ACT · I
Terrace before the Palace in the gardens of Belflor. Chairs set out. FREDERICK and RICARDO. TRISTRAM stands at a little distance, edging up to overhear.
FREDERICK.
Your secret’s safe with me. I should be hurt
To think that there was any man on earth
Whom you could trust before me: and if my place
Here in the court can help you in your love,
RICARDO.
I do, and hope some day
It may be in my good fortune to repay you
For such a favour.
F.Favour! what a word
To an old friend!
R.Nay, do not misconstrue me.
F. I own I am jealous, Richard, of the time
We have lived apart. There was a touch of fear
Mixed with my joy, when you broke in upon me
This morning, that the ten years had not spared me.
You find me changed? Say, doth my countenance
Wear the smug livery of the world?
R.Nay, friend;
I see no trace of that.
F.Then I remember
While I have played you have been within the mill:
And should I beat your coat there must fly out
Clouds of that dusty, damned experience.
Is not that so, your grace?
R.Go on: provoke me,
As you were wont.
F.The best remembrance, Richard,
Drowns in the world: and how should college days
Live in your memory as they do in mine?
’Tis no such lustre to your brilliant life
That we were comrades in Utopia;
That commonwealth of study and idleness,
Where sport, adventure, poetry and music
Were sauced with virgin-juice, a dish for gods.
R. As if I could forget!
F.Ay, but the spirit!
Think you we should have spoken of favours then?
In those days, Richard, we were used to think
Our teachers never had tasted life like ours;
Their staid propriety not logically
Deducible from essences as fresh
As angels of the sunrise. Shall the boys
Now say the same of us? By heaven you fright me:
The heart of manhood not to outlive a dog!
Then my old grudge against you.
R.What was that?
F. Your rank, which first drew us apart: but now
To meet again and have you in my debt
Is favour, by your leave, above repayment.
R. Still as proud as a peacock.
F.Could I do you a service.
But can I? See, I am here the Countess’secretary:
To make believe that you are a stranger to me
Were breach of trust.
R.But love makes tricks of crimes.
F. And if she has often seen you, how suppose
She will not know you?
R.’Tis so long ago
That now in my disguise I have no fear.
You did not know me.
F.That was but your beard.
R. She hath not seen my beard: and ’tis impossible
She should suspect. She has treated me all along
With such disdain, that I, in love as I am,
Can scarce believe I venture; but—I am mad.
Nothing could keep me back. Hear all my story,
And then see how I am changed. ’Tis three years since
I saw her first at Rome. His Holiness
Gave a reception; I with some of the guests
Had strayed to view the galleries: suddenly
Out of a group before me—as if a Grace,
That lived in Rafael’s brain to mock his hand,
Had stepped alive amongst us to rebuke
Our admiration of the fresco-stuff—
She turned and faced me.
Quick as I tell, I read my fate: I knew
What I was born for. Love’s first ecstasy
Fooled me to a false security. That night
I wrote my passion; and by such presumption
Offended. My after patience met with scorn,
My importunity anger. I then desisted,
Trying if by absence I could work my cure.
Twelve months of trial bring me here to-day
With no hope left but this; that living near her
Her daily and familiar sight may blunt
My strained ideal passion; or if this
Quench not my fancy, it may serve to feed it
With something tangible and wholesomer
Than the day dreams of sick imagination.
F. I wish your cure; for, to say truth, the Countess
Is somewhat odd; as you will see yourself.
R. ’Tis for my cure I come.—Your servant there,
Might he not hear us?
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F. (to T.).Tristram, just look round
If you can see the Countess.
TRISTRAM (aside, going).
What is there here now that I may not know?
That I am sent off? Who can this stranger be
So suddenly familiar with my master?
And comes here for his cure! Here to this haunt
Of women and lunatics! I’ll find him out.
[Exit singing to himself.
F. My man is trusty and dull; devoted to me.
R. Excuse my caution: if we were overheard,—
If any guessed I were the Duke of Milan,
The venture which I make would be my ruin:
All that I ask is secrecy. In this letter
I have written the Countess from myself, as Duke,
Recommendation of myself, the bearer,
As one Ricardo, begging for the same
Protection in her court for some few days.
Present me as a stranger: had I been such
You could not have refused.
F.Trust me to serve you:
But give your letter to the major-domo:
He attends her in the grounds; when they come by
I’ll point him out. Better know nought of me.
What think you of the gardens?
R.All this hour
I have seemed in Paradise: and the fair prospect
Hath quieted my spirit: I think I sail
Into the windless haven of my life
To-day with happy omens: as the stir
And sleep-forbidding rattle of the journey
Was like my life till now. Here all is peace:
The still fresh air of this October morning,
With its resigning odours; the rich hues
Wherein the gay leaves revel to their fall;
The deep blue sky; the misty distances,
And splashing fountains; and I thought I heard
A magic service of meandering music
Threading the glades and stealing on the lawns.
