him in Elysium; but I
Have no sweet sunshine gleaming through my tears.
I would not have mine dead e'en to gain heaven;
But life may now be hell: on yon rude shores
Near which we drifted when my son was lost,
They say that human fiends cavern to prey
On hunted ships the tinchel-waves drive in,
Torturing the voyagers for ransom; some
Transporting slaves to burning Afric climes:
Each imaged pang impales my inmost heart.
Conrad. I said my loss was past, yet, in a sort,
I suffer fresh bereavement every day;
And might with uncurbed fancy harrow up,
As you do yours, my fatherly regard,
But that it boots not to imagine ill,
Where equal chance shows good luck may betide.
My child was lost or stolen, drowned or devoured,
I brood not which; but, in most hopeful mood,
Think soon to see him well; more sluggish thoughts
Would joy to find him any how or where:
And so, piecemeal, my hope is back repulsed
To find content in sure news of his death.
Alardo. Was it a while ago your son was lost?
Conrad. Full fifteen years; his age, one half that sum.
Alardo. Fifteen unsevered years may cool me too,
But grief and I are fresh and all uncloyed;
We drain the utmost sadness that we can.
Conrad. I bore grief just so passionate a love;
But long before you slight her as I do,
Doubt not that dear joy will seduce your heart:
Your quick-found son will give her to your arms.
Alardo. How did you lose your son, good Conrad, say?
Conrad. Indeed I cannot. One soul-sickening night
Nowhere was he discovered. Every haunt
Where curious childhood oft had wandered him
Appeared as wistful for his sight as we;
The mourning echoes called with us his name.
He was my only son—Heaven grant he is!
Alardo. For you conjecture had an airy stretch,
And hope full complement of anchors strong;
My thoughts are hedged, my only grapnel drags.
Your son was lost from vague remembrance; death
Plucked mine with bony grasp from out my eyes.
Seven years you had a son; and twice that term
Has tamed your sorrow's force: my Rupert's eyes
Had viewed a score of summers: by this count
A century should see me bow to fate;
But I'll be traitor till death vindicate
The all-commanding rule of destiny.
Conrad. Permit me, sir: such is your present thought.—
Holds your intent to travel in disguise
Thence to our court: to hear what rumour goes
Concerning us; toward you what mind is borne;
To note your subjects' state; with parent's care
To mark what merits praise, what needs reproof,
And understand the country's inmost soul?
Alardo. I purpose so. Our lives, however short,
And full of toil, have time enough for grief.
Yet stay, my lord: here comes one who shall tell
Which is the pleasantest, most peopled way.
In him, moreover, we will broach the fame
Of our long ventures in a time so brief.—
Enter Cinthio.
Sea-bred or inland, friend?
Cinthio. A shepherd, sir.
Conrad. Where are we, gentle shepherd, by your voice,
And who reigns here?
Cinthio. In Belmarie, not far
From court, kind stranger, where no courtiers be.
This country's king was lost a year ago:
Yet in a longing hope he is not dead,
The heir-apparent but a regent's power
Decrees to exercise for twice four years.
When that date is expired, if no king come,
The prince intends to fill his father's room.
Alardo. His father's, say you? [Aside.] Have I then two sons?
This shepherd dreams.
Cinthio. Yes; King Alardo, once
Of these broad realms; now, king in heaven, I wot.
Even as earth's bower-maid, Spring, in robes of green
Her naked lady, roused from winter's sleep,
Began to deck, five galleys, new-built all,
With sails of taffeta, and masts of gold,
Pushed from this strand bound on adventures far,
The king, his son, and many a noble knight,
With mariners and fighting-men aboard.
Of this armada not a single ship
Has yet returned to us; nor any spar
Of drifting wreckage tells a woeful tale.
The gallant prince right from his father's eyes
Was hurried in a storm, and, blest by fate,
Snatched from that doom which overwhelmed the rest;
For he was washed ashore and nursed to health
By fisher-folk, whom he has made his friends.
And now he has forsaken courtly state
To live in country freedom for a while;
In Dolorosa's vale he spends the spring.
Alardo. And what road must we take to reach this place?
[Aside.] I dare not credit him, or else his tale
Is true of some impostor.
Cinthio. Onward go,
Until that pine-straight pathway radiates
Two branches from its stem, extending still:
That shooting westward winds a mile or two,
And ends in our royal town; the other way,
Toward sunrise, leads to Dolorosa's vale.
Alardo. Thy kindness, shepherd, merits some reward;
But now our purses are as lank as we.
Rest you assured of worthy recompense
From me in Dolorosa.
[Goes out.
Conrad. If my old eyes
Deceive me not, I've seen you, sir, before.
Cinthio. Maybe, sir; though I, witting, ne'er saw you.
Conrad. [Aside.] I'll question him again.—Shepherd, farewell.
[Goes out.
Cinthio. What lordly wight was this, who, seeming poor,
Would fee a duteous courtesy? He hides
His beams behind a ragged cloud perhaps.
I'll hope to see him in his majesty.
Enter Sebastian.
I came to see you, captain and good friend.
When do you sail?
Sebastian. When we have made an end
Of lading, and have shipped a proper crew;
Perhaps two days hence. How may this touch you?
Cinthio. Now you impeach my friendship to speak so;
For I would come, and this full well you know,
To clasp my loved Sebastian on the strand,
And drop a tear upon his parting hand,
And fill his sails with breath of heart-felt prayer
To waft him back, outspeeding swiftest air,
Even while his barque degrades into eclipse
Behind the bulging world, as Phoebe slips,
Slackly and slow, over the ocean's rim,
When stars grow bright, and seas and hills grow dim.
But hark, Sebastian, give me careful heed:
Your often-proffered help I sorely need
To aid me in an enterprise of note.
Sebastian. They all are yours—myself, my men, my boat.
Cinthio. Is there, far distant from the sea's highway,
Unwatched by any eye save that of day—
Or if perfection lights unreasoning eyes,
By gentle beasts, and birds of paradise—
A coral isle, old nature's best-loved child
And latest offspring, nursed by waters wild—
Tamed in that nurture—to rare loveliness,
Whose witchery creates a sweet distress;
An islet Venus might have made her home,
Even as, love-mad, she blossomed from the foam;
Where lovers may beneath a bread-fruit tree
Repose on bedded flowers, by harmony
Of birds and waters lulled to slumber deep;
And by like sounds be roused to waking sleep,
To feed upon their couch's canopy,
And watch what may appear with dreamy eye,
Stirring no limb, save for their gentler ease,
For ministry of love, or what they please?
Methinks you told me once of such a gem,
Descried unsought; or is it my own dream?
Sebastian. In stress of storm I found it: tempest-driven
I took the first port, and I lit on heaven.
Cinthio. This isle's felicitous, Edenic state
Lacks of perfection, eyes to appreciate;
These are within your office to supply:
What better watchers than Faustine and I?
O, there's the direst need of flying far!
That envious, and most inveterate star
Whose wanton spite is spent in thwarting love
Has chosen us for signal harm; we strove
Against disaster, but are hemmed to this,
Either to fly, or die upon a kiss.
Sebastian. To die upon a kiss?
Cinthio. Or kiss and die;
For Faustine is a maid of lineage high;
A foundling, and a vulgar shepherd, I.
Her sire's a lordly wight of sternest mould,
Who guides his life and hers by precepts old.
