University of Virginia Library

ACT I. MORNING.

Scene.—A corridor leading to the Audience-chamber.
Gaucelme, Clugnet, Maufroy and other Courtiers round Guibert, who is silently reading a paper: as he drops it at the end—
Guibert.
That this should be her birthday; and the day
We all invested her, twelve months ago,
As the late Duke's true heiress and our liege;
And that this also must become the day . . .
Oh, miserable lady!

1st Courtier.
Ay, indeed?

2nd Courtier.
Well, Guibert?

3rd Courtier.
But your news, my friend, your news!
The sooner, friend, one learns Prince Berthold's pleasure,
The better for us all: how writes the Prince?
Give me! I'll read it for the common good.

Guibert.
In time, sir,—but till time comes, pardon me!
Our old Duke just disclosed his child's retreat,
Declared her true succession to his rule,
And died: this birthday was the day, last year,
We convoyed her from Castle Ravestein—
That sleeps out trustfully its extreme age
On the Meuse' quiet bank, where she lived queen
Over the water-buds,—to Juliers' court
With joy and bustle. Here again we stand;
Sir Gaucelme's buckle's constant to his cap:
To-day's much such another sunny day!

Gaucelme.
Come, Guibert, this outgrows a jest, I think!
You're hardly such a novice as to need
The lesson, you pretend.

Guibert.
What lesson, sir?
That everybody, if he'd thrive at court,
Should, first and last of all, look to himself?
Why, no: and therefore with your good example,
(—Ho, Master Adolf!)—to myself I'll look.

Enter Adolf.
Guibert.
The Prince's letter; why, of all men else,
Comes it to me?

Adolf.
By virtue of your place,
Sir Guibert! 'T was the Prince's express charge,
His envoy told us, that the missive there
Should only reach our lady by the hand
Of whosoever held your place.

Guibert.
Enough!
[Adolf retires
Then, gentles, who'll accept a certain poor
Indifferently honourable place,
My friends, I make no doubt, have gnashed their teeth
At leisure minutes these half-dozen years,
To find me never in the mood to quit?
Who asks may have it, with my blessing, and—
This to present our lady. Who'll accept?
You,—you,—you? There it lies, and may, for me!

Maufroy
[a youth, picking up the paper, reads aloud].
“Prince Berthold, proved by titles following
“Undoubted Lord of Juliers, comes this day
“To claim his own, with licence from the Pope,
“The Emperor, the Kings of Spain and France” . . .

Gaucelme.
Sufficient “titles following,” I judge!
Don't read another! Well,—“to claim his own?”

Maufroy.
“—And take possession of the Duchy held
“Since twelve months, to the true heir's prejudice,
“By” . . . Colombe, Juliers' mistress, so she thinks,
And Ravestein's mere lady, as we find.
Who wants the place and paper? Guibert's right.
I hope to climb a little in the world,—
I'd push my fortunes,—but, no more than he,
Could tell her on this happy day of days,
That, save the nosegay in her hand, perhaps,
There's nothing left to call her own. Sir Clugnet,
You famish for promotion; what say you?

Clugnet
[an old man].
To give this letter were a sort, I take it,
Of service: services ask recompense:
What kind of corner may be Ravestein?

Guibert.
The castle? Oh, you'd share her fortunes? Good!
Three walls stand upright, full as good as four,
With no such bad remainder of a roof.

Clugnet.
Oh,—but the town?

Guibert.
Five houses, fifteen huts;
A church whereto was once a spire, 't is judged;
And half a dyke, except in time of thaw.

Clugnet.
Still, there's some revenue?

Guibert.
Else Heaven forfend!
You hang a beacon out, should fogs increase;
So, when the Autumn floats of pine-wood steer
Safe'mid the white confusion, thanks to you,
Their grateful raftsman flings a guilder in;
—That's if he mean to pass your way next time.

Clugnet.
If not?

Guibert.
Hang guilders, then! He blesses you.

Clugnet.
What man do you suppose me? Keep your paper!
And, let me say, it shows no handsome spirit
To dally with misfortune: keep your place!

Gaucelme.
Some one must tell her.

Guibert.
Some one may: you may!