Was I mistaken?
Re-enter Tristram unperceived; he stands by listening at back, as if waiting to be observed.
F.Nay, nay: there was music.
But why the jocund morn so dissolutely
Forestalls the faint and lulling charms of eve
I must explain. The Countess, whom you court,
Hath an unwholesome temper; what its nature
You, when you have seen it, will be as like to guess
As any other. She hath a restless spirit
And eager; and, what seems a sign of note,
Suffers from jealousy without a cause.
She is full of fancies; and hath, like a school-girl,
Drawn up a code of her peculiar notions,
Whereby, in place of commonsense and manners,
She rules her petty court with tyrannies
Of fine and forfeit. Then, although she lives
Pampered with luxury, and hath a sense
O’ergreedy of all that’s offered, yet she takes
Her pleasure feverously, and pines in plenty.
’Tis a derangement:—the music which you heard
Was a diversion of my own contrivance
To pass the hour: the evil spirit within her
Yields most to music.
F. ’Tis unaccountable.
T. (coming forward). And so you’d say,
Knew you the cause.
F.Tristram!
R. (aside). Now damn this fellow.
(To T.) Perhaps you know it, sir?
T.I know it, yes:
But may not speak.
F.I bid you speak and show
My friend your wisdom.
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T.To your secrets then
Add this. The Countess is in love.
R. and F.In love!
T. In love.
R. and F.With whom?
T.With whom....
R.But say with whom.
T. Stay. I will say with whom.
’Tis one to whom she dare not make avowal.
F. Say whom you mean.
T.Why, who but me!
F.The fool!
We wish not for your jests. Where is the Countess?
T. She is coming by the lake, sir.
F.Stand aside,
T. (aside, going). The fish bite very well:
I hooked them both at first cast of my fly.
(Sings to himself.)
F. ’Twould make us brothers, Richard.
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R. Brothers?—how?
F. Having your secret, I must give you mine.
I also love a lady in the court,
Secretly too, as you, though with success;
And she is foster-sister to your lady.
The prudery with which the Countess rules
Drave us to hide our liking at the first;
And as that grew, deception still kept pace,
Enhancing the romance of our delight
With stolen intercourse. But these last days
A cloud hath risen: for the lady’s father,
(That’s the old major-domo, whom I spoke of,)
Hath been befooled to give his daughter away
To a wreathed ass, a cousin of the Countess,
Who hath herself approved the match. You find me
In this dilemma, whether to confess
My love for Laura,—that’s the lady’s name—
Braving the Countess’anger, or carry her off,
And after sue for favour. (Music heard.)
Hark! here they come.
I’ll tell you more hereafter.
Forget not me. (Aside.) By Jove, he has capped my story.—
Diana’s sister too: and I entrapped
To aid in her elopement.
Enter Diana, Laura, Gregory, and St. Nicholas; with attendant musicians and singers, who go out when the music is done.
MUSIC.
Fire of heaven, whose starry arrow
Pierces the veil of timeless night:
Molten spheres, whose tempests narrow
Their floods to a beam of gentle light,
To charm with a moonray quenched from fire
The land of delight, the land of desire.
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F. (to R.). That is the major-domo Gregory
With the white locks. Take him aside, he is deaf.
(During next verse R. makes his way to G., and they are seen talking aside during the other dialogue.)
Music continued—
Smile of love—a flower planted,
Sprung in the garden of joy that art:
Eyes that shine with a glow enchanted,
Whose spreading fires encircle my heart,
And warm with a noonray drenched in fire
My land of delight, my land of desire!
DIANA.
I envy much the melancholy spirit
Who wove that strain. The verses too were fetched
Out of a deeper well than common passion
Hath skill to draw from. Frederick, who is the poet
That I must love for this?
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F.Love for my art
Hath made your ladyship too generous
Towards a most humble workman. ’Tis my own.
D. Ah me! what must it be to be a poet,
And in the abandoned humour that men take with,
To give forth! O ’tis godlike! but the music,—
’Tis that you excel in: it hath a melancholy
Which springs of love.
F.The whole world sprang of love;
And art is but the praise the creature makes
To the Creator.
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D.True: and the best praise
Is but love’s echo. I mean you love some lady.
She is very happy. Would I knew her name.
F. When I shall love a lady, and have means
To court her, you shall hear gay music.
D.Means!
Is she so mercenary?
F.Your ladyship
Must take this lady of your own creation
With all her faults. Love is a luxury
You may suspect in me when I have money
To spend in presents.
D.Whom you love I know not:
But whether it be a queen or peasant girl,
’Tis all one. Love exalteth above rank
Or wealth; yet in Love’s ritual ’twere well wished
To express your homage fully. Ho, Sir Gregory!
Sir Gregory!
GREGORY.
Your ladyship!
D.Give Frederick
A hundred ducats at my household charge.