He trains his child in crude simplicity,
That ignorance may foster modesty;
Gives her free scope—in gardens and parterres,
With dowagers and hoary aunts for feres;
So jealous of his name, so mean his measure
Of all feminity, her honour's treasure
He will not trust to any common guard,
But in the night, before her door is barred,
He hides—unchristened trick!—that cloudy dress
Wherein by day her sun-bright nakedness
She mercifully veils from mortal eyes,
To hinder, as he trusts, all enterprise,
Such as we purpose with the treacherous aid
Of that twice-suborned spy, my lady's maid;
Which, with your help, we've sworn to amplify,
Or on an everlasting kiss to die.
Sebastian. Yet wherefore fly to such a far-off isle?
Unbroken time to love, and nature's smile,
With safety unmolested, you may reach
Upon some neighbouring and less dangerous beach.
Cinthio. We have solaced our souls with hope of bliss
In that far isle; not there, then paradise:
Being bound for heaven, not storms, not rocks can fray us,
Yea, dreadless death more swiftly would convey us.
Sebastian. Then nothing moves you. Yet, take tent and think:
They need not drown who still stand on the brink;
And let me tell you, if I rightly deem,
These isles are all as fragile as they seem;
Strong as the spider's web, the poor fly's tomb,
Fixed as the rainbow on a crest of foam,
Stable as any luring bright mirage,
Torn into ribbons by the ruthless wind,
Whelmed by the multitudinous waves' wild dash,
Gone like a dream leaving no trace behind.
Cinthio. If you, my best Sebastian, bear us hence,
We'll prove this doctrine by experience.
Sebastian. Its truth will be expounded by th' event.
Must all things fit that you may sail to-night?
Cinthio. Not until after midnight, for our flight
Must be with stealth, and cautious management.
Sebastian. Love's gentle goddess prosper your intent!
Two hours past night's dark noon I'll meet you here.
Cinthio. Farewell till then.
Sebastian. Farewell, and no ill fear.
Of what I said, dissuading, have no care:
Blow high, blow low, we this adventure dare.
[They go out separately.
SCENE II.—Dolorosa. A Room in Guido's House.
Enter Alardo, Conrad, and Guido.
Alardo. Thus thrice am I the father of one son:
By ordinary geniture and birth;
And by my son's deliverance from death—
Yea, resurrection, for I held him dead;
And now experience within these months
Of our forlorn and shipwrecked wanderings
Has moulded him into a goodly youth,
Refined and brilliant in all inward beauty:
Witness his conduct in the regency:
What prince had nailed such shackles on his power,
Or fixed his bondage for so long a term,
Simply for love of his sire's memory,
Seeing that hope of life there could be none?
This is a certain new-birth; for I feared,
By some hot coltish springs his blood had fetched,
That, boiling high, it might sad trouble brew;
And partly 'twas to coy his restive sprite
I planned that voyage whose conclusion
Had such ill opening, and ends so well.—
Now, heaven forgive my selfishness! Guido,
Go, send out messengers on every coast.
It could not well bechance that we alone
Of all our ship's crew should be now dry-shod:
Yea, and indeed it would be marvellous,
That of five vessels in the self-same track,
Four should be swallowed wholly by the deep.
Bid all the mariners who leave our ports
To pass no ship unspoken they may spy:
We have escaped, so may those who remain:
Till they are landed safe, and not till then
Will I take heart to laugh. Go quickly, sir.
Guido. Your grace's mandate needs no issuing,
For penalties have been already paid
By those who disobeyed the prince in this.
Alardo. He does anticipate our utmost wish.
Guido. He is, sire, a right slip of the old tree
We know well whence his rosy graces spring;
Yet, if you should be pricked in finding out
Among these flowers a thorn, be not surprised.
Alardo. Be not so emblematic, trusty Guido.
Guido. I do not, sire, asperse your dead queen's fame
But she was mother to our noble prince;
Now queens are women, and all women are
But women——
Alardo. 'Tis most true; and spades are spades.
Guard well your tongue. Proceed, sir, and be brief.
Guido. Pardon, your majesty. You are too quick:
I meant not as your jealousy conceives:
But I will stake my head none of their sex
Are better than their sphere of life requires:
This is their utmost character for good.
Alardo. Come, we have heard your doctrine many a time:
And, by the way, how does your vestal daughter?
Still in her cloister mewed from eyes profane?
But without more digression, Rupert's fame
Seems by your blazoning a little blurred.
Record me how a bend sinister comes
To blot the fair field of his character.
Guido. Being a woman's son, unstable motion,
The loose stone in his virtue's strong rampire,
Threatens a downcome to its battled front;
For he pursues with lewd desire or love—
Both in this case disastrous to a prince—
A maiden of the very humblest strain,
Who, by her beauty's unassisted charms,
Or these and spells of necromantic art,
Has found his weakness: this did I smell out
When his companions' younger noses failed.
Alardo. That's not so well; but being a man's son
The youthful blood that warmed his father's veins,
Now briskly runs in his. We'll find a bit
To stay its galloping, or suasion soft
To woo it from from such skittish practices.
Guido. Please it your highness, now to tell me why
I have been honoured first to taste the joy
Of your long-prayed-for presence in your land,
Rather than to delight at once your son.
Alardo. I doubted that he was no son of mine,
But some impostor. 'Twas a foolish fear
With hope twin-born by information scant
That there was cause to hope; so, thinking well
That should I rush to this youth unadvised
The fear would like a hated step-child fare,
And passion nurse the longed-for hope alone,
I wisely verified report in you.
Now, use your wits; devise some plan whereby
I may, myself unknown, confer with Rupert.
Guido. to-day a custom, ancient, all-observed,
But savouring in my mind of pagan rites,
And unbecoming folk of Christendom,
Is followed by our sheepish villagers,
Who in their day and generation act
What by their ancestors has been performed,
In timely order tumbling in the ditch
Some silly, old, bell-wether age first filled.
to-day our youth are met upon the green
To plot a treason licensed by the time,
Which is, to choose a king and queen of May
To reign to-morrow and each holiday;
To whom, alone, they shall allegiance swear
At every festal season of the year.
There Rupert courts his lovely, well-loved quean,
Who will be crowned, if I guess rightly, queen;
And he, most like, so highly throned by birth,
Will reign their monarch on a seat of earth.
In some disguise conceal your royalty;
Go there; inspect your son, and be as free
As though you wore no mask: every degree
Has access to him in this pageantry.
Alardo. A very feasible and pleasant plot.
Come, Conrad, comrade us: since by our lot
Comrades we have been for so long a spell
In danger and in woe, it chords right well
That we be still in unison for joy;
You saw me lose, behold me find my boy.
Conrad. I will, my lord.—Vouchsafe to call to mind
My dead wife's image.
Alardo. Strange! I am inclined
To think of her full oft within these hours.
I see her now, of many lovely flowers
That graced our youthful court the loveliest;
My sweet, her queen; she, queen of all the rest.
The shepherd whose direction helped us here—
'Tis he recalls your lady's pleasant cheer;
Her voice, her smile, her action, yea, her face,
Stronger, being male, as coy, to suit his place.
Conrad. He is, indeed, the picture of her youth.
Conviction now lacks nothing of the truth.
He'll be among those playful-treacherous ones,
Where let us haste to find two long-lost sons.
[They go out.
ACT II
SCENE I.—A Room in Martha's House.
Enter Eulalie.
Eulalie. O little heart of mine, why ache you so?
