University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The Marquis alone, in an apartment of the Palace.
Enter Bertolo.
BERTOLO.
Wilt please you, good my lord, bestride your steed?
He stamps for starting, and the hawks are out;
We marked three crested herons overnight
By San Dalmazzo; and to grace the sport,
April hath borrowed from her sister May
The brightest dawn she brags of; not a cloud
Will cool the quarry's tired wing to-day.

MARQUIS.
The sun is forth, thou sayest?

BERTOLO.
Golden and broad,
Dyeing the white mist, crimson: Wilt thou ride?
Bruno and Lupa strain to take the field.

MARQUIS.
Leash up the dogs again, and lead them in;
I will not ride.

BERTOLO.
My liege, the hounds are hot;
The Barbary stallion will forget his feet;
Shall we not breathe him?

MARQUIS.
Lead them back, I say!
It fits my humour to be idle now;
Lead back. And, Bertolo,—I prithee tarry;
I had a thing to say:—wert thou not held
As keen a falconer as Sicil had?

BERTOLO.
My liege, I think I was. I do remember
When Siracusa's king came to his crown,
We had a field-day, flying at the brook,
And every lady brought her hooded hawk
With bells and jesses; but in flights fifteen,
Old Beppo—'twas my grey king-falcon,—strook
Ten of the long-bills dead. The king he laughed,
And shook his beard, and swore 'twas a brave bird,
And asked me thrice if that mine art could teach
A king to strike as soon, and stoop as sure.

MARQUIS.
'Tis a rare bird the falcon.

BERTOLO.
My good lord,
He hath a wing will bear him through the thunder—
An