G. (to F.). What said my lady?
F. (aside). An open insult.
T. (to G.).Thou’rt to give my master
A hundred ducats for a wherewithal
To make his lady presents.
F. (to T.).Silence, idiot.
T. He heard not: you may lose the money.
G.My lady,
A gentleman from Milan. (Presenting R.)
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D. (half aside[1]). Milan, say you?
I thought we had done with Milan.
R.Queen of Belflor,
This letter from the Duke explains my coming.
D. Welcome, sir, whencesoe’er: but if from Milan,
Bringst thou this letter, or did it bring thee?
R. I bring the letter, madam: and ’tis writ
But in my favour.
D.Good: on that assurance
I’ll read. (Opens letter.)
(F. has passed across to make way for G. and R., coming near Laura, front, side.)
LAURA (to F.).
You have my glove?
F.Yes.
L. When I drop the other,
Exchange them secretly.
D. (reading to audience). The bearer, my servant Ricardo, having hurt his challenger in a duel, I beg for him a few days’protection in your court, till some consequent rancour be appeased. Let my long silence and absence win for me this little grace.
With reason and good courtesy asked. Ricardo,
Make your asylum here. Sir Gregory
Will tell you that such residence implies
Certain restraints, in which we look to find
Compliance.
(Laura drops a glove, which F. snatches up, and is seen by the audience to exchange for another.)
NICHOLAS (stepping forward between F. and L.).
I pray thee, sir; nay sir, I pray.
My duty.
F.Is’t thy glove?
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N.Yes, when it falls.
F. How so? When heaven doth rain, it rains for all.
Thou shouldst have picked it up.
N.I ran to do so,
But thou anticipatedest me. I pray
Give’t me, that I restore it to my lady.
F. Claim not her gloves, sir, till her gloves are thine.
Now thou anticipatest.
N.Sir Gregory!
A question.
G.Eigh!
D.What is this, St. Nicholas?
N. I beg Sir Gregory judge ’twixt me and Frederick.
My lady Laura, having dropped her glove,
He picks it up, and would return it to her;
Which I forbid, claiming the privilege
D.A mighty question.
Who can determine it?
T.That can I. The lady
Should drop the other, and let each have one.
D. St. Nicholas would claim both, Sir Solomon.
(To F.). Give me the glove. I thank you much; and now
I offer better matter for discussion:
The chairs were set on purpose. Let all be seated.
Laura, take back thy glove; and sit thou there.
You, Frederick, on my right. (To R.) ’Tis what I call
The Muses’matinée. These morning hours,
Which others waste, we may devote to wisdom,
And solve some learned question, as was done
In ancient Athens; where, as Plato shows,
Nothing was more admired than dialogues
In science and philosophy. I will hold
Such an assembly: we will each in turn
Make answer to the question I propose.
And that shall be of love. I’ll question why
Love is called bitter-sweet.
| DIANA | ||
| TRISTRAM Stands | LAURA | |
| FREDERICK | NICHOLAS | |
| GREGORY | RICHARD | |
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N.Now, by my heart,
A pretty question. May I speak the first?
D. In turn, in turn. Hark, if I put it thus,
What is love’s chiefest pain? How think you, Frederick?
The speech lies with Ricardo, as our guest.
R. Am I to answer?
D.Ay, sir: you must tell
What, in your judgment, is love’s chiefest pain.
R. ’Tis well, my lady, I am not one of those,
Who, when they would speak wisely, go about
To weigh their pros and cons; in doing which
They but confess their common thoughts are folly,
Which they must mask. I have a steady mind,
Which thinking cannot mend: and well I know
The greatest pain in love is when a man
Hath loved a lady most deservedly,
And been most undeservedly refused;
Yet, spite of her contempt, is silly-true,
And wastes his days. This is the pain of love;
Or if another can be shewn to match,
I forfeit claim to wisdom in such matters.
D. Very well said, sir, if your speech be taken
To include the parallel, the equal pain
Of any woman who thus loves a man.
F.Ricardo is in fault,
For love being not returned is but half love;
In which imperfect state love’s pain or bliss
Cannot be known: to love and be beloved
Is the required condition. But when two hearts,
Encountering in this mortal maze, have knit
Their preordained espousals, and together
In moonlight meeting and sweet conference,
Signed the surrendering treaties of their love;
If fate, or circumstance, or other’s will
Should then oppose them, and thrust in to sever
The new-spun cords with which they are bound; I say
This is the hardest pain that love can shew.
D. Ha! you speak logic; that love’s perfect pain
Cannot exist but in love’s perfect state.
Laura, ’tis thou to speak.
L.What shall I say?
D. Give thy opinion; or, in want of matter,
Be critical. A gloss may hit the mark
Where the text fails.
L.If Frederick has said well,
That love’s pain is a pain of love returned,
The pain of love must come from being loved.
D. O, most adorable simplicity!
Before thy lover, too! St. Nicholas,
N.Beshrew my science now,
If Lady Laura have not hit the mark.