Enter Martha.
Martha. Why, child, why! What a state is this! Come! and you to be
Queen of the May! They say Prince Rupert will himself be king.
Eulalie. And that it is that troubles me.
Martha. And so it should. Trouble! the highest lady in the land would
be so troubled—such a coil would she be in! What kirtle to put on; what
flower, or none; she'd spend six hours, I warrant, over her hair. Then her
stomacher, her kerchief, and her shoes; her sash, gloves, necklace, each
an hour apiece. But what's your trouble, child?
Eulalie. I do not know.
Martha. Who was it said just now Prince Rupert troubled her?
Eulalie. I think 'tis he; for when I first was told
That they would have me for their Queen of May
It pleased me as a new gown pleases me.
When Rupert's name was buzzed about for king,
My heart became a hive of busy things
That hum perplexingly: I know them not,
But fear they may have stings: that is my grief.
I cannot tell if it be joy or grief:
To grieve for joy were far more happily sad
Than ever I have been; if joy unmixed,
Then wherefore am I sad? 'Tis melancholy.
Martha. Melancholy! Why, child, I would laugh if thou didst not look
it. Come; I have that would banish melancholy from a mummy—a new flowered
silken dress and ribbons.
I'll dress thee and thou'lt be the loveliest queen
That ever led a dance upon the green.
[Goes out.
Eulalie. The mood which I have christened melancholy
Is that, I think, which rules a lonely dove:
It wars with maidhood, yet is not unholy:
I'll rebaptize my melancholy, love:
With dropping tears of virgin purity,
Claiming its soul for spotless chastity.
Re-enter Martha.
Martha. Hurry! There's not a second, child, to spare;
Indeed it is high time that you were there,
Where all the village waits to make you queen;
And that is what your mother ne'er has been.
[They go out.
SCENE II.—A Garden before Ruperts House.
Enter Felice and Bruno.
Bruno. Think you the Prince's present humour lasting?
Felice. Ay, while the relish smacks. This rustication
Is pleasant to him now, a dainty tasting
Of heather honey; lacking domination
O'er appetite, he'll gorge and surfeit soon
On country pleasures; sick of nature's sweet,
Of making hay, and gazing on the moon,
Of hearing kine low, wool-producers bleat,
Cocks crow, crows caw, doves coo, and goslings gabble,
Of all their junketing and rural sport,
Their ales, mays, harvests, songs and silly babble,
He'll hasten to the spiced and pickled court.
With all due reverence for mighty Pan,
Here's one who wishes we might leave to-morrow;
For, by my beard, I'll soon lose all the man
Hushing my wit, and suckling of that sorrow.
Bruno. I fear it much; mine is at least asleep:
Plague on these blowsy girls and brown-faced knaves,
Who rake their brains and set our jests asteep,
Distilling that which no refining craves,
Concentrating wit's subtle, quaint, quintessence.
In courtly spheres fat dullards feed fine lights;
But brilliant stars wane swiftly from their crescence
When doomed to shine among chaotic wights:
Too much damp fuel quells the strongest fire;
We perish of this plethora of faggots.
Felice. Respect has wrought a transformation dire:
We are dead dogs, these creatures are our maggots.
We, air imperial, burn in this gas,
Which once illumined us, its atmosphere;
I am a beast of burden; you, an ass—
Slaves, where before our lash was held in fear.
By heaven, our pates the jingling cap befits!
We are the clowns; the country louts, the wits.
Bruno. Here comes knave Scipio, the Prince's friend,
Stuck like a wild-flower in his love-lock's shade,
Replacing us, poor withered hothouse blooms.
We'll dust his livery with wordy strokes,
And in his own outspoken chaff deride him.
Enter Scipio.
Felice. By Jove, we will!—Come hither, Scipio. Master of wit, lord of a cabbage-bed, Knight of the cudgel, toady, knave, and clown, Beseech your mightiness to signify To us, your humble servants, what's o'clock? Scipio. The clock's hand points now to that very hour It indexed at the same time yesterday. Felice. Sirrah, you lie, because the clock's gone fast. Scipio. Then is it very adverse to your wit. Felice. And like to yours, for fast is loose: your wit Is dissipated, drunk; 'tis redolent Of sour ale and the smoke of tavern ingles. Bruno. That is as much as to say it is ailing, and lapped in inkle, in flannel. Scipio. Verily, it is ailing, in sore pangs of travail, having been impregnated by yours; yet will you hate your offspring. By the cock and the goose!—which is a Grecian oath, and very religious and philosophic—your wits are mad, stark mad: Democritus, with an acre of hellebore, could not cure them. Gentlemen, I can prove you the maddest fools out of your own mouths. Bruno. Indeed, we are out of our own mouths; for our mouths are within us; but I thought the foolishest and most unruly member had been in the mouth. Felice. A fool expose fools! Let the blind lead the blind. Scipio. Nay; set a thief to catch a thief. But shall I advise you of your folly? Bruno. Wise men are silent when fools advise. Scipio. Well said; therefore shall I be silent. But no; for that would be for the wise man to follow the fool's advice. Sir, do you seek for anything? Felice. I seek for some ripe grain of wisdom in the desert of your brain. Scipio. And how much do you find? Felice. Not a stalk. Scipio. He is a fool who seeks that he cannot find; and you a superlative fool to seek in a wilderness, where you are jagged and torn by prickly briars, for what you believe cannot, without the miraculous intervention of Ceres, grow there. Pray, sir, do you seek for anything? Bruno. I seek nothing from you. Scipio. What an ass have we here, what a dizzard! He is surely the king of fools who seeks what, being found, will do him no good—namely, nothing: 'tis a folly worthy of that greatest of fools and criminals, old Nick Nemo. Bruno. And who may he be? Scipio. Do you seek to know? Bruno. Ay. Scipio. Then shall I not tell you. Bruno. But you shall, if he were the devil. Scipio. What? Jove help you! Are your wits entirely sublimed, and condensed on the cold sides of the moon like the melancholy bishop's? Now are you—I cannot say how foolish. You would seek to know the devil? O damned fool! who seek to know that which, being found, will do you more harm than good! Out upon you! out upon you! Felice. Fellow, do you seek for anything? Scipio. I seek for something, for something in a special way. I mean I do not seek for nothing; nor do I seek that which I cannot find; nor that which, being found, will do me more harm than good. Bruno, 'Twere a gospel to tell us what you do seek for. Scipio. Sirs, I seek to be rid of you; therefore, farewell. Bruno. This fellow must be whipt. Felice. For being witty? It is very true His words are fitted for the barest need, His jests being like himself, but scantly clad, Of aspect somewhat sour; but this I see Plain-speaking blunts much sharper wits than we. Bruno. I relish not such Spartan-tongued conversers. The Prince approaches, and in company.
Enter Rupert and Cinthio.
Rupert. Ah! do you jest with Scipio? Know him, friends,
A fellow of a right good stinging wit;
Who will not spare a king for sordid ends,
But utter all his mind whoe'er he hit.
This shepherd here is of a different sort;
His present speech will certify you so.—
Cinthio, my mistress is the sole resort,
And temple of the graces; in her grow
A spring of beauties; and Pandora's dower
By heritage she wears even at this hour.
Cinthio. I am a lowly youth, and love a maid
More high than I am low, and oh, so fair!
