Chapter III: Part 3

_Sa._ The Christian captives
Have caused our error. They have eaten the food,
And laid their prince’s body in the bower: 2020
It was their sighing that we heard, re-echoed
From the deep pit.

_K._ By heaven,
I saw him, Sala, when the moon shone out:
He stood upright before me; while I spoke
He walked away.

_Sa._ ’Tis like your majesty
Hath been deluded by some airy vision
Bred in the troubled brain.

_K._ Nay, he was there.

_Sa._ The spirits of the dead have power to fix
The image of their presence in the place
Where life was robbed: there are a thousand stories
Of such frail apparitions.

_Enter Messenger._

_K._ Who cometh here? 2031

_MESSENGER._

Your majesty’s command.

_K._ I know thee: speak.

_Mess._ The scouts returned report the Christians camped
To north of Alrah on the stream’s left bank.
They do not hold the hill, and set no guard
Save on their front.

_K._ What numbers are they guessed?

_Mess._ At some four thousand: and prince Ferdinand
Is with them.

_K._ Who?

_Mess._ The scouts, your majesty,
Spake of prince Ferdinand’s escape. They saw him
Ride at full speed into the Christian camp. 2040

_K._ When saw they him?

_Mess._ At dusk.

_K._ It could not be.

_Mess._ They tell he galloped thro’their company.
They might have touched him. When they called his name
He took no heed. Some fired their pieces at him:
And some pursued: but he, as tho’his horse
Were winged, held on, nor ever turned his head,
And soon was out of reach.

_K._ Enough. Begone. [_Exit Messenger._
I knew I had seen him, Sala: ’tis his spirit.
What is thy counsel?

_Sa._ Think no more of this.
Take a sufficient force within the walls: 2050
The rest entrenched upon the hill without,
We must abide their coming on at dawn.

_K._ What is your force?

_Sa._ At most eight hundred men.

_K._ We are so o’ermatched, Sala, I shall not wait,
I shall assault their camp to-night. The darkness
Will hide our numbers: we will steal upon them.

_Sa._ I pray you, sire, be well advised. Consider,
If our small force be sundered in the darkness....

_K._ The darkness is our friend. We know the ground.
Would I could blot the moon from heaven to-night.
My plan is fixed. Take thou five hundred men 2061
And steal upon their rear, when battle joins
I with the rest will charge their front.

_Sa._ My duty
Bids me dissuade thee, ere I can obey.

_K._ I am brave to fight, Sala: but not to wait;
I will not wait an hour; nay, not an instant.
Thou wilt not move me. Not a word, I bid thee.
’Tis my last hope. Come, get thy men together:
If once they hear these hellish tales, we are lost.

ACT · V

_Moonlight. ALMEH entering, followed by ZAPEL._

_ZAPEL._

My lady, I pray come back. 2070
The night is sharp and cold: thou art not clad
To encounter its brisk sting.

_ALMEH._

Nay, I must breathe.
I fell into a stifling slumber, Zapel;
And woke affrighted in a sweat of terror.

_Za._ For heaven’s sake, lady, let thy spirit be soothed:
Thou killest thyself.

_Al._ Air, air! that from the thousand frozen founts
Of heaven art rained upon the drowsy earth,
And gathering keenness from the diamond ways
Of faery moonbeams visitest our world 2080
To make renewal of its jaded life,
Breathe, breathe! ’Tis drunken with the stolen scents
Of sleeping pinks: heavy with kisses snatched
From roses, that in crowds of softest snow
Dream of the moon upon their blanchèd bowers.
I drink, I drink.

_Za._ If thou wilt tarry here,
Let me go fetch thy cloak.

_Al._ Where is my father?

_Za._ He is not in the castle.

_Al._ Where is Sala?
I must speak with him.

_Za._ They are both sallied forth
To assault the Christian camp.

_Al._ O then ’twas true 2090
The noise I heard. They are fighting: ’twas the guns,
The shouts I heard. I thought ’twas in my ears.
—I have had strange visions, Zapel, these last days:
’Twere past belief what I have seen and heard.
I’ll tell thee somewhat when I have time—O love,
If thou wouldst be my muse,
I would enchant the sun;
And steal the silken hues,
Whereof his light is spun:
And from the whispering way 2100
Of the enarching air
Look with the dawn of day
Upon the countries fair.

