University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

—Sir Otto's House.
Enter Sir Otto, Sir Conrad, and Sir Rupert.
Sir Otto.
'Tis slight of fortune not to take the chance
She proffers; since the lists must open, sirs,
To every lance, why not adventure ours,
With such a prize? Wait you for Catherine.
I'm for the tournament.

Sir Con.
And so am I.
This secretary is a subtle spark.
He has harp'd upon our suit to Catherine,
Awaken'd hopes, we had given o'er as dead,
And pledged himself with oaths she would return
Free, as she ne'er had plighted troth to Huon;
And, yet she comes not. What we take in earnest,
Be sure he only gives in mockery.

Sir Otto.
I'm of your counsel, and shall break a lance
To-morrow for the Countess.

Sir Rup.
Do so, sir.
I break no lance except for Catherine.

Catherine.
[Entering disguised as a man.]
Who talks of breaking lances?

Sir Otto.
Ha! our friend
The Secretary.

Sir Con.
Well, sir, what's your news?
Where's Catherine?

Cath.
Absorb'd in solving, sir,
A knotty point.

Sir Con.
A knotty point; what is't?

Cath.
The measure of a lover's patience, sir.

Sir Otto.
Does she not come?

Cath.
Not till that point is solved.
Now, could you solve it for her, she might come
The sooner.

Sir Otto.
'Tis an hour.

Sir Con.
A day.

Sir Otto.
A week.

Sir Con.
A month.

Sir Otto.
A year.

Cath.
[To Sir Rupert.]
Will you not make a guess?

Sir Rup.
[Sighing.]
It is a life!

Cath.
Can't you go further, sir?
Try if you can. Lovers do miracles:
'Tis said they do, I never saw them, though,
Nor met with those that did.

Sir Otto.
Where is our mistress?

Cath.
Here,
Where'er she is; or nowhere, where you are.
Have you a mistress, there your mistress is,
Were she at one end of the world and you
At the other.

Sir Rup.
Ay, were she in another world!

Cath.
Why what's the matter with Sir Rupert? Is
The gentleman gone mad? I think myself
A sterling lover, but I take no oath,
Except to flesh and blood. Sir Rupert, what's
Your thought of a mistress?

Sir Rup.
A vitality
Precious, peculiar, not to be supplied;
Once with your being join'd, a part of it
For ever!

Cath.
Humph! and you believe, Sir Rupert,
You have met with such a thing?

Sir Rup.
I have.

Cath.
And where?

Sir Rup.
In Catherine.

Cath.
Heaven help the man, he speaks
As if he thought himself in earnest, sirs.
Whom said he now he'd break a lance for?

Sir Con. and Sir Otto.
Her.

Cath.
For Catherine? poor man! Far better break
A lance for the Countess; as the lists, they say,
Are open to all challengers, that bear
The rank of knighthood.

Sir Otto.
So they are, and we
Design to try our fortune, and lament
To find Sir Rupert not of the same mind.

Cath.
That mortifies you, does it? So, Sir Rupert,
Will you make suit again to Catherine,
Say she comes back again, released from her
Enforcéd vow?

Sir Rup.
Will I make suit to her?
My heart is ever lying at her feet.

Cath.
'Tis neighbour, then, to an ungainly shoe.
She has broken her ancle, and the awkward leech
Who set it for her made a botch of it.
Her foot's awry; she limps; her taper waist,
So straight, before, when she moved, goes, zig-zag, now.
Give your heart joy, sir, of its pleasant seat.

Sir Rup.
The gait and shape of gentle Catherine
Are in her heart, no fracture—warping—there!

Sir Otto.
With what a serious face you play the cheat.

Cath.
Sir, I look serious at a serious thing.

Sir Con.
It is not as you say?

Cath.
Believe 'tis not;
But take this with you, I should be more grieved
Than you would, to disparage Catherine.

Sir Otto.
So the fair Catherine halts?

Sir Con.
Halts my love.

Sir Otto.
And so does mine.

Cath.
I have not told him all.

Sir Otto.
What, is there more to come?

Cath.
Listen—you'll hear.
So, sir, you make retainers of your eyes,
[To Sir Rupert.
Nor feast at the same table, but eschew
Their homely fare; though men, as noble, deem
A well-turn'd leg a dainty! Let that pass;
But give not me a mistress, with a fair
Transparent skin, that you can see, beneath,
Tracery costlier than veins of gold,
Suppose they lay in bed of alabaster.
It never stands the weather.

Sir Otto.
Is she changed
In her complexion?

Cath.
Do not urge me, sir,
To speak more than I would speak; speaking that
With pain.

Sir Con.
What!—Has she turn'd from ivory to—

Cath.
Anything that you please.

Sir Con.
Mahogany?

Cath.
You say it for me, I'm beholden to you;
'Tis hard to speak unwelcome things of friends.

Sir Otto.
And hard to hear them too. Sir Rupert!