Her brow might lend the noonday heaven aid
To shine upon the world with richer glare;
Her eyebrows are twin rainbows; and her eyes
Peered suns, excelling all that ever shone,
For they illuminate bright red-rose skies
Of cheeks celestial with a day-long dawn:
Day being ended, scarcely night's blue veils,
Her fringed eyelids, can enshroud their beams:
Setting or rising radiance never fails
To mark their absence in the land of dreams.
Sweet cups of perfumed flowers her nostrils be:
No bees suck there; the odour makes them faint.
Her little chin is bent with dimples three
Beneath rich fruit her summer blood does paint
With brighter hues than apples on their trees:
Alas, to me they are forbidden fruit,
Dearer than apples of Hesperides,
And guarded by as dragonish a brute.
And when her lips do ope they show her teeth
Like pearly seeds in sliced pomegranate
Breathing an air that balmily agreeth
With that delicious fruit. O hapless fate,
That orchards up such dainties to be tasted!
Were I their keeper they should not be wasted.
Felice. Who may this wild hyperbolist be?
Scipio. A shepherd who feeds his sheep upon Parnassus. He gets
admission to the chimney-corner at the Castalian Inn, being very thick
with the Muses, and a minion of mine host, Apollo.
Rupert. In very sooth the damsel of your heart
Seems but a copy of my peerless love,
Fashioned by nature's self-admiring art,
Which yet has failed to equal what it strove,
My goddess' perfect, yet extempore, beauty:
Whereby this breathing picture, uttered now,
Far short, as you will swear—a lover's duty—
Of its exalted theme, must languish low
Beneath the high original I praise,
By two detractions of her copied grace.
Your miniature you finished with her chin;
Look you, where you desisted, I'll begin.
Her neck into her bosom coyly glides;
It have I never seen, but well I know
Beneath the little billowy bodice hides
Costlier treasure than the deep can show:
How white it is I cannot realise,
Because her hands are whiter than the snow
In sunny winters that half-blinds the eyes,
Vesting the swelling hills in satin so.
Her waist is fitting for so rare a maid;
Methinks it was not fashioned for an arm;
In whatsoever garment 'tis arrayed
Too dainty seems it for maternal harm.
The dimples of her cheek and of her chin,
The blue veins of her brow, her lashes long,
Her faultless arms, her fingers lithe and thin—
Sometimes a ring appearing them among,
Looks like the little golden coronal
Round which the petals of the lily cluster:
Her sloping shoulders, and her feet so small,
That hardly can sufficient courage muster,
Even in the circumlocutory shoe,
To show themselves in their entirety,
But like a maid's first love-thoughts from the view
Of her own eyes retire most trepidly.
The limbs above them! Hush, the moonlight pales
Before their splendour white as sunlight seems.
Her hair! The brightest imagery fails
To be a proxy for its rippling streams,
Like shimmering wavelets when the sun has set
Where his pale golden glory lingers yet.
When I am with her I need not to think;
For if she silent sit, or walk, or stand,
My faculties do altogether link
And chain my eyes upon her by command
Of her magnetic power; or if she speak
In tones that Mercury might imitate,
Or through her lips a sounding streamlet break
With rush of sweetest melody, create
Within the coral, pearled grotto of her mouth
In tones that Philomel could not surpass;
Then does deep hearing cause a summer drouth
In sense's welling founts, whose waters pass
Into the yawning ocean of my ears,
Entranced as by the music of the spheres.
Cophetua's bride was humbler than she is;
Yet is she humblest of the maids I know.
Mage Hymen will transmute girl to princess;
My empress love enthroned her long ago.
Scipio. I know this wonder.
Felice. Which the Prince praises?
Scipio. Ay. She is indeed a miracle. Her mother is a woman; and there
are those who will swear she was once no higher than her grandam's
armchair. It is reported that she eats when she is hungry; her liquor,
too, most commonly runs down her throat. Rumour says she is of no kin to
graymalkin, for without light she cannot see; yet can her eyes pierce a
whinstone as woundily as another's: that she can hear in the night, when
she has been known to sleep; that she is often stirring in the day; that
when she talks, her organ of utterance is her tongue. Those who should
know best will certify that her mouth stands across between her nose and
her chin. But the oddest thing about her is her gait; for, look you, when
she walks, as the old song goes, one leg or t'other will always be first.
Lo, our shepherd has gathered the flock of his thoughts: listen, while he
shall tell his tale.
Cinthio. No wealth, power, state, can I bestow upon her,
Who dowers me with herself—that trifles all.
I naught possess save unstained youth and honour;
But could I purchase it, hers were this ball.
Yea, to my queen the universe I'd give,
Fastening her zodiac-girdle with the sun,
Which from its fixture I would swiftly rive
By love's unrivalled power. This being done,
The moon I would assail, and, for a brooch,
Place it between the fair moons on her breast;
Nor would the ornament on them encroach
So pure are they. Nor would I then desist,
But gather all the stars out of their bowers,
And with the most magnate a carkanet
String for her neck; with other heavenly flowers
Bead for her richer hair a priceless net;
And ring her fingers, deck her little ears—
So like their homes, the stars would have no fears.
Scipio. Well said, shepherd! All the world on our side!
Nothing remains but hell.
Cinthio. Not even that; for she with piteous tears
Would quench its sulphurous flames.
Rupert. So it appears
There's naught beneath, on earth, in heaven above,
Remains for me to ornament my love.
And, truly, it needs not; for in her smock
She would outshine your star-bedizened dear.—
But lo, the mayers to the maypole flock!
I am resolved to live no more in fear,
But straightway hasten to that company
Where now my sweetheart is; move her aside;
Tell her I love her heartily and true,
And ask her to become my darling bride.
Then shall she murmur sweetly, 'I love thee.'
I'll kiss her then, and gaze into her eyes;
Appoint a near date for our union too,
And pray for sweet conjunctions in the skies.
[Goes out.
Cinthio. Permit me, gentlemen, to part from you.
[Goes out.
Bruno. Willingly, willingly.—A new rival.
Felice. Then is Scipio cut out too. Come, we'll be friends with
him.—Scipio, do you know where the Prince is gone?
Scipio. Do I know what kind of beast a lover is? Does he not follow
his mistress like a lamb to the slaughter? If she be in the mouth of hell,
I warrant you'll find him in the jaws of death, an he be no nearer. The
Prince is now upon his way to her.
Felice. And she?
Scipio. Is where he will find her.
Felice. Which is——?
Scipio. Whither I will bring you, if you be so minded; and on the
road I will tell you how all the beauteous virginity and lusty bachelory
of Dolorosa be even now assembled to choose a May-queen; how thereafter
they will go to bed, and sleep till midnight; how they will then journey
to the forest accompanied with music and blowing of horns, to gather
may-blossoms and birchen boughs, and deck themselves with nosegays and
crowns of flowers. What else they may do there I shall also hint at,
specifying to what proceedings on the morrow these actions are prelusive.
Felice. Of all this the light of knowledge has revealed to us
somewhat; but concerning Mademoiselle Eulalie, the Prince's sweetheart, we
are in Egyptian darkness.
Scipio. Behold, her mother is a fisherman's widow, who in her poverty
nursed the half-drowned prince, pinching herself and her daughter, who
was, if possible, more willing to be starved that the unknown sick
gentleman might have dainties. She has no gold but the gold of her hair;
and no jewels save her eyes. If beauty be riches, her wealth is
incalculable; moreover, it is safely lodged in the bank of health.