_Za._ See, I will fetch thy cloak. [_Exit._

_Al._ This is the reason
Why all’s so quiet. Sweet peace, thou dost lie.
Men steal forth silently to kill: they creep,
That they may spring to murder. Who would think,
Gazing on this fair garden, as it lieth
Lulled by the moonlight and the solemn music
Made everlastingly by the grave sea, 2110
That ’twas a hell of villany, a dungeon
Of death to its possessors. Death.—

_Za._ (_re-entering_). Here is thy cloak.

_Al._ Away! what dost thou think,
Zapel, of death? I’ll tell thee. Nay, I promise
I’ve much to tell.—Thou’st heard, when one is dead,
An angel comes to him where he lies buried,
And bids him sit upright, and questions him
Of Islam and Mohammet. ’Tis not so.
For in my dream I saw the spirits of men
Stand to be judged: along the extended line 2120
Of their vast crowd in heaven, that like the sea
Swayed in uncertain sheen upon the bounds
Of its immensity, nor yet for that
Trespassed too far upon the airy shores,
I gazed. The unclouded plain, whereon we stood,
Had no distinction from the air above,
Yet lacked not foothold to that host of spirits,
In all things like to men, save for the brightness
Of incorruptible life, which they gave forth.
Wondering at this I saw another marvel: 2130
They were not clothed nor naked, but o’er each
A veil of quality or colour thrown
Shewed and distinguished them, with bickering glance
And gemlike fires, brighter or undiscerned.
As when the sun strikes on a sheet of foam
The whole is radiant, but the myriad globes
Are red or green or blue, with rainbow light
Caught in the gauzy texture of their coats,—
So differed they. Then, as I gazed, and saw
The host before me was of men, and I 2140
In a like crowd of women stood apart,
The judgment, which had tarried in my thought,
Began: from out the opposèd line of men
Hundreds came singly to the open field
To take their sentence. There, as each stepped forth,
An angel met him, and from out our band
Beckoned a woman spirit, in whose joy
Or gloom his fate was written. Nought was spoken,
And they who from our squadron went to judge
Seemed, as the beckoning angel, passionless. 2150
Woman and man, ’twas plain to all that saw
Which way the judgment went: if they were blessed,
A smile of glory from the air around them
Gathered upon their robes, and music sounded
To guide them forward: but to some it happed
That darkness settled on them. As a man
Who hears ill tidings wraps his cloak about him,
For grief, and shrouds his face, not to be seen;
So these by their own robes were swallowed up,
Which thinned to blackness and invisible darkness,
And were no more. Thus, while I wondered much
How two fates could be justly mixed in one, 2162
Behold a man for whom the beckoning angel
Could find no answering woman, and I watched
What sentence his should be; when I myself
Was 'ware that I was called. A radiant spirit
Waited for me. I saw prince Ferdinand:—
Go tell him that I am here.

_Za._ I cannot, lady.

_Al._ The king and Sala are gone forth to fight:
There’s none can know. Be not afraid. Obey, 2170

_Za._ Alas! alas!

_Al._ Why dost thou stand and wail?

_Za._ Oh, I would serve thee; alas! but ’tis too late.

_Al._ Too late! how is’t too late? If he were dead....

_Za._ Lady, bear up, I pray thee: for ’tis sure
Thy dream betrayed the truth.

_Al._ The truth! Alas!
Thou dost believe he is dead. Why, folly, think
How could I then be living? It could not be
That I, a feeble woman, full of faintings
And fears, were more enduring to outlast
The pangs of hunger than is he, a man 2180
Whom hardship hath inured. Nay, while I live
He must be living.

_Za._ True it is he is dead.

_Al._ Thou art suborned: thou liest, thou dost.
Confess.

_Za._ O nay.

_Al._ Now God have pity, or thou hast lied.
But thou hast lied. Didst thou not say the king
Sent for him forth? Didst thou not know the cause?
His brother has returned in force to take him.
Didst thou not see the dungeon door set wide?
And dar’st lie thus?

_Za._ (_aside_). Alas! what can I say?
(_To A._) Here is a chair: I pray thee sit awhile,
I will go find him if I may.

_Al._ (_aside_). She lied. 2191
Now she will fetch him. (_To Za._) Where’s the seat?

_Za._ Here, here.

_Al._ I am dizzy. Lead me to it. Go fetch the prince.

_Za._ Be comforted.

_Al._ Who hath sat here, I say?
Who hath sat here?

_Za._ Prithee be comforted.

