University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

—The working-room of a Painter. The Bastard of Montargis and the Painter.
Montargis.
Well, Sir, these foolish women, as I said,
Beset me for my picture—no escape;
And if a hundred crowns may answer it,
There is the gold; and being thus besieged,
I hold my ransom cheap.

Painter.
The sum, my Lord,
Has more relation to your quality
Than my deserts. A side-face shall it be?
Or no—a full face; for 'tis but in that
The story of the face is told at large.
The full face portraiture should much divulge,
Aud yet much more adumbrate .... Turn to me ....
It may be of one look alone delivered,
And yet with many pregnant .... All but straight—
Your pardon—so—A little more this way ...
There, there, I have it. For the scar, my Lord,
Shall it be painted?

Montargis.
As you please.

Painter.
The scar
Is portion of the story; it shall stand.
So now to work.

Montargis.
Excuse me; not to-day;
My leisure serves not; but some fortnight hence
I'll come again. Whose face is that, I pray,
That gleams from yonder panel?

Painter.
That, my Lord?
It is her Grace of Burgundy's.

Montargis.
True—true;
You told me so before—stolen as she sat
Over the lists at Nêsle.

Painter.
Tis but a sketch,
Yet of great price to me; for this, wrought out,
Builds up the fortune of my piece in hand,
Salomé in the hall of Herod.

Montargis.
Hah!
That face befits the argument. The mole
Upon the neck,—is that, as some aver,
An added charm, or is it not a blemish?

Painter.
There is a power in beauty which subdues
All accidents of Nature to itself.
Aurora comes in clouds, and yet the cloud
Dims not, but decks her beauty. Furthermore
Whate'er shall single out a personal self
Takes with a subtler magic. So of shape;
Perfect proportion, like unclouded light,
Is but a faultless model; small defect
Conjoint with excellence, more moves and wins,
Making the heavenly human.

Montargis.
For myself,
Unto things heavenly am I devote,
And not to moles and weals or humps and bumps.
Yet I consent, her Grace of Burgundy
Has charms, as you have painted them, that vie
With any France can boast.

Painter.
'Tis kind, my Lord,
In you to say so; but I spared no pains.
Look closer; mark the hyacinthine blue
Of mazy veins irriguous, swelling here,
There branching and so softening out of sight.
Nor is it ill conceited. You may mark
The timbrel drooping from her hand denotes
The dance foregone; a fire is in her eye
Which tells of triumph; and voluptuous grace
Of motion is exchanged for rapturous rest.

Montargis.
'Tis all exceeding good. I take my leave;
And, you forbidding not, some fortnight hence
I come again.

Painter.
At your command.

Montargis.
Good day.
[Goes out, but returns.
I have bethought me of a friend whose soul
Lies in the hollow of her Grace's hand,
Soft fluttering like a captured butterfly,
To whom this picture were the very leaf
That it would feast on. In his amorous eyes
This portrait would be worth a thousand crowns.
Trust it to me, I prithee, for one day,
That I may show it to my friend.

Painter.
My Lord,
So soon as it has stamp'd its effigy
Upon that altar-piece I told you of,
'Tis yours to sell; and for a forward step
So please you in the mean time, take and show it.
Permit me to attend you. By your leave.