Felice. And the Prince, by legal usury, would increase her beauty if
she would permit him.
Scipio. Even so. But there is another merchant in terms for this
commodity, for such he would make her. He has more bushels of gold than
stones of flesh, and more carnality than wisdom. He is as strong as a
horse, but a most outrageous braggart, and little better than a coward. He
makes great estimation of his personal appearance, and his figure would be
passable enough were it not so bent with worshipping his calves. He
dresses like a herald or a macer; and grows the eccentricities of fashion
into absurdities, lopping such as by their generality have almost become
beauties. This great monkey must needs fall in love with my dainty
Eulalie; and finding, though he come before her as gaudy as a serpent,
that he works no fascination upon her, he has betaken himself to other
charms, and hopes to approach her in a shower of gold.
Felice. But she is no Danae, you would say; and that this would-be
Jupiter will find. Now, what do you think? Shall we play some trick
upon—what d'ye call him?
Scipio. Torello. By Jove, I would give something to see him taken
down a peg!
Bruno. We'll peg him. We'll whip him about like a top.
Felice. Then let us, as we wend along, conclude
Some scheme to harm Torello for his good.
ACT III
SCENE I.—A Road.
Enter Felice, Bruno and Scipio.
Scipio. Yonder he is, puzzling over a paper. Neither of your lordships knows him? Felice. No. Scipio. It is no wonder. Since he fell in love he affects a kind of bearish melancholy; secludes himself; feeds his passion on fish, and has gross dreams. It will take some angling to catch him, gudgeon and all as he is.
Enter Torello.
Good-day, sir.
Torello. Oh!—good-day.
Scipio. Here are two gentlemen of the Prince's court, who, their ears
being infected with your absolute accomplishments, have been plagued by
the unsatisfied desire of your acquaintance.
Torello. It is not the first time I have plagued my acquaintance.
Gentlemen, who are you?
Felice. Felice is my name; my title, lord; my having, handsome; and
my expectation, great.
Torello. O sir, my name is Torello; my figure is at least as handsome
as yours; and my expectation is high and sure.—Your name, sir?
Bruno. My figure is as God made it; and my expectation ends in
salvation.
Torello. Mine ends in matrimony.
Felice. You are he who loves Eulalie.
Torello. Here is a copy of verses, a sonnet to her. Will you read it?
It will tell you.
Felice. Are they yours? Did you write them?
Torello. I scratched them down this morning.
Felice [reading]. My sweetest sweeting, once again I say
With no adornment, simply, 'I love you.'
You ask me for a mint of words mayhap:
I give you none save these, 'I do love you,'
In which is melted all my passion's gold.
Many a white plain have I deluged black
With overflowing, wordy, rhyming streams;
But I have found them all too weak, and so
I simply say and mean, 'I do love you.'
This is excellent.
You ask me why no tears bedim my eyes:
I answer, I have drained them dry already.
Better still.
You ask me why my cheek so rosy is:
I answer, that I keep my health for you.
O, admirable! This cannot fail to win her.
Scipio [aside]. He may have written it after all.
Torello. I will send it to her along with this string of pearls.
Scipio. If I might interest myself so far in your lordship's affairs,
I would suggest that, having thus engaged the services of Plutus and
Apollo, you now enlist under your love's flag the potent Hecate.
Torello. Ah! I shall consider your counsel.
Felice. It is good counsel.
Torello. Who's this Hecate?
Felice. She is a sorceress, and has her haunt in the wood. She will
tell you how you are to discover that you are to marry Eulalie; and this
certain knowledge of futurity, stranded with the verses and the necklace,
will form a cable that draws her into your arms.
Torello. Into my arms! Let us visit Hecate at once.
Felice. It is too soon. She will not be approached till the moon is
up.
Torello. Then come with me, and you shall see Eulalie. But, look you,
I will not make her known to you. [Aside.] She knows too many men already.
Felice. It needs not: we will know her by her beauty.
Torello. Ay; but you must not speak to her.
Felice. How if she speak to us?
Torello. Then must you be short in your answers, and by no means
attempt to gain her favour; I would have her favour no man but me.
Felice. Fear not us. Courtiers know how to behave, and fishermen's
daughters are excellent wenches.
Torello. They are most sweet wenches. Eulalie is a most sweet
fisherman's wench.
Felice. How was he sweet? Did he do business in fresh water only?
Torello. What, he? You start from our subject. Come on, come on.
[Bruno and Torello go out.
Felice. It will work, I think.
Scipio. Assuredly. I know where to get such rig as will pass for a
witch's. Bring him along to the place you wot of, and let chance guide our
sport.
[They go out.
SCENE II.—An Open Space.
Beneath a hawthorn, Eulalie, garlanded; near her, Rupert, Felice, Bruno,
Torello, and Scipio, standing together. Ivy and Green. Alardo and Conrad,
dressed like soothsayers, among a crowd of Mayers beside a May-pole.
Cinthio, apart.
Green. Prince Rupert shall our May-lord be.
Ivy. Well said!
Mayers. The prince, the prince!
Green [to Eulalie]. Fair queen, entreat the prince.
Eulalie. Be you our lord of May, most gracious prince.
I pray you pardon me if I be bold;
Being but a puppet-queen, my subjects' pupil,
I speak as I am urged.
Rupert. As you are urged?
You are their spokesman, merely?
Eulalie. Queen, they say,
But little more than their spokeswoman, sir.
Rupert. I mean, you are mouthpiece only for them.
Eulalie. Has any other, sir, petitioned you?
Rupert. You will not understand me. This request
That I should share with you May's flowery throne,
Is, say, the utterance of a hundred hearts,
Well-purged and sweetened to the May-queen's prayer,
And she, the hundred first, breathes only air.
Eulalie. Air, only air, prince, for these hundred hearts:
I speak for them; beseech you, be their king.
Rupert. The May-queen would not have me for her consort?
Eulalie. O yes, my lord, I would. My own heart's throbs
Are prayers beseeching you to take it all—
To reign, to tyrannise, to enslave, to kill.
My kingdom's conquered now and factious strife
Of modesty and love quelled and atoned
By your dictation; nobles and populace
Crown you, enthrone you, monarch absolute.
I pray you, speak not to me; I would weep.
The blush upon my cheek will hotly burn
Till flooding penitence has quenched its glow.
You are so pertinent an inquisitor,
Your eyes did burn my resolution through,
Your voice did drown me, and I cried for help.—
My lord of May, speak to the people, now.
[She leads him forward and goes out.
Torello [aside]. Now will I offer it to her. Oh! she has tears in her
eyes. No; she must be in a merrier mood to think of love.
Rupert [aside]. Ay, lord of May, and lord of May again!
May-lord this year, lord of this May for aye;
Lord of this flowery season of love's bloom,
Lord of this flower of love, seasonably blown:
Prince am I—King, maybe, of Belmarie,
May-king, and king of sweet May Eulalie.—
Good friends, we thank you for this title new:
Its fresh addition gives us double power,
With which we join our queen's, two-fold as well,
Strong by your suffrage, by her beauty strong:
And in this combined and quadruple might,
We bid you be as merry as you may.
Let study, commerce, labour, for a time—
In truth, three woes—be counted sins in act;
Shame anger, malice, envy, every ill
Back to the devil with loud-laughing mocks;
Drink hail to liberty in rosy wine;
Happy your faces with continuous smiles,
And spend mirth's overflow in jest and song;
Forsake stone walls; re-live the golden age
Among the trees in sweetness and moonlight.