Sir Rup.
Well?

Sir Otto.
Hear ye?

Sir Rup.
I do.

Sir Otto.
And what resolve you?

Sir Rup.
What
You heard me say before—to break no lance
Except for Catherine. Her maiden thoughts—
Sweet to the most tenacious mood of love—
And generous affections, might unveil
Themselves, without a blush, to modesty,
Are Catherine's complexion!

[Retires.
Cath.
He is mad!
Isn't he, sir? Have twenty masses said,
That you preserve your wits! seeing the thing,
That turn'd his brain for him, you all affect;
Think you 'twould bring him to his senses, sirs,
To tell him she hath squander'd all her wealth?

Sir Otto.
Better she halted in her gait than that!

Sir Con.
Or cast her white skin for an Ethiop's!
You do not tell us so?

Cath.
I'll tell it him.

Sir Otto.
But is it so?
She was a prudent girl
Before she went.

Cath.
Man, sir, is but a plant,
Although he holds no rank in botany;
And, as with change of climate, plants will change,
Thrive more or less, or take no root at all;
So man discovers strange diversity,
Transferr'd to sun and soil, not native to him.

Sir Otto.
But are her riches dwindled?

Sir Con.
Has she shrunk,
Indeed, from affluence to poverty?

Cath.
Sirs, you shall judge from one particular.
From morn till night she lives in masquerade.
You wouldn't know her, though you look'd upon her,
Walk'd with her, talk'd with her. Can this be done
At light expense? Moreover, sirs, she keeps
Bad company; nor that of her own sex;
Two arrant knaves especially, that stick
Like leeches to her, and will ne'er fall off
Long as she suffers them, while there's a drop
To gorge.

Sir Otto.
She is ruin'd utterly.

Sir Con.
Undone,
Beyond redemption. Look, Sir Rupert.

Sir Rup.
Well?

Sir Con.
Catherine's for hire; she must take service! All
Her wealth is gone!

Sir Rup.
[cheerfully].
Is gone?

Sir Con.
It makes you glad!

Sir Rup.
Now could I woo her with the best of ye;
Her match in fortune. I could praise her now,
Dreading no charge of venal flattery.
Fair sir, take pity on an honest heart
And loving one, and as you know the haunt,
This gentle fawn hath slunk to, tell it me,
That I may trace her, straight, and make her mine.

Sir Otto.
Better you wait to-morrow's tournament,
As we shall!

Cath.
Gentlemen, you do not know
Your man! Tell me a linsey-woolsey maid,
With halting gait, and saffron-colour'd skin,
And not a doit to make a market with them,
Could for a moment, in comparison,
Stand with the Countess! Who could credit it?
The simple truth is this, your friend lacks mettle.

Sir Rup.
Sir!

Cath.
He can bluster, that is evident.
See what a giant!—He would eat me up
If he could! but think you, sirs, I heed his club?
Give me a straw, I'll face him. You mistake
Your friend! his frame's robust enough, but, sooth,
His spirit is a lank one.

Sir Rup.
'Sdeath, sir!

Cath.
Ho!
If you have sworn men into agues, sir,
Don't try your skill on me! My parrot swears
As well as you, and just as much I heed her.

Sir Rup.
[Drawing.]
This passes all endurance—pshaw, a stripling!

[Returning his sword.
Cath.
A stripling, sir, to make an oak afear'd.

Sir Rup.
[Again drawing.]
Indeed!

Cath.
As I live, his sword is out again!
But he's a spaniel, as I'll prove to you,
Who thinks he bites by showing you his teeth.
Here's for you, sir— [Draws]
—but hold, what day is this?

Sir Con.
Friday.

Cath.
I never fight on Fridays, sirs.
My killing days are all the rest of the week,
E'en Sundays not excepted. Sirs, your friend
Is a coward.

[Coolly puts up her sword.
Sir Rup.
Furies!

Cath.
Fiends and all sorts of imps!
Swearing won't save you, sir. I'll prove my words.
I dare you, at the tournament to-morrow,
To break a lance with me. Observe you, sirs,
At the thought of it, he shakes, from head to foot,
And thinks to pass it off with swaggering.
He dares as soon confront stout Charlemagne,
Were he alive, as me. I'll wager you
My sword to your dagger, he takes flight to-day,
And waits not for to-morrow.

Sir Rup.
Will I not!
I will have satisfaction. I accept
His challenge. I will have satisfaction, sirs.

Cath.
You shall, and have it to your heart's content!
Take linsey-woolsey with a halt, and the skin
Of a negro, rather than essay a tilt
With chance to win a Countess! I could laugh
To scorn the man that would believe him. Oh!
He shall have satisfaction. I could beat him
With a rush, in rest. He shall have satisfaction!
Sirs, he will cower at very sight of me;
Fall on his knees, and beg his life of me,
With clasp'd hands. He shall have satisfaction!

[They go out severally.