’Tis vulgar error that would make distinction
’Twixt pain and joy; which are, as life and death,
Inseparables. The shadowed images
Cast on the wall of this memorial cave,
This earth, wherein we dwell, are things of nought,
But serving to mislead our darkling sense:
Nay health and strength are but the habitude
Of this delusion. Ask your ruddy clown
Of love; will he not tell you ’tis a pleasure
Which moves the plain heart of the natural man?
But to the poet, what is love to him?
’Tis like heaven’s rainbow scarf, woven of all hues
Of pain and joy; an eagle and a snake
Struggling in the void and crystalline abysm
Of life and death. And love’s pain, what is that?
I have compared it to a sunbeamed tear,
Whose single pearl broiders the marble lids
Of some tall Sphinx, that with impassive smile
Dreams o’er the desert; whence ’twas gathered up
Of earthly dew and the pale sparkle of stars,
To fall in silent lightning on the sands;
Which, at the touch magnifical, bloom forth
In irresistible fecundity.
Such is love’s pain, as it hath lit on me;
And tinctured by it I would dream my day,
Nor count the sailing hour, but when night falls
Be closèd up, like a belated bee
In the pale lily of death.
D.Now you all hear!
R. (aside). Heavens! a belated bee!
D.Thy lover, Laura;
What say’st thou?
L.O beautiful.
D.And you, Ricardo?
R. Capital, capital!
D.Sir Gregory!
Sir Gregory!
G.Eigh.
D.’Tis now thy turn to speak.
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G. Pardon, your ladyship; but at the outset
I missed the question, and for lack of it
Have followed ill.
D.The question we discuss
Is this, What is the chiefest pain of love?
G. The chiefest what?
D.Pain.
G.Ah! the pain of love.
D. ’Tis now thy turn to speak.
G.Oh, is’t my turn?
The chiefest pain of love; I am asked to say
What that is?
D.Yes.
G.Your ladyship knows well
You ask of one who has lived to study truth
From nature’s only teacher;—without which
I would not speak. But since you have often heard
Your sainted mother tell from what sad cause
She made my Laura your adopted sister,
Saving my orphan in the only loss
That can befall a babe, its mother’s care,
You know how by that loss there came to me
The chiefest pain of love; which can, I think,
But hap to wedded spirits, who have joyed
In mutual life: wherein, may heaven forgive me
If the remembrance of my joy awake
Sorrow with thankfulness, the balance being
So far on the good side, spite of the pain:
Yet if I speak of it now without more tears
Than ye can see, ’tis that the founts are dried:
Time hath not helped me otherwise. I pray
God, who is merciful, to shield all here
From like calamity.
F.I say Amen
To good Sir Gregory.
Enter Flora to D.
D. What is it, Flora?
FLORA.
My lady, the merchant’s come.
D. What merchant?
Fl.The Venetian with the silks
Your ladyship bespoke.
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D. (rising).Do you hear, Laura?
Your stuffs at last. Our matinée, my friends,
Is interrupted, an important matter
Unfortunately calls me away. Come, Laura:
There’ll scarce be time to get the silks made up
Before your wedding. Come and choose them with me.
St. Nicholas, we shall need thee too; ’tis nothing
Unless thine eye is pleased.
N.I dote on silks.
I love their fine prismatic cadences.
Yet these Venetian colours to my taste
Are over-saturate: I’d have them cast
With the Doge’s ring in the sea. A good year’s soaking
Would bring them down into that faded softness,
Which is a banquet to the cultured eye.
D. Ricardo, do you attend Sir Gregory,
And see your lodging. Come, St. Nicholas;
Come, Laura! [Exit with Laura and St. Nicholas. Flora following.
G. (to R.). I wait upon you, if it please you
To visit your apartments. Tell me pray
What men you bring. [Exit with R. making signs.
F. (taking out the glove with the letter). Thank heaven, now I may read.
(Aside.) What saith my love? what hope?
T. (aside).Another letter!
Whence got he this?
F.O blessed paper!
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T. (aside).Watch him!
F. (reading, away from T.). Dearest; all is lost. They mistake my hesitation for consent. My father has fixed the marriage for three days hence. I dared not say the truth. I know not what I said. My senses left me....
(Aloud.) Death! death!
T. (aside). By Gemini, this is a nasty one.
F. (reading as before). But be sure I never consented. If there is no other escape, I must fly. Come to-night to the garden. I will be at my window at eleven 410 o’clock.
(Aloud.) Thank God, thank God. I breathe again.
I shall see thee to-night.
T. Pray, sir,
Is anything the matter?
F.Eh! ah! what said I?
T. That you were dead, and then alive again.
F. ’Tis true.
T.I quite believe it. And then you said
That you would see her to-night.
F. Pray mind your business, Tristram:
Pay more attention to what is said to you,
And less to what is not. Whom would you speak of?
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T. I speak of no one, sir.