Mayers. We will, we will!
Rupert. Our May-queen gone!
Felice. She has retired to preserve her beauty.
Bruno. Ay, sir, to pickle it, to wash it in brine, to weep.
Rupert. Wept she, indeed?
[They talk apart.
Green. Is it not a noble prince?
Alardo. Truly he seems to be; but by this hue
We may not judge his nature's primal mood;
For princes, in their humours, are chameleons.
Ivy. Camellias, sir, are of different colours.
Our prince is of the spotless dye.
Alardo. Whitewashed—a sepulchre?
Ivy. Sir, do you speak well?
Alardo. Well; I hope I speak as well as other men.
Ivy. But do you mean well?
Alardo. By all means.
Green. For he who speaks ill of the prince here, had need to be his
bosom-friend, or a cur whom no one would waste a kick on.
Alardo. The prince must lie warm-covered in your hearts.
Ivy. You must be a stranger. Know, that this same Prince Rupert is
out of sight and beyond hearing the mightiest monarch in these parts. To
the nobles he is a most egregious tyrant; to the commons, a very brother.
But yesterday he addressed me by the damnations of knave and fellow: he
could not have been more familiar though he had been my own father, who
always calls me rascal. His good qualities are as contemptible as another
man's sins.
Alardo. Then, by your showing, worthy villager,
He is a very white crow of a prince.
But, tell me, is he not Alardo's son?
Ivy. His son, and successor. Indeed, I may say, he is his father, for
he, being without question dead, Rupert is king.
Alardo. Dead without question! You are positive.
How, if I say I know he is alive?
Think you to gain a sire the prince would choose
To lose so mighty and august a throne?
Ivy. Treasonless man! would you dethrone the prince? Ho! lechery and
faith! guard our good prince! His life's in danger.
Rupert. What cry is this?
Ivy. Great prince, it might have been a crying matter; but I, thank
the gods, have been man enough to stifle it.
Rupert. So you have turned approver: renegades I never trust; but
what have you to say?
Ivy. I will prove that this greybeard is the most noteworthy renegade
and trusty traitor these times have seen.
Rupert. Your language is too original for ordinary capacities.—What
are you, old man?
Alardo. A soothsayer.
Rupert. Is he affiliated in your trade?
His dress betokens that. What have you said
That this clod could construe as treasonable?
Alardo. I but suggested that your highness' sire
May yet be canopied by yon blue sky,
With no damp mouldering roof, or watery pall
Between him and the tabernacling air;
That you would joy at loss of sovereignty
To clasp Alardo in your arms once more;
Whereon this loyal sirrah bellowed out,
And laid on me officious needless hands.
Rupert. Ha! those of your profession are not wont
To talk at random even in courtesy.
Approach us nearer; we would speak with you.—
[To Ivy.] For you, sir—there: we pay your blundering faith.
[To Alardo.] Now, summon to thine aid thy powerfullest sprite;
Or if thy demon be unknown, and speed
All unappealed and unannounced, whether
He fly from heaven or mid-aerial limbo,
Subdue all motion and prostrate thy will,
Yea, let thy soul evacuate, that, void,
Thy genius may usurp its empty fane,
And prophesy with scope and native truth.
To question were to slight thy divination;
Therefore say sooth of all I seek to know.
Alardo. Two things by thee desired most
Cannot be thine: one must be lost:
One's forfeit is the other's cost.
Rupert. An oracle. Expound it now, good sage.
Alardo. Remember one, absent and dear;
Think of another, loved and near;
Their interests clash; their clashing fear.
Before the moon does twice uplight
The dusky countenance of night,
It shall be past, this bosom-fight.
Rupert. I understand, and half believe, because
On an event so sudden and unlike
As that of King Alardo's re-appearance
Thou stak'st thy fame thus openly. Say more.
Alardo. No more to-day; I am dispirited:
And never twice 'twixt ruddy morn and morn
Are we with visionary prospect blessed.
Your eyes are on my comrade. Brother, speak.
Conrad. Nothing to you, Prince Rupert. There is one
Of lowlier state whom I have news to tell.
He yonder stands and broods with eyes downcast.
Rupert. Cinthio, hither and hear thy fortune told.
Alardo. Prince, I have converse for your private ear.
[They talk apart.
Cinthio. Soothsayers and augurers of old were held
In high repute for dreams and prophecies.
Their star is waning now, their traffic being
Unto a race, better in being busy,
In barren, fallow fancy, how much worse!
Divine you from the stars, old man; or from
Men's shapes, complexions, palms, dreams and the like?
Scan you a mutton's clean-picked shoulder-blade,
Or have you any visionary aid?
Conrad. I'll tell thee truths about thyself thou know'st not.
Cinthio. Say on.
Conrad. Three lustres has this orb in heaven rung,
Swinging around its vast and vaulted bell
Of measured space, striking its own deep knell
From side to side, a huge and pendulous tongue,
Since thou, then five years' journey to thy grave,
Wast filched most vilely from a lordly home.
Thou shalt not, shepherd, twice Pan's blessing crave,
Morning and evening on thy flock; nor roam
Upon these hills beneath a twice-risen sun
Before thou find'st a father; he, a son.
Cinthio. A mutual treasure-trove. But by what sign
May I believe this bare assertion true?
Conrad. Beneath thy left breast is a crescent mole;
A flame has sealed a kiss upon thy cheek;
A gold chain quaintly wrought hangs round thy neck,
Hidden from every but the second sight.
Cinthio. By heaven, these things are so! Now, who art thou?
Rupert. Presumptuous, meddling fool! A plot, a plot!
Confess who bribed thee. Guido 'twas, I warrant.
Cinthio, what says the other?
Cinthio. He gives me
A noble father at no later date
Than sunset of to-morrow; vouching this
By nominating several private marks
About my body.
Rupert. So; well-planned, indeed!
Wretched dissemblers, bear these wrinkles hence,
That, being hypocrites, for age is wise,
Shame that which they betoken. Quick, begone!
[To Cinthio.] I'll tell thee more anon.—Stand not agape;
Be off, trudge, trot; away!
[Alardo and Conrad go out.
Good, gentle mayors,
Retire home for a little; lightly sup;
Lightly to bed; at midnight, lightly up,
To welcome May, to banish worldly jars,
And wanton it like twinkling earthly stars,
Outpeering those who then will deftly tread
In joyous, maiden mirth, and all the night
About the pure moon, from whose dark blue bed
Her bower-maids singing sweetly-low aloud
To wake their queen, will, with soft, quaint affright,
Charily cast her coverlet of cloud:
Stars must we all be when shall be displayed
Our May-moon, Eulalie, earth's loveliest maid.
[Mayers go out shouting.
Felice, Bruno, and Torello follow.
Cinthio. Was not this all too hurried, unripe, green?
Rupert. No; inconsiderate I have not been.
Grant what they prophesied of us should hap,
It proves no science in the heaven's great map,
Nor any other of unearthly mean:
Their boasted foresight is of things past seen,
And their informing spirits, my good lords.
Now, do you scent the plot? In fewest words;
Some certain knowledge of my sire and thine,
Some hint that I would make Eulalia mine,
The haughty stomachs and the fatuous brains
Of my high cabinet, have feared with stains
Upon our line to spring from Eulalie,
Upon their wisdom in permitting me
To have my bent; and so, to change my mind,
Which by their own they fathom, and to bind
Alardo to their penetrating wit,
They taught these two, dismissed, to tempt this hit,
Which, like a boomerang, returns to maim
The flingers, who have made an evil aim.