Gaucelme.
Sir Guibert, 't is no trifle turns me sick
Of court-hypocrisy at years like mine,
But this goes near it. Where's there news at all?
Who'll have the face, for instance, to affirm
He never heard, e'en while we crowned the girl,
That Juliers' tenure was by Salic law;
That one, confessed her father's cousin's child,
And, she away, indisputable heir,
Against our choice protesting and the Duke's,
Claimed Juliers?—nor, as he preferred his claim,
That first this, then another potentate,
Inclined to its allowance?—I or you,
Or any one except the lady's self?
Oh, it had been the direst cruelty
To break the business to her! Things might change:
At all events, we'd see next masque at end,
Next mummery over first: and so the edge
Was taken off sharp tidings as they came,
Till here's the Prince upon us, and there's she
—Wreathing her hair, a song between her lips,
With just the faintest notion possible
That some such claimant earns a livelihood
About the world, by feigning grievances—
Few pay the story of, but grudge its price,
And fewer listen to, a second time.
Your method proves a failure; now try mine!
And, since this must be carried . . .

Guibert
[snatching the paper from him].
By your leave!
Your zeal transports you! 'T will not serve the Prince
So much as you expect, this course you'd take.
If she leaves quietly her palace,—well;
But if she died upon its threshold,—no:
He'd have the trouble of removing her.
Come, gentles, we're all—what the devil knows!
You, Gaucelme, won't lose character, beside:
You broke your father's heart superiorly
To gather his succession—never blush!
You're from my province, and, be comforted,
They tell of it with wonder to this day.
You can afford to let your talent sleep.
We'll take the very worst supposed, as true:
There, the old Duke knew, when he hid his child
Among the river-flowers at Ravestein,
With whom the right lay! Call the Prince our Duke!
There, she's no Duchess, she's no anything
More than a young maid with the bluest eyes:
And now, sirs, we'll not break this young maid's heart
Coolly as Gaucelme could and would! No haste!
His talent's full-blown, ours but in the bud:
We'll not advance to his perfection yet—
Will we, Sir Maufroy? See, I've ruined Maufroy
For ever as a courtier!

Gaucelme.
Here's a coil!
And, count us, will you? Count its residue,
This boasted convoy, this day last year's crowd!
A birthday, too, a gratulation day!
I'm dumb: bid that keep silence!

Maufroy and others.
Eh, Sir Guibert?
He's right: that does say something: that's bare truth.
Ten—twelve, I make: a perilous dropping off!

Guibert.
Pooh—is it audience hour? The vestibule
Swarms too, I wager, with the common sort
That want our privilege of entry here.

Gaucelme.
Adolf! [Re-enter Adolf.]
Who's outside?

Guibert.
Oh, your looks suffice!
Nobody waiting?

Maufroy
[looking through the door-folds].
Scarce our number!

Guibert.
'Sdeath!
Nothing to beg for, to complain about?
It can't be! Ill news spreads, but not so fast
As thus to frighten all the world!

Gaucelme.
The world
Lives out of doors, sir—not with you and me
By presence-chamber porches, state-room stairs,
Wherever warmth's perpetual: outside's free
To every wind from every compass-point
And who may get nipped needs be weather-wise.
The Prince comes and the lady's People go;
The snow-goose settles down, the swallows flee—
Why should they wait for winter-time? 'T is instinct.
Don't you feel somewhat chilly?

Guibert.
That's their craft?
And last year's crowders-round and criers-forth
That strewed the garlands, overarched the roads,
Lighted the bonfires, sang the loyal songs!
Well 't is my comfort, you could never call me
The People's Friend! The People keep their word—
I keep my place: don't doubt I 'll entertain
The People when the Prince comes, and the People
Are talked of! Then, their speeches—no one tongue
Found respite, not a pen had holiday
—For they wrote, too, as well as spoke, these knaves!
Now see: we tax and tithe them, pill and poll,
They wince and fret enough, but pay they must
—We manage that,—so, pay with a good grace
They might as well, it costs so little more.
But when we've done with taxes, meet folk next
Outside the toll-booth and the rating-place,
In public—there they have us if they will,
We're at their mercy after that, you see!
For one tax not ten devils could extort—
Over and above necessity, a grace;
This prompt disbosoming of love, to wit—
Their vine-leaf wrappage of our tribute penny,
And crowding attestation, all works well.
Yet this precisely do they thrust on us!
These cappings quick, these crook-and-cringings low,
Hand to the heart, and forehead to the knee,
With grin that shuts the eyes and opes the mouth—
So tender they their love; and, tender made,
Go home to curse us, the first doit we ask.
As if their souls were any longer theirs!
As if they had not given ample warrant
To who should clap a collar on their neck,
Rings in their nose, a goad to either flank,
And take them for the brute they boast themselves!
Stay—there's a bustle at the outer door—
And somebody entreating . . . that's my name!
Adolf,—I heard my name!