F.No more do I. [Exit.
T. My master’s mad. If this is court life, I shall soon curse my birthday, like dutiful Job. ’Tis a madhouse. If there were any sense in anything that’s said or done, I’d swear my life that the Countess was in love with my master, and he might have her for the asking. Yet who can tell what she means, when every one plays at being in love with somebody? ’Tis a fashion with them as catching as the measles. My constitution holds out, thank heaven. (Sings.)
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The meads drink up the rain,
The kine eat up the grass,
And man feeds on the kine,
And love on man, alas.
So about and about! fa, la!
And there’s a good light step to that tune, which Ip pthink I can do as well as any I have seen. (Dances and sings.)
So about and about! fa, la!
So about and about! fa, la! etc.
Re-enter Flora, who watches him awhile and then laughs aloud.
Fl. Ha! ha!
Well fancy, Tristram! dancing all alone!
T. Lack of company constrains a man to be alone; and as for dancing, ’tis the original sin Adam was born with. ’Twas seeing him dance alone provoked providence to send him a partner. ’Tis now the inheritance of lambs and such innocents: and wert thou not too depraved by a court life, I would ask thee to dance with me.
Fl. I depraved! I will dance with you.
T. Canst thou?
Fl. Ha! ha! About and about, fa, la! (Dancing.)
(They dance to each other and then together; in and out among the chairs.)
O softly, Tristram, softly; I am out of breath.
T. You are not so depraved as I thought. Here’s the coin I pay in. (Kissing her.)
Fl. I don’t like you, Tristram. You take more liberties in a day than others would in a month.
T. Ah! ah! Oh wala! wala! (Puts his finger to his head.)
Fl. What is it? Are you giddy?
T. No, no. My constitution—my system.
Fl. What?
T. I’m going mad like the rest of them. I’ve caught it too.
Fl. Don’t talk so; to frighten me, Tristram, like that. What do you mean?
T. Well, we shall make a better pair than two I know.
Fl. I never promised. And what would my lady say? And—oh! I forgot: she sent me to fetch you.
T. My lady?—me?
Fl. Yes, you.
T. She sent for me?
Fl. No sooner was she come in the house, than as she sat looking on the silks, one of her fits took her, and I thought she would faint: when suddenly she got up, and bade me go out and seek for you. See, here she comes.
T. What can she need with me? (Aside.) If she has got wind of me and Flora, it’s all up.
Re-enter Diana.
D. (to Fl.). I see you have found him, Flora.
Fl. We were coming, my lady, as fast as we could.
D. Leave us alone. [Exit Flora.
Good Tristram; will you serve me?
T. Certainly, my lady. My lady has only to command.
D. But in a matter where your duty might seem opposed to my interest.
T. ’Tis impossible, my lady, that my duties could be opposed to my lady’s.
D. I think, Tristram, that you know a secret which concerns me.
T. I assure your ladyship, upon my oath....
D. Stay now. Take this purse....
T. I thank your ladyship.
D. To convince you of my goodwill. Now I have a suspicion: and whether or no you help me to come at the truth, I shall learn it. I will not have secrets kept from me in my court.
T. Certainly not, my lady. But I pray your ladyship to speak plainly, for I am a simple man; and if I am to assist your ladyship, I must understand your 502 ladyship.
D. You are a very sensible servant, Tristram. Tell me then, do you not know of some one in the court, who carries on a love-affair behind my back?
T. (aside). It’s me.—No, my lady: I do not. It is impossible that any one should do such a thing.
D. Is not your master in love?
T. Oh!... my master? Certainly; not a doubt of it.
D. So I thought. Now you must tell me, good Tristram, with whom he is in love.
T. If that’s the question, my lady, you may take back the purse again. Take it; I thought it was not like my luck.
D. You will not tell?
T. I cannot tell what I do not know, my lady.
D. You do not know?
T. I have not an inclination.
D. Stay yet. You shall keep the purse if you will do your best to discover who she is.
T. Your ladyship is very fair (pocketing), and I thank your ladyship for restoring my confidence.
D. Then tell me first. You say you know that your master is in love.
T. Certainly; as much or more than all the court.
D. All the court!
T. Except your ladyship ... I beg your ladyship’s pardon.
D. Except me?
T. And me.
D. And you?
T. And old Sir Gregory, I may say.
D. Please, Tristram, keep to the matter. By what signs know you that your master is in love?
T. First because he talks nonsense aloud to himself; then he reads and writes so many letters.
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D. Letters, you say!
T. Certainly. Why, the moment that you left,
He pulled one out and read it to himself.
And now I am dead, he says, and now I live;
And all the rest of it.
D.I must know from whom
That letter came.
T.And that much I can tell.
I saw him write it to himself, last night,
And put it in his pocket. To my knowledge,
He has never sent it, and received no other,
Nor spoke to a lady since;—when, on a sudden,
He whips it out, and reads it to himself
As if ’twere newly come. Then, off he goes,
Bragging, ’tis an appointment for to-night.