Cinthio. It seems to me this argument is lame.
Rupert. Lame! Had you heard yon dotard tackle me
About the marring of our family tree;
Predicting sad disaster, ruin, death,
O'erhanging state and king, which loosed by breath
Of vows yet to be sworn to Eulalie
Must thunder on us from the cloudy sky;
No fear of wrong would linger in your head,
No doubt would cripple what I now have said.
Or if I blame too widely, sure am I
'Twas Guido sent these rusty prophets here.
This daughter whom he keeps in turret high,
Making by rarity her beauty dear,
In solitude her soul unsullied blows;
And he upon her lofty virtue builds
A loftier castle than his wisdom knows:
He rushes in, disdaining highest guilds
Of Belmarie's nobility, to mate
His daughter with its prince, himself to make
Most potent minister in all the state—
His prince's king, mayhap, for Faustine's sake.
For any thought save this, I have no mind—
My heavenly love is, like a goddess, kind.
I go to seek her. At some other time
Of these predicts we'll reason, or else rhyme.
[Goes out.
Cinthio. False prophets, or soothsayers, what care I!
For me the thread is spun and cast the die;
The boat is waiting, and the wind is right.
March past, ye steady hours; lead on, midnight.
Enter Onesta.
Onesta! Hangs this gear where it did? Onesta. Alack, alack, it hangs together like a snow-shower in the air. Cinthio. Then is it indeed alack. What has unbound our plot? Onesta. O, we are all unbound! All undone! twelve o'clock will never, never do. Cinthio. How has that hour become refractory which yesterday was most corrigible? Onesta. O, she does not lack courage, but her father, he is fractious. Cinthio. Her father! what of him? Onesta. O, it's all along of him! He goes to bed every night at eleven, as sure as the clock! Upstairs, at every chime creak goes a step, and his stick comes down between, with his other hand on the baluster. And he talks about a new lamp for the landing, as he has done for the last twenty years—not that I remember; but Marjory, who will be seventy to-morrow—that's May-day; and to hear her talking about the May-days when she was young! This very fore-noon she began gabbling, with her toothless old gums, and her beard going wag, wag—— Cinthio. For God's sake cease thy gabbling and thy wagging, and tell me how Guido has perverted the good-nature of midnight. Onesta. La! what a temper you have! I'll tell Faustine how wild a lover she has caught. Cinthio. Tell her how wild I am for her dear love, While you stand dallying with our happiness. Onesta. Dallying, forsooth, dallying! I'll dally no more between you! Cinthio. My fair Onesta, carry this kiss to thy mistress, and keep this one to yourself. Twelve o'clock is not suitable, because? Onesta. Because, as I was just beginning to tell you, Guido goes to bed at eleven—I mean, he goes to his chamber then; counts his keys, his money; gets undressed; curses his valet; says his prayers; then a door slams, or a chimney rumbles, or a rat scrapes behind the wainscot, or a loose slate on Signor Guido's own head rattles a noise of its own in his ears, and he yells, 'Thieves! Fire!' and the bell's rung, and the whole household roused up; and every room, every bed, and closet and hole, searched and shook, and hacked and pierced; and out to the garden—— Cinthio. And is this a nightly performance? But you knew all this before. What prompted you to have us determine our flight for midnight? It must be then, or sooner. Onesta. It can't be, it shan't be, either sooner, or later. Cinthio. Come, come, remember the crowns. [Aside.] I believe she's sold herself to the other side. Onesta. Perhaps it may be done, perhaps it may: though it's not any more possible now than it was before. Cinthio. How are we to manage? Onesta. Well, it may be done; for when I remember, there are two old travellers staying with us just now. They take up all Guido's time. Everybody is so busy you would think our house was a bazaar of all the trades; there could not be more ado supposing it was for the interment of a king. About eleven they will be drawing to the hinder end of supper, and every guest busier than his neighbour eating and drinking, and all the servants drudging like millers with a good wind. Come then: my lady will be ready; and you must put the dress in by the window, and wait till she gets it on, for she will have nothing but her night-gown. Then she will come down, and—O lord! I wish I knew nothing of it. Cinthio. Can you by no means procure her own apparel? Onesta. It is not to be thought of; for her father would know that she could not come at it but by me. Cinthio. She will have greater ease in man's attire, And no disguise could better suit our flight. The wood that lies between us and the shore Will hide us till Sebastian's hour has come. Eleven is our hour. Let Faustine know If I come not that death has flown with me; Or that old Time himself at length has gone, And doomsday come to righten every wrong. [Goes out.
Enter a Servant.
Onesta. Where have you been?
Servant. I was sent to invite the prince to sup at our house
to-night; and it is good words to ask a man to a good supper. But the
prince refused to come, and that is bad words; for it is bad not to choose
the good.
Onesta. Belike the prince has chosen a better supper somewhere else.
Servant. Belike he has. Are you going home?
Onesta. Yes. You go before.
[They go out.
ACT IV
SCENE I.—The Garden of Martha's House.
Enter Eulalie. While she is speaking, Rupert enters behind.
Eulalie. My tongue must heave my bosom's suffering forth,
Or else into my mouth my prisoned heart
Will leap, and pant its desperate passion there.
Wild love has burst upon me like a storm:
The gathered clouds I knew; not their full freight.
O me! my desperate, foolish, high-pitched love!
Is this my fortitude, my deep-sworn muteness?
Now, blabbing tongue, be silent; for, behold,
How many bright-eyed, heavenly beings peer
From countless windows on my blush, self-called,
And, listening, smile the welkin wide across
At me, plaining anew love's endless tale,
So risible, so old, so stale to them:
Poor, weary stars, no wonder 'tis you wink!
But I have dared to tell myself I love,
And madly to confess to him 'tis he.
O daring, swift such madness to conceive!
O madness, with untimeous haste brought forth!
Nor will I venture on another thing.
The birds are all asleep; so are the winds;
The trees?—Ah, they have tongues and must have ears.
Dear trees, beseech you, tell no tales on me;
And never, when the wind would have you sing
Chant this sweet name which I will utter now,
Hereafter dreaming nevermore of Rupert.
Nay, gentle trees, you may sigh low his name,
And make all winds in love with that sole word,
Till northern pine-trees rustle it, and know,
As well as southern palmy groves, to teach
Their feathered choirs the syllables I love:
Ye streams and rivers, thou deep-swelling sea,
Confine your far-ranged voices to that theme:
Ye crystal ringing spheres the echo catch.
Rupert [aside]. Now will I kiss her. No, her melting heart
Exhales in words still. Hush, my heart; she speaks.
Eulalie. These are sweet thoughts; as sweet as foolish they. Though
all the myriad voices of the world
Should thunder Rupert far up into space
Until the moon swerved from her circling path
Distracted by the noise, I, bidding now,
'Twould only waste breath and the spheres endanger,
For it could not avail to make him love me.
I wish that it were ever night, and I
Could hold converse with it concerning Rupert.
Poor dreamer! have I not appointed this
For my fantastic, final love-discourse!
Rupert. And of true love's lasting communion first.
Eulalie. O, let me go!—My lord, I did not mean
My treason to be heard by any one.
To princes people are all hypocrites;
And sovereigns all believe that they profess
Which from a true desire to please is said:
This is what should be truth—I love you not.