Adolf.
'T was probably
The suitor.

Guibert.
Oh, there is one?

Adolf.
With a suit
He'd fain enforce in person.

Guibert.
The good heart
—And the great fool! Just ope the mid-door's fold
Is that a lappet of his cloak, I see?

Adolf.
If it bear plenteous sign of travel . . . ay,
The very cloak my comrades tore!

Guibert.
Why tore?

Adolf.
He seeks the Duchess' presence in that trim:
Since daybreak, was he posted hereabouts
Lest he should miss the moment.

Guibert.
Where's he now?

Adolf.
Gone for a minute possibly, not more:
They have ado enough to thrust him back.

Guibert.
Ay—but my name, I caught?

Adolf.
Oh, sir—he said
—What was it?—You had known him formerly,
And, he believed, would help him did you guess
He waited now; you promised him as much:
The old plea! 'Faith, he's back,—renews the charge!
Speaking at the door.]
So long as the man parleys, peace outside—
Nor be too ready with your halberts, there!

Gaucelme.
My horse bespattered, as he blocked the path
A thin sour man, not unlike somebody.

Adolf.
He holds a paper in his breast, whereon
He glances when his cheeks flush and his brow
At each repulse—

Gaucelme.
I noticed he'd a brow.

Adolf.
So glancing, he grows calmer, leans awhile
Over the balustrade, adjusts his dress,
And presently turns round, quiet again,
With some new pretext for admittance.—Back!
[To Guibert.]
—Sir, he has seen you! Now cross halberts! Ha—
Pascal is prostrate—there lies Fabian too!
No passage! Whither would the madman press?
Close the doors quick on me!

Guibert.
Too late! He's here.

Enter, hastily and with discomposed dress, Valence.
Valence.
Sir Guibert, will you help me?—me, that come
Charged by your townsmen, all who starve at Cleves,
To represent their heights and depths of woe
Before our Duchess and obtain relief!
Such errands barricade such doors, it seems:
But not a common hindrance drives me back
On all the sad yet hopeful faces, lit
With hope for the first time, which sent me forth.
Cleves, speak for me! Cleves' men and women, speak!
Who followed me—your strongest—many a mile
That I might go the fresher from their ranks,
—Who sit—your weakest—by the city gates,
To take me fuller of what news I bring
As I return—for I must needs return!
—Can I? 'T were hard, no listener for their wrongs,
To turn them back upon the old despair—
Harder, Sir Guibert, than imploring thus—
So, I do—any way you please—implore!
If you . . . but how should you remember Cleves?
Yet they of Cleves remember you so well!
Ay, comment on each trait of you they keep,
Your words and deeds caught up at second hand,—
Proud, I believe, at bottom of their hearts,
O' the very levity and recklessness
Which only prove that you forget their wrongs.
Cleves, the grand town, whose men and women starve,
Is Cleves forgotten? Then, remember me!
You promised me that you would help me once,
For other purpose: will you keep your word?

Guibert.
And who may you be, friend?

Valence.
Valence of Cleves.

Guibert.
Valence of . . . not the advocate of Cleves,
I owed my whole estate to, three years back?
Ay, well may you keep silence! Why, my lords,
You've heard, I'm sure, how, Pentecost three years,
I was so nearly ousted of my land
By some knave's-pretext—(eh? when you refused me
Your ugly daughter, Clugnet!)—and you've heard
How I recovered it by miracle
—(When I refused her!) Here's the very friend,
—Valence of Cleves, all parties have to thank!
Nay, Valence, this procedure's vile in you!
I'm no more grateful than a courtier should,
But politic am I—I bear a brain,
Can cast about a little, might require
Your services a second time. I tried
To tempt you with advancement here to court
—“No!”—well, for curiosity at least
To view our life here—“No!”—our Duchess, then,—
A pretty woman's worth some pains to see,
Nor is she spoiled, I take it, if a crown
Complete the forehead pale and tresses pure . . .

Valence.
Our city trusted me its miseries,
And I am come.

Guibert.
So much for taste! But “come,”—
So may you be, for anything I know,
To beg the Pope's cross, or Sir Clugnet's daughter,
And with an equal chance you get all three.
If it was ever worth your while to come,
Was not the proper way worth finding too?

Valence.
Straight to the palace-portal, sir, I came—

Guibert.
—And said?—

Valence.
—That I had brought the miseries
Of a whole city to relieve.

