University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

—The House Van Merestyn.
Adriana Van Merestyn and Clara Van Artevelde.
Clara.
I do not bid you take him or refuse him;
I only say, think twice.

Adriana.
But once to think,
When the heart knows itself, is once too much.

Clara.
Well; answer what you will; no, yes—yes, no;
Either or both; I would the chance were mine;
I say no more; I would it were my lot
To have a lover.

Adriana.
Yours? why, there's Sir Walter.

Clara.
Sir Walter? very good; but he's at Bruges.
I want one here.

Adriana.
On days of truce he comes.

Clara.
I want one every day. Besides, the war
Ne'er slackens now; a truce to truces now;
And though on moonless, cloud-encompass'd nights
He will, in his discretion, truce or none,
Hazard a trip, yet should he be discover'd
Mild Van den Bosch would pat him on the head,
And then he'd come no more. But ponder well
What you shall say; for if it must be “no”
In substance, you shall hardly find that form
Which shall convey it pleasantly.

Adriana.
In truth,
To mould denial to a pleasing shape
In all things, and most specially in love,
Is a hard task; alas! I have not wit
From such a sharp and waspish word as “no”
To pluck the sting. What think you I should say?

Clara.
A colourable thing or two; as thus:
My Lord, we women steer not by our hearts,
Nor yet our judgments, but the world's loud voice;
And though I prize you dearly in my soul
And think you of all excellence made up,
Yet 'tis a serious and unhappy thing
To hear you spoken of; for men protest
That you are cruel, cowardly, and cold,
Boastful, malicious, envious, spiteful, false;
A bull in ire, an ape in jealousy,
A wolf in greediness for blood.

Adriana.
No more?
Am I to use no courtesies but these?

Clara.
No more? Yes, plentifully more! where was I?
This for your mind's repute. Then for your person,
(Which for my own particular I love,)
'Tis said that you are hideous to behold;
Your brow as bleak as winter, with a fringe
Of wither'd grass for hair; your nose oblique,
Pointing and slanting like a dial's hand;
They say the fish you had your eyes of laugh'd
To see how they were set, and that your mouth
Grows daily wider, bandying of big words:
All which imaginations, good my Lord,
Grossly as they may counterfeit defect
Where worth abounds, are yet so noised abroad
That in despite of that so high esteem
In which I hold you, I'm constrained to say
I'd sooner wed your scullion than yourself.

Adriana.
Thanks for your counsel; cunning is the maid
That can convert a lover to a friend,
And you have imp'd me with a new device.
But look! Is this—no, 'tis your brother's page.

Clara.
All hail to him! he is my daily sport;
Of all things under heaven that make me merry
It makes me merriest to see a boy
That wants to be a man.

Adriana.
His want fulfill'd
He will not be the worse; 'tis well for them
That have no faults but what they needs must leave.

Clara.
Are my faults of that grain? What faults are mine?

Adriana.
Perchance I err in thinking that I know;
But grant I know and err not, 'twere not wise
To tell you. Many will beseech their friends
To tell them of their faults, which being told,
They ne'er forgive the tellers. And besides
I've heard you oft confess them.

Clara.
Well, I own
There's a main difference betwixt faults confess'd
And faults arraign'd. We tell ourselves our faults,
And at ourselves ourselves take no offence,
For we are well assured we mean no harm;
But should my friend accuse me of the like,
Though I had charged him to be blunt and frank,
I seize him by the throat.
Enter the Page.
Sir Henry! Ah!
'Twas you I dreamt of; whither away, brave knight?

Page.
I'm coming but to pay my duty here;
The lady Adriana lets me come.

Clara.
I wish thy master knew it.

Page.
So he does;
He tells me to come too.

Clara.
Alas, poor man!
Has he no eyes?

Page.
I know not what you mean.

Clara.
Why, when our pages steal away our loves,
Tell gardeners to keep blackbirds. Look—look here!
See you this drooping melancholy maid;
What have you done?

Page.
Who, I? it was not I.

Clara.
Who was it, then? Well—“kissing goes by favour”—
So says the proverb; truly, more's the pity!
Yet I commend your prudence, Adriana,
For favouring in place of men and monsters
This pure and pretty child. I'll learn from you,
And if, when I have kissed my pug and parrot,
I have the matter of a mouthful left,
For fear of waste that's worse, I'll spend them here.

Page.
I would advise you to be more discreet.

Clara.
So-ho! and wherefore? Oh! so old you are!
Full fifteen summers older than your beard,
And that was born last week—before its time.
I told you, Adriana, did I not,
Of the untimely birth? O' Wednesday 'twas,
By reason of a fright he gave his chin,
Making its innocent down to stand on end
With brandishing of a most superfluous razor.

Adriana.
You told me no such tale; and if you had,
I should not have believed you; for your tongue
Was ever nimbler in the track of sport
Than fits for hunting in a leash with truth.
She is a slanderer, Henry, heed her not.

Clara.
Ay, no one marks me. I but jest and lie,
And so must go unheeded. Honest times!
Slanders and jests have lost the ear o' the world!
But do I slander him to say he's young?

Page.
I am almost as old as you.

Clara.
I grant you;
But we are women when boys are but boys;
God gives us grace to ripen and grow wise
Some six years earlier. Thank Heaven for that!
We grow upon the sunny side o' the wall.

Page.
Methinks your wisdom grows o' the windy side,
And bears but little fruit.