_Al._ If this should be!

_Za._ Verily we are God’s,
And unto Him return.

_Al._ Thou, thou! Begone.
Stay, Zapel, here: give me my cloak. I am cold.
Since I must die ... think not this strange, I pray.
Bring food to me.

_Za._ Thank God. ’Tis the sea air 2200
Hath quickened thee.

_Al._ Thinkst thou that vexèd monster
Hath any physic in his briny breath
For grief like mine?

_Za._ Lady, have better heart.
Why, thou must live. When once thy tears have fallen
Thou wilt be comforted.

_Al._ How should I weep?
Bid men weep who with their light-hearted sin
Make the world’s misery: bid women weep
Who have been untrue to love and hope: but I, 2208
Why should I weep? Begone: bring me food here.

_Za._ O that I am glad to do. Thank God for this.

[_Exit._

_Al._ Why did she lie to me? Had they a plot
To make me think he is dead? Sala’s my friend:
Sala sent word of hope: and if he lives
All may be saved. Nay, if he be not gone,
If yet he is in the castle, I may find him.
I’ll give him food: we will steal forth together:
I have marked the way: and by the rocks of the shore
We may lie hid till we may reach the camp.
Now would I had kept my strength. Had I foreseen
This chance.... There’s none about. ’Tis not too
late. [_Noise of guns and fighting heard._
I may dare call. Prince Ferdinand! Good heart,
What noise of battle. Pray God he be not there.
Against my sire now I pray God: I pray 2223
Our men be driven back: yet not too soon.
Ferdinand! Ferdinand! Heaven grant there’s none
To hear but he: and he will never hear me
Calling so fearfully, so faintly.... Alas!
Better to seek him. Since he is not within,
He must be in this garden. He will have sought
Some shelter from the night.—Ah! the arbour ...
there.... [_Goes to arbour._
Why, here. Wake, Ferdinand, wake! Come, ’tis I,
We may escape. Come. Nay, this cannot be.
Ah, God!—not this. Have pity; undo it, revoke;
O let thy hand for once undo.
Thou mightest, O Thou mightest. Ah, how cold.
Oh! oh! he is murdered. Blood, his blood. ’Tis true.
Dead, and my dream, my fate, my love; ’tis done.
The end. Nay, God, as Thou art God, I trust Thee;
Take me with him. Here in this bower of death
I leave my body,—to this pitiless world 2240
Of hate: and to thy peaceful shores of joy
I arise. O Ferdinand! me thou didst love.
Thou didst kiss, once ... and these thy lips so cold
I kiss once more. I have no fear: I come.

[_Dies, falling on Ferdinand’s body._

_Scuffling at back of stage, the guard runs forward, followed by the Chorus._

_GUARD._

Some fiend hath pierced my back in the dark.

_CHORUS._

Hey, fellow;
Silence, or I will slay thee. ’Tis well; he is dead.—
—Silently, silently.—Stay, stay. Which way?—
Here o’er the wall.—Hark thou, there’s fighting there—
Our men have driven them back—we be too late.—
They will return—See where they climb the wall.

[_The shouting and firing are grown quite near, and some figures are seen through the trees scaling the wall from without._

_Ch._ Who be they? See, they are swarming in the castle— 2251
Our men, ’tis they. We are saved.—Make not too sure—
Best hide among the trees—Hide, hide.—I’ll take
The pagan’s scimitar. [_They retire among trees._

_Enter left through the door a few Moorish soldiers, followed by the king, whom Enrique pursues._

_SOLDIERS._

To the walls! to the walls!—
Too late—they are here.

_ENRIQUE_ (_to K._).

Thy sword. Give up thy sword.

_KING._

Curse thee. I defy thee.

_En._ Thy sword, or I shall slay thee.

_K._ Never.
Ho! villains, rally. ’Tis the prince Enrique.
Kill him, and save me.

_En._ A rescue! a rescue!

_K._ Die,
Accursed infidel: but ere thou die.... 2259

[_The soldiers set on Enrique with the king._

This hand that slayeth thee, hath slain thy brother.

_En._ May God forgive thee if thou speak truth.

_The Captives rush out from the trees and overpower the soldiers, the armed of them kill the king as he fights with Enrique._

_Ch._ A rescue!
Revenge—revenge.

_K._ Ha! treachery, ho! I am slain. [_Falls dead._

_En._ Now who be ye?

_Ch._ Your own men, Prince; the captives.