D. To-night?
T.Ay, so he said. But he can’t hide
The truth from me. The fact is this, my lady;
He makes believe. He sees that everybody
Is full of this same love: since ’tis the fashion
He’d be ashamed, just for the lack of a lady,
To come behind. But all the love he makes
Is to himself.
D.But if there were a lady,
Think you she would be of the court?
T.Why certainly.
D. How so?
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T.Because ’tis only in the court
That such ridiculous foolery would pass.
D. Stay. If he loved a lady of the court,
I think I must have known her.
T.Very true.
Your ladyship is right. If ’twere a lady,
She could not be of the court.
D.Then we must look
To find her in the town.
T.’Tis very plain,
That if she is not in the court, she is in the town.
D. I have set you on the track. If you will serve me,
Discover who this lady is: observe
Your master narrowly; above all to-night
Follow him where’er he goes, watch all he does;
And bring me word to-morrow. That’s the service
For which, good Tristram, I will pay you well.
But can I trust you?
T. I never deceived any one, my lady: and if I can discover my master’s secret, your ladyship shall know it. I hold, like your ladyship, that love is a most contemptible disease, from which a good servant should seek to deliver his master. But I don’t think 580 we shall find any lady.
D. No lady, no pay, Tristram; remember that:
And, above all, be secret. Now, go your way,
And tell your master I wish to see him here.
T. I will, your ladyship. (Aside.) And as for secrets—if you knew my master’s as well as I know yours, you would not need to take me into your pay.
[Exit.
D. To-night: they meet to-night. It may be now
That I am in time: maybe they have never met,
At least not thus. It seems they have carried on
The intrigue, so far, by letter, and now by letter
They have made their assignation for to-night.
At last I have found out something ... it shall not be ...
Their first ... no, no: that I can hinder....
I trust the clown: he could not frame a tale;
And what I gave him won him. Yet no guess
Who she should be. It tortures jealousy
To know so little: still where little is known
May little be. But Frederick doth not feign.
Nay if he feigned he would not hide it from me:
And loved he not another, he would be
More open to my meaning when I try him
With such unveilings of my inclination
As make me blush alone. O perverse love,
At once triumphant and inscrutable,
Palpable and impotent. What if he knows
I love him, and yet loves me not, but loves
Another, a rival? But if he knows not,
And if he knew, might love—while there’s that hope,
They shall not meet: so much I can ensure.
I must be cruel to thee, my unknown foe:
Thou lookest to meet him, but he shall not come.
I’ll make him play thee false ... what vantage else
That he is my servant? I can send him off
Whither I will. Against this assignation
I’ll make an alibi. My plan is ready:
I’ll send him away from Belflor. Here he comes,
My enemy and my deity. If he quarrel
With my command he is guilty; a word will show.
Re-enter Frederick, with some papers, ink, and pen.
F. Your ladyship sent for me.
D.What have you there?
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F. Some papers for your ladyship to sign.
D. Set them down on the chair.
F.I have brought besides
The settlement for Lady Laura’s marriage.
D. Thank you: ’tis time I had it. I cannot now
Attend to business. I have a message, Frederick,
To send to Milan: it demands despatch,
And you must bear it to-night.
F.To-night, my lady!
D. To-night. Why not to-night?
F.No reason at all.
Except....
D.Except what?
F.Since your ladyship
Well knows the full devotion which I lend
To her affairs, I fear not to incur
Blame of remissness, if I beg for once
To be excused this service.
D. (aside).Ah, he is hit.
F. I’d travel to the corners of the globe
To serve your ladyship: and in a journey
So light as this, one that would never burden
The most unwilling servant, I can beg
Without reproach that you will find for once
Another messenger.
D.What then prevents you?
F. Good cause enough; though ’tis not of a nature
To welcome question.
D.There’s no person, Frederick,
That more regards your health, nor more regrets
Your slightest ailing than I do. I fear
You have done me wrong concealing from my knowledge
The true state of your health ... but if ’twas kindness
To spare me anxiety....
F.I assure, my lady....
D. I have thought you looked of late careworn and pale.
F. My health is excellent.
D.I am glad to hear it.
F. The expression of your good will reassures me
Your ladyship will humour me.
D.And I would
Most gladly, were it a matter that admitted
A bearer of less trust. But as it stands
There’s nothing for it but your going to-night.
You are out of sorts, Frederick: maybe the travelling
Is just the change you need. Give me that pen,
I’ll write the letter at once. (F. gives and D. writes.)
If you fear cold
You can close up the coach. The journey is short:
’Twill cheer you, and do you good.
F. (aside).Curse on my fate.
How can I escape? What devil hath now possessed her
To thwart me thus? And after all my service
659
D. (giving).Here is the letter.
Deliver it, please, with your own hand. Leave here
At six o’clock to-night. Take Tristram with you.