Clara.
What! malapert!
It bears more fruit than thou hast wit to steal
Or stomach to digest. Were I thy tutor
To teach thee wisdom, and beheld such store
Of goodly fruitage, I should say to thee,
“Rob me this orchard.” Then wouldst thou reply,
“Five feet three inches stand I in my shoes
And yet I cannot reach to pluck these plums,
So loftily they flourish!” God ha' mercy!
Here comes the Knight upon an ambling nag.
Now, Adriana!

Adriana.
I am sore perplex'd.
What shall I say?

Clara.
My counsel you have heard,
And partly slighted: wherefore seek to better;
Take we direction from our full-grown friend.
Henry, a Knight will presently be here
To ask our Adriana's hand in marriage:
What shall she answer?

Page.
Let her say—“My Lord,
You are the flower of Flemish chivalry,
But I have vow'd to live and die a maid.”

Clara.
A goodly vow! which grant her grace to make,
So it be not too troublesome to keep.
But he's no more the flower of Flemish Knights
Than you the pearl of pages. Adriana,
Bethink you of your answer; have it pat,
Lest he surprise you and you speak the truth.

Adriana.
Prithee, what truth? There's nothing I would hide.

Clara.
Except, except—yes, turn your face away
That so informs against you. Here he comes.

Enter the Lord of Occo.
Occo.
Fairest of ladies! an unworthy Knight
Does homage to your beauty.

Adriana.
Good my Lord,
If 'tis to beauty you pay homage, here
You see it less in me than in my friend,
A daughter of the House of Artevelde.

Occo.
Fair damsel, I am happy in the beams
Which shine upon me from two spheres at once.

Clara.
Fair Sir, I thank you; you're as true as brave,
And there is none in Ghent with ears to hear
Who has not heard recounted night and day
The exploits of Lord Occo.

Occo.
On my soul
I blush to hear it said; though true it is
I have perform'd what little in me lay
To bring renown to Flemish chivalry.
I give to God the glory, and, next Him,
To her whose charms would fire the faintest heart.

Clara.
Whoe'er inspired your valour, your exploits
Must give that lady high pre-eminence.
Three hundred men-at-arms, I think it was,
You freely fell upon with sword in hand,
After the storming of the fort at Sas,
And not a soul survived?

Occo.
Your pardon, no;
Some other trifle's in your thoughts; at Sas
There is no fort, and they who perish'd there
Were but three hundred peasants who were burn'd
By firing of a barn to which they'd fled.

Clara.
Ah, was it so? At Zeveren then, surely—

Occo.
What happen'd there, too, was of no account.

Clara.
Oh, pardon me; the modesty which still
Accompanies true valour, casts in shade
Your noble actions. I beseech you tell
What came to pass at Zeveren?

Occo.
The town
Was taken by surprise.

Clara.
Ay, true, and then
The garrison that made themselves so strong
Within the convent's walls—

Occo.
At Zeveren
There was no garrison.

Clara.
You say not so?
How false is fame! I'm certain I was told
Of a great onslaught in the convent there.

Occo.
Well; a proportion of the sisterhood
Met with mishap. But, Lady, by your leave
We'll treat of other things. Haply not knowing
The usages of war, you scarce approve
Proceedings which its hard necessities
Will oft-times force upon us warriors.
A softer theme were meeter, and there's one
On which I burn to speak.

Clara.
Alack, alack!
Then I am gone; soft speeches please mine ear,
As do soft pillows—when I fain would sleep.
But what's the time of day? Come, Henry, come;
We walk by high examples in this world;
Let's to the poultry-yard and win our spurs.
Give you good day, my Lord.

[Exeunt Clara and Page.
Occo.
A merry lady,
And swift of speech: but now that she is gone,
I must entreat your hearing for a word
Of graver import—grave, if aught imports
The life or death of this poor heart of mine.
A burning fiery furnace is this heart;
I waste like wax before a witch's fire
Whilst but one word from you would make earth heaven,
And I must soon be nothing or a god!
There's an unutterable want and void,
A gulf, a craving and a sucking in,
As when a mighty ship goes down at sea.
I roam about with hunger-bitten heart,
A famine in my bosom, a dry heat,
A desperate thirst, and I must glut it now,
Or like a dog by summer solstice parch'd
I shall go mad.

Adriana.
Your pardon, good my Lord,
You flatter me or else deceive yourself;
But, so far as I may, I yield you thanks,
And if no more than thanks, the poorer I,
That have not more to give.

Occo.
Nay, Lady, nay;
Deem that I've been tormented long enough
And let this coyness have a timely end.

Adriana.
I am not coy, and plainly now to speak,
When aught but plainness should be less than just,
I cannot be your wife.

Occo.
And wherefore so?
'Tis not that love is foreign to your breast;
You will not tell me that?

Adriana.
I've told you all
Which it can profit you to know.

Occo.
Ah! now
I see it clearly; there's some smooth-tongued rogue
Has been before me,—yea, some wheedling slave,
With song and dance and lute and lily hands,
Has wriggled into favour, I the while
Fighting hard battles to my neck in blood.
Tell me in honesty if this be sooth:
If it be not, in charity say No.

Adriana.
In charity I never will speak more
With you, Sir Guy of Occo:
Nor, till I see a sign of gentle blood
Or knightly courtesy in one so bold,
Will I again hold converse, or with him
Or any that abets him. This to me!

[Exit.
Occo.
Thanks, gentle Lady! Thanks, kind, loving soul!
I am instructed; there came out the truth;
Much more those eyes flash'd out than tongue could tell.
They are as plain to read as are the stars
To him who knows their signs. Would that I knew
The name of him who blocks the way; his name,
And what star rules him in the house of life.
Who hither rides and waves that long salute?
Philip Van Artevelde! 'Tis he, 'tis he,
And no more need I knowledge of the stars.