Rupert. Treason most capital! Lov'st thou not me,
Thy prince, thy king? For this I rede thy doom:
Full twenty thousand kisses shalt thou pay,
And twenty thousand kisses after these,
As many more when these have been discharged,
To be due always, every hour of the day,
To him 'gainst whom thou hast conspired to cheat
Of what thou longest, burnest to bestow.
O, perjured felon, to thyself and me,
Begin fulfilment of this penalty.
Eulalie. Are you so peremptory? Am I lost?
Think that you heard no syllable of mine,
For you did apprehend my thoughts, as they
Transgressed my own decrees, into night's ear,
And must not prosecute their wantonness,
Since I, their mistress, have forgot their crimes—
This, recent, and that past, done to your face—
Not knowing if I have forgiven them.
I pray you, sir, forget them too—I pray you.
Rupert. Ah, thou dost fear the honour of my love!
I will forget. Therefore, fair Eulalie,
Most worshipful and low-adored goddess,
I love thee more than any tongue can tell,
And more than all the world beside can love;
More lovingly, more truly, I love thee
Than any lover that has ever loved.
Dost thou love me, and wilt thou marry me?
Eulalie. I love thee with a love not to be shouted:
It is as huge and glowing as the sun,
And it will burn when that clear lamp is out:
Thou art its infinite vitality:
It is as spacious as the element,
And thou art heaven and earth, and all between.
Marry thee, Rupert, Prince of Belmarie?
I know I dream. Ah me, when I shall wake!
Rupert. I know I dream not: lips so sensible,
So warm as thine, no dreamy spectre bears.
Eulalie. In sleep love's ecstacy's omnipotent.
So sweet a dream as this were best soon done,
That lasting memories may less deplore.
Good-night, fair vision: heaven languishes for thee;
Thine absence has bedimmed its radiance.
Rupert. I am thy true love, and thou dost not dream:
'Tis not thy wraith, but thee thyself I clasp.
Eulalie. O, art thou flesh and blood? Dear love, good night.
I'll not believe I have no filtre quaffed,
And am not wandering in some blissful land,
Where midnight and pale moonshine ever reign,
And lover's wishes are made true events,
Unless I light my lamp in my own room
And see my bed unruffled. Good-night, love.—
Pluck me a rose that I may surely know
It is no waking vision I have seen,
If I should find I have not been asleep.
Exquisite dream, come to the door with me.
[They go out.
Rupert. [Re-entering] O, I am new-born, fit for highest deeds!
Now, could I, like old Atlas, bear the world
With all its cares upon my shoulders twain,
And say 'twas light, if but my finger-tips
Rested upon my sweetheart's lily hand.
I'll to the woods till Eulalie has found
Our love is true and sweeter than a dream.
[Goes out.
SCENE II.—An Eminence in a Wood.
Enter Felice, Bruno and Torello.
Torello. May this sorceress be approached safely?
Felice. O, she'll not bite.
Bruno. She'll only give you a bit of her mind.
Torello. I may chance to give her a bit of mine if she be not civil.
Bruno. A bit is good for a jade.
Torello. By Jupiter, she'd best play me no jade's tricks. Shall we on?
Felice. Yes; over this knoll.
Enter Rupert. He does not observe the others.
Rupert. I see thee, moon, in thy high heavenly garden;
Thou walkest like a maid among her flowers.
But thou art not more beautiful, I ween,
Than she who gave herself to me to-night
Within an earthly garden.—Perhaps she sleeps.
O elves unseen, and far away from me,
Who dance upon the shore; and fairies, who
Enamel green hill-tops with little rings
Where merry balls are held; and all ye sylphs
Inhabiting dark shades and rustling bowers;
Ye naiads who make silver streams your haunts,
And ye aerial ones who chant high songs
Against the twinkling of the lyric stars:
From distant vales and hills of Greece o'erskip
The intervening countries at a bound
Ye ancient deities—if ye be dead,
Let your ghosts rise from flowery sepulchres,
Or coral tombs beneath the blue Aegean:
Ye little dwarfs and legendary people
In forest black, or by the oft-sung Rhine,
Or in the moonless caves of furthest Thule,
Desert your homes to-night: and all together,
Quaint, lovely, beauteous, delicate, and droll,
Troop to my lady's chamber: be her dream.
[Goes out.
Torello. Dragons and scorpions, hippogriffs and asps,
Hobgoblins, and the ghosts of murderers,
And fiery devils in a fierce nightmare
Confound this fellow's folly!
Felice. Are you mad?
Torello. Tell not me! Eulalie loves him. It was her he spoke of.
Felice. Are you mad? What he and she? [To Bruno.] Follow this foolery
with me. We'll persuade him he has not seen Rupert.—What trance were you
in for a minute's space, and, being roused, why do you tear your beard?
What vision have you seen?
Torello. Would you befool me? I'll after, and defy him.
Felice. Defy whom?
Torello. The prince.
Felice. Of the powers of the air?
Torello. Prince Rupert.
Felice. Ha! be careful what you do. But he is within doors just now.
Torello. Within doors! I hear his tread.
Felice. What! Is he coming hither?
Torello. No; he is going hence.
Felice. Let me understand you.
Torello. Understand that I am not deaf; and, having heard Rupert,
leaning against that tree, talk like a happy lover, I perceive at once
that he must have been accepted by Eulalie: therefore I will challenge him.
Felice. Love has turned his brain. Did you see Rupert, Bruno?
Bruno. Not since he left us.
Felice. Nor I.
Torello. Did you not see him put his shoulder against that tree, fold
his arms, gaze at the moon, and talk; then with a skip and a hop caper
away as merrily as a schoolboy from school?
Felice. By Luna's horns, but this is wonderful! It cannot be—yet
have you not a powerful imagination?
Torello. I scarce know; I think so: I am strong.
Felice. So strong you do not know your own strength?
Torello. I have never found its match.
Felice. That explains this rhapsody, then. Your imagination has
been slumbering. Love comes and rouses it, and, like all newly awakened
gifts, it attempts great things. Being in keeping with your other
qualities, of immeasurable strength, it creates a concretion: you have
here, without doubt, suddenly and potently summoned up this apparition of
Rupert, its spoken nonsense and ridiculous gait. It must be so. Sir, your
imagination is godlike.
Bruno. Torello, my imagination cannot form a metaphor to express the
admiration, the reverence, your genius inspires in me. Many a poetical
dreamer would thank God on his knees for a tithe of your gift.
Torello. Did you not see the prince?
Felice. With that solemn face! Ha, ha! You carry the jest; but you
cannot create a vision for our eyes.
Bruno. Come; deride us no longer. Confess you have befooled us.
Torello. We are all befooled, I think. This sorceress is charming us.
Felice. Love, I say, stirred your imagination to plant this jealous
fancy against that ash, and gave it language chiming with your fear, and
hath almost persuaded you of its reality. To the witch, and be satisfied.
Torello. Ay, let us to the witch. She may have sent this vision to
spur me on. What shall I say to her?—I would swear I saw Rupert.
Felice. We'll teach you what to say as we go.
[They go out.
SCENE III.—Another Part of the Wood.
Enter on one side Green and Ivy, tipsy; on the other Celio and Sylvia, singing.
Song.
O, the day is loud and busy!
Every blush the sun discovers.
Loud and busy, bright and bold,
Day was never loved of lovers.