’Twill make me more at ease on your behalf,
In case you are ill. (gathering up papers.)
And whatsoe’er you do
Return by noon to-morrow: at which hour
I need the answer. You will oblige me much.
I wish you a pleasant journey. [Exit taking the papers.
F. Is that a blindfold player? Who is it to,
This letter? The Duke of Milan! Ha! can it be!
Is that the mischief? He is discovered, and I
Suspected of complicity, and thus
She would expose us both?
Re-enter Tristram.
We are both undone.
T. (half aside). Another letter! came this like the last
Borne on the winds?
F. (aside).She hath recognised the Duke,
No doubt. ’Twas natural. But why suspect
That I am in his secret? Till I am sure,
I must still play my part.
T. (aside).Secrets again:
F. (to T.). Order me horses, Tristram,
At six o’clock.
T.What! is she off?
F.Who off?
T. The lady you should meet to-night.
F.Plague on you!
A coach at six: and be yourself prepared
To accompany me.
T.Where go we?
Re-enter Ricardo.
F.To the devil.
Order the horses.
T.Is our destination
A secret?
F.No.
T.Then who will ride postilion?
F. Go, fool, at once. [Exit T.
(To R.) Richard, you come in time:
You are recognised. See here! The Countess bids me
Deliver you this letter.
R. (taking).To me! Diana!
Why! ’tis addressed to Milan. ’Tis impossible.
Nay, nay; she knows not. What hath made you think it?
F. Because she bade me post this night to Milan
To give this in your hands. I pleaded sickness,
Begged she would find some other messenger:
Yet she refused. She would trust none but me.
R. And why, man, if you thought I was suspected,
Did you refuse? Another messenger
Must have betrayed me.
F.True. I was a fool
Not to have thought of that. No, now I think of it,
I knew not whither I was to be sent
When I excused myself. The fact is, Richard,
I thought I was discovered, and lost my head.
Laura and I had fixed to meet to-night.
Our only hope is flight: misleading others,
She has fallen into a trap: she is bound to marry
That fool St. Nicholas. I must persuade her
To run away. Unless we meet, the moment
Of all our life is past.
R.I see it: I see it.—
And so she hath writ to me! Why should these words,
Writ by her hand so set my heart adance?
Is it beautiful? Nay,—but ’tis my name that leads
Every direction of these little curves,
Which, by long intercourse of hand and brain,
Were specialised to typify and betray
The hiding spirit? There are such secrets here
As dazzle lovers’eyes. She will be mine.
She wrote me a letter once before in scorn,
With studied terms of coldness: yet to me
That seemed—I treasure it still—a lovers’meeting
Of our two names on the same conscious page,
A daring intimacy, her own betrothal.
Was I deceived boasting so crazed a title?
What saith she now?
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F.Ha! do not break the seal.
R. Is it not mine?
F.She yet might ask it back:
And ’twould betray us if I had given it up.
R. Yes: you shall keep it till you start, and then
Give it to me. You must discover of course
That I am away from home, and leave the letter.
Will not that do?
F.This is my ruin, Richard:
It means that I must be away to-night;
And that prevents my meeting Laura; and that
Leaves the field to my rival.
Re-enter St. Nicholas.
R.Hush! see, he comes.
N. That paper you are in doubt of, gentlemen,
Is, I opine, the poem which I have lost:—
You picked it up in the garden?—a private trifle
R.I am sorry, sir,
’Tis no such lofty matter. A letter it is
Sealed and addressed, which takes our friend away.
But I can say with truth, I’d rate myself
The happiest man in the world, could I believe
That what I hold was fashioned ever so little
In your romantic vein.
N.You make me proud, sir.
Yet, you should know, I do not think my poems
As good as others think them: they are but trifles.
I wish that I could stay to explain my meaning;
But I must seek my sonnet. [Exit.
R.Your rival. O heavens!
F. A fool that fortune favours.
R.Not at all.
Diana hath here some purpose we have not guessed.
Come to my room: there we will read her letter;
And if it shew no sign of my discovery,
I’ll write it such an answer as it asks;
Which, when you have, you may perform your service,
And see your mistress both. ’Tis but to start
At the set time, and turn about in the dark.
F. Make a pretended journey?
R.An expedition
F.I’ll do it, Richard.
O, you were ever excellent.
R.Arrange
Some practicable stages; and remember
To keep an eye on the time.
F.Trust me.
R.And, hark!
If some night you should make the real journey,
Would Laura fly with you?
F.Fly where?
R.I’ll tell you.
I have planned the whole thing for you: I put my palace
At your command; my servants shall receive you;
The archbishop marry you, and all my friends
Attend your fête.
F.You cannot mean it, Richard!
R. By heaven, I do: but you must first persuade
Your lady to make sail.
F.That would be easy,
With such a port to run for. But how soon?
It could not be to-night.