_En._ Praised be God! ye have saved my life.

_The Christian soldiers who were scaling the wall now come forward._

_CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS._

Victory! victory!
The castle is taken.

_En._ Some go seize the towers.
Make speed: there may be men we know not of.
Take store of ammunition. [_Some run off._

_Enter more Christian soldiers by door_ (L.), _leading Sala prisoner_.

_1st Soldier._ Here is the general taken.

_En._ Sala ben Sala!

_Sa._ ’Tis I. 2270

_En._ Give me thy sword.

_Sa._ I give it thee. [_Gives._

_En._ Is the day ours?

_Sa._ The night is yours.

_En._ I pray,
What force is in the castle?

_Sa._ There is none.
Where is the king?

_En._ See thou. But where’s my brother?

_Sa._ What! slain! the king!

_En._ I bade him render his sword:
But, when he saw I stood alone before him,
He made a rally of some beaten men
Who had fled with him; and so provoked his death
At the hands of his own prisoners, who ran
Upon him from the trees and cut him down.

_Sa._ By their hands fell he on this spot? 2280

_En._ ’Twas so.

_Sa._ O justest stroke of fate. ’Twas here he slew
The prince thy brother.

_En._ Tell me not, I pray,
That brag of his was true.

_Sa._ Alas, ’tis true.

_En._ My brother is dead! Ferdinand, Ferdinand!

_Sa._ Thy grief is as my shame.

_En._ Eternal shame.
He who spared thee: your royal prisoner,
Murdered.

_Sa._ Forbear. I’ll lead thee where he lies.
See thou, he is in the bower.

_En._ (_approaching bower_). Ah! my brave brother!
Is thy proud spirit no more? But what is this?
Who is this woman that with eager arms 2290
Embraceth his pale corpse?

_Sa._ (_pressing forward_). How sayst thou? Almeh.
Dead, dead.

_En._ Not so, she is warm.

_Sa._ Almeh. Sweet’st Almeh
O nay, she is dead. Ah, loveliest child of earth,
Is thy young bloom perished? Alas! alas!
Is this thy end? O miserable king,
What hast thou done?

CHORUS.

Alma is dead! Alma the fair!—
By love of Ferdinand whelmed in his fate.—
Lament her, O lament.

(1.) Joy of our heavy prison; _Ch._ Rescued too late—
Beauty too fair. (1.) Ah! surely in earth’s prison....

_Ch._ A mortal as immortal made— 2302
O unforeseen her end! Lament, lament!

(1.) Our woe is a storm, our hope the fringe of a shade,
The smile of a cloud by tempest rent.

_Ch._ A dawn in vain arisen—
Alma is dead:
And we, to our superfluous prayer
Permitted still, our lives have won,—
Shaking in fear to be untimely undone,— 2310
By long misdoing undone, unworthy who were;—
Saved by her, but saved too late.
Alma the fair,
Our Alma is dead.

_En._ What mean these words?

_Sa._ O prince,
The woes so suddenly befallen us here
Make a long tale. In brief, these whom thou seest
Embraced in death, were drawn in life together
By love’s o’ermastering bond. Fate’s stroke at me
Is that I live to tell it.

_En._ And was’t for that 2320
Thy king slew Ferdinand?

_Sa._ That was not all:
For Satan did persuade our thwarteous king
To make a godless bargain of their loves:
He would have given his daughter to the Prince
As Ceuta’s price. When he refused, ’twas then
In pride and wrath he slew him.

_En._ Alas, my brother.
Inflexible in honour against thyself.
If but for a day thou hadst seemed to make consent,
All had been well.

_Sa._ Not well for him. He lived
And died with tongue as faithful as his soul. 2330

_Ch._ He tells not all. Maybe he doth not know.

_En._ What’s more to tell?

_Ch._ O sir, the princess here,
Who loved thy brother, learned the faith of us.
Her name is Alma. She is a Christian.

_Sa._ Yea,
’Tis true. I knew it. I would have hidden it from thee.
In this we are shamèd most. Prince Ferdinand
Conquered us here. His love and not his arms
Wove our disaster.

_Ch._ Love and faith have conquered.
Yet did his sword no less avenge his death. 2339
See, prince, ’tis here, wet with the murderer’s blood.
It savèd thee. For this we may rejoice:
And that we shall return.