Guibert.
—Which saying
Won your admittance? You saw me, indeed,
And here, no doubt, you stand: as certainly,
My intervention, I shall not dispute,
Procures you audience; which, if I procure,—
That paper's closely written—by Saint Paul,
Here flock the Wrongs, follow the Remedies,
Chapter and verse, One, Two, A, B and C!
Perhaps you'd enter, make a reverence,
And launch these “miseries” from first to last?

Valence.
How should they let me pause or turn aside?

Gaucelme
[to Valence].
My worthy sir, one question! You've come straight
From Cleves, you tell us: heard you any talk
At Cleves about our lady?

Valence.
Much.

Gaucelme.
And what?

Valence.
Her wish was to redress all wrongs she knew.

Gaucelme.
That, you believed?

Valence.
You see me, sir!

Gaucelme.
—Nor stopped
Upon the road from Cleves to Juliers here,
For any—rumours you might find afloat?

Valence.
I had my townsmen's wrongs to busy me.

Gaucelme.
This is the lady's birthday, do you know?
—Her day of pleasure?

Valence.
—That the great, I know,
For pleasure born, should still be on the watch
To exclude pleasure when a duty offers:
Even as, for duty born, the lowly too
May ever snatch a pleasure if in reach:
Both will have plenty of their birthright, sir!

Gaucelme
[aside to Guibert].
Sir Guibert, here's your man! No scruples now—
You'll never find his like! Time presses hard.
I've seen your drift and Adolf's too, this while,
But you can't keep the hour of audience back
Much longer, and at noon the Prince arrives.
[Pointing to Valence.]
Entrust him with it—fool no chance away!

Guibert.
Him?

Gaucelme.
—With the missive! What's the man to her?

Guibert.
No bad thought! Yet, 't is yours, who ever played
The tempting serpent: else't were no bad thought!
I should—and do—mistrust it for your sake,
Or else . . .

Enter an Official who communicates with Adolf.
Adolf.
The Duchess will receive the court.

Guibert.
Give us a moment, Adolf! Valence, friend,
I'll help you. We of the service, you're to mark,
Have special entry, while the herd . . . the folk
Outside, get access through our help alone;
—Well, it is so, was so, and I suppose
So ever will be: your natural lot is, therefore,
To wait your turn and opportunity,
And probably miss both. Now, I engage
To set you, here and in a minute's space,
Before the lady, with full leave to plead
Chapter and verse, and A, and B, and C,
To heart's content.

Valence.
I grieve that I must ask,—
This being, yourself admit, the custom here,—
To what the price of such a favour mounts?

Guibert.
Just so! You're not without a courtier's tact.
Little at court, as your quick instinct prompts,
Do such as we without a recompense.

Valence.
Yours is?—

Guibert.
A trifle: here's a document
'T is some one's duty to present her Grace—
I say, not mine—these say, not theirs—such points
Have weight at court. Will you relieve us all
And take it? Just say, “I am bidden lay
“This paper at the Duchess' feet!”

Valence.
No more?
I thank you, sir!

Adolf.
Her Grace receives the court.

Guibert
[aside].
Now, sursum corda, quoth the mass-priest! Do—
Whoever's my kind saint, do let alone
These pushings to and fro, and pullings back;
Peaceably let me hang o' the devil's arm
The downward path, if you can't pluck me off
Completely! Let me live quite his, or yours!
[The Courtiers begin to range themselves, and move toward the door.
After me, Valence! So, our famous Cleves
Lacks bread? Yet don't we gallants buy their lace?
And dear enough—it beggars me, I know,
To keep my very gloves fringed properly.
This, Valence, is our Great State Hall you cross;
Yon grey urn's veritable marcasite,
The Pope's gift: and those salvers testify
The Emperor. Presently you'll set your foot
. . . But you don't speak, friend Valence!

Valence.
I shall speak.

Gaucelme
[aside to Guibert.]
Guibert—it were no such ungraceful thing
If you and I, at first, seemed horror-struck
With the bad news. Look here, what you shall do
Suppose you, first, clap hand to sword and cry
“Yield strangers our allegiance? First I'll perish
“Beside your Grace!”—and so give me the cue
To . . .

Guibert.
—Clap your hand to note-book and jot down
That to regale the Prince with? I conceive.
[To Valence.]
Do, Valence, speak, or I shall half suspect
You're plotting to supplant us, me the first,
I' the lady's favour! Is't the grand harangue
You mean to make, that thus engrosses you?
—Which of her virtues you'll apostrophize?
Or is't the fashion you aspire to start,
Of that close-curled, not unbecoming hair?
Or what else ponder you?

Valence.
My townsmen's wrongs.