R.I need one day
To warn my people. Come now to my room,
Where we will read this letter. Our success
F.True.
R.Go within:
To avoid encounter I will follow alone.
F. To your room?
R.Yes.
F.Which suite are you in?
R.They call it
One of the Grecian muses.
F.Yes, but which?
R. I quite forget. At the end of the corridor,
Beyond the tower.
F.I know. You’ll find me there. [Exit.
R. To get this Frederick married, more concerns me
Than anything else. ’Tis plain Diana loves him:
And till he’s gone, ’tis folly to besiege
Her garrisoned heart. I must engage my skill,
Like a wise general, to draw off the foe.
That I can do. ’Tis a most blessed chance
That he is so well disposed, and hath a lady
Ready to run off with him. The very thing
I plot to save myself, most helps my friend. [Exit.
Re-enter Tristram with a paper.
T. I have found a prize: just exactly what I wanted: one of my master’s love-letters, or a piece of one,—that’s the third to-day,—lying on the walk. It was not there when I went to order the horses, else I must have trod on it; but when I came back, it lay in the middle of the path, as if dropped from the skies. Reveal what it may, it goes to the Countess to-morrow; and it should stand me in something handsome. Unsealed, unfolded even, for any to read: and no name. Poetry like my master’s. There’s no harm in my reading, even though I should not understand.
(Reads.)—‘Master of mine!'—Ha! ’tis the lady.
‘Master of mine, remember for pity,
What sobs of fluting lips, wan with dismay,’
Poor thing!
‘And malison of death, my soulless clay,
Panteth in thine unspeak’ble purgat’ry.’
Unspeak’ble!—that is unspeakable; and purgatree!—why the big O hath fallen out. I never loved this purgatory, and quarrel not at any shortening of it.—‘Enchained long whilom.’—Mysteries and crimes! chained is she? Where can he have chained her? and how, if she be chained, can she have cast this on the path? unless she threw it from the window....
‘Enchained long whilom, was I fain to flee.’
Just so! But is she fled or no? I wish she wrote clearer sense.
(Re-enter St. Nicholas behind.)
‘Enchained long whilom was I fain to flee;
But thou, with wildered phantom disarray,
Nightly disguised in the blue garb of day,
Besetdst the sleep-gates of my melanch’ly.’
Hem!
N. (coming forward). Tristram, where found you that? it was not intended for your reading.
T. So I guess, sir; but if letters be purposely thrown open on the ground, they may be read by those for whom they were not intended.
N. Give it to me. ’Tis mine.
T. I see no sign of that, sir, unless you will say that everything which the ladies let fall belongs to you.
N. No impertinence, man: give it me at once.
T. Nay; I have my duty. This belongs to my master. I shall guard it for him.
N. I tell you ’tis mine.
T. So you said of Lady Laura’s glove.
N. That has nothing to do with it. Give me the paper.
T. Not till ’tis proved to be yours, sir: which can never be.
N. I tell you, Tristram, that I wrote it myself.
T. We shall soon see that, sir. This is writ by a lady; who is prisoned or chained somewhere in the court. And she says;—well, what she says I cannot tell; but my master thinks she has run away, and has bade me order the horses to be after her.
N. What ridiculous stuff you make of it, Tristram. ’Tis addressed to Love: you do not understand.
T. Yes: it is love, and court love too: I understand that well enough, and I understand that ’tis writ to a man; therefore ’tis pikestaff-plain that ’tis writ by a woman: therefore it half follows that you did not write it: and therefore it belongs to my master.
N. How therefore belongs it to your master?
T. Why, whose else should it be? His letters come from the four quarters, no one knows whither; just where this came from.
N. Nonsense, Tristram: I assure you ’tis mine.
T. Think not to owl me thus.
N. Man! I swear that I composed that poem myself. Had you any culture you would distinguish it from the poor style of a woman. It has fallen from my pocket by accident: and if you will not give it me, I must take it from you.
T. Hands off, sir, now. I can’t think why you should try to get what belongs to another. You are mistaken. 'Master of mine’it says—and would a man write thus? (begins to read).
N. Death! stop mine ears! That I should hear my verse
Again profaned by thee, thou baseborn clown.
T. I read correctly, sir. If you find fault with my reading, ’tis the strangeness of the matter. I have good reasons for not parting with this; and I am not a baseborn clown.
N. Worse; thou art a thief.
T. Thief call you me? Now were the verses ten thousand times yours, sir, I’d never give 'em you. I defy you!
N. Thou to defy me, slave; paid by the month
To render menial offices to one
Himself the annual hireling of the lady
Whom I shall call my sister! O thou fool,
If reason cannot work into thy skull
'Cause of its wooden thickness, I’ll find means
To punish thee.
T. Good day, sir. Stand you here and rail. I must be off with my master after this lady. But I shall not forget your language to me, sir: be this paper what it will. [Exit.
N. Tristram, Tristram, I beg of you! my sonnet! my sonnet!