_En._ Ye shall return. But now ’tis not an hour
For your rejoicing. Still your tongues. And, Sala,
It lies with thee in place of thy king dead
To treat with me. Here is thy sword: and thus

[_Giving._

I wipe out debt; knowing that thou hast been
Generous and faithful to my hapless brother.
Let us make peace. Possess you what was yours
Before this war: I shall lead back my troops, 2350
Nor vex your kingdom further. But I claim
The body of your princess, to inter
In Christian ground. One grave shall hold these lovers.

_Sa._ I would not separate them,—Heaven be my witness,—
But shouldst thou bury Almeh in some spot
Whereto I might not come, there’s nothing left
For Sala on this earth but still to fight,
To gain possession of that holy tomb.

_En._ Fear not, for I will have their sepulchre
In Ceuta, and there to thee it shall be granted
To enter when thou wilt.

_Sa._ I loved her, prince, 2361
Before thy brother.

_En._ For myself, I vow
Ne’er to draw sword again. I count all days
That ever I spent in arms lost to my life.
Man’s foe is ignorance: and the true soldier
May sit at home, and in retirement win
Kingdoms of knowledge; or to travel forth
And make discovery of earth’s bounds, and learn
What nations of his fellows God hath set
In various countries; and by what safe roads 2370
They may knit peaceful commerce,—this is well,
And this hath been my choice. To shed man’s blood
Brings but such ills on man as here ye see.
To save my brother and these Christian captives
I drew this sword, which thus I sheathe again
For ever.

_Ch._ Thou wilt lead us home.

_En._ Peace! peace!
So much is saved. Now have ye mournful duty
Unto the dead. Bring ye these lovers in.
Let there be no more speech.

THE HUMOURS
OF
THE COURT

A COMEDY
IN THREE ACTS

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

_RICHARD_ _Duke of Milan_ (_RICARDO_).
_FREDERICK_ _secretary to Diana_.
_Sir GREGORY_ _her major-domo_.
_ST. NICHOLAS_ _a courtier: suitor of Laura_.
_TRISTRAM_ _servant to Frederick_.

_DIANA_ _Countess of Belflor_.
_LAURA_ _her adopted sister: daughter to Gregory_.
_FLORA_ _maid to Diana_.

_MARCELA, DOROTHY, KATHARINE, ROSE._
_Maids._

_Scene at Belflor, the residence of Diana._

_Duration of time, three days: one to each Act._

HUMOURS OF THE COURT

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,
Reckon upon me.

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 10
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. 20

_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 30
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. 40

_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 50
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 60
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 70
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?

_F._ (_to T._). Tristram, just look round 80
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: 90
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. 100
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; 110
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 121
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 130
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.

_R._ What you say is strange.

_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.

_T._ To your secrets then 140
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,
We have business now.

_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.

_R._ Brothers?—how? 150

_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, 160
(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.

_R._ Ay, do: but now
Forget not me. (_Aside._) By Jove, he has capped my story.— 170
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.

_F._ (_to R._). That is the major-domo Gregory 179
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?

_F._ Love for my art 191
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.

_D._ True: and the best praise 200
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, 210
’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._)

_D._ (_half aside_[1]). Milan, say you? 221
I thought we had done with Milan.

[1] The half-asides in the play in the presence of Gregory
are spoken either with indifference as to whether G. will
hear, or with confidence that he will not.

_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. 229

_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?

_N._ Yes, when it falls. 240

_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; 250
Which I forbid, claiming the privilege
As her accepted lover.

_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. 259
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_

_N._ Now, by my heart, 270
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, 281
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. 289

_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.
What say you, Frederick?

_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, 300
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 310
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,
What wilt thou say?

_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 320
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 330
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. 340
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.

_G._ Pardon, your ladyship; but at the outset 350
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 361
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 370
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.

_R._ And amen for me.

_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.

_D._ (_rising_). Do you hear, Laura? 380
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 390
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!

_T._ (_aside_). Watch him! 400

_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
o’clock._ 410

(_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?

_T._ I speak of no one, sir. 421

_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._)

The meads drink up the rain, 430
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 I
think 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! 440
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? 450

_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? 460

_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. 470

_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._ 481
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
ladyship. 502

_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. 520

_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. 530

_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.

_D._ Letters, you say! 539

_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, 550
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?

_T._ Because ’tis only in the court 560
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 570
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
we shall find any lady. 580

_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 590
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 600
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: 610
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?

_F._ Some papers for your ladyship to sign. 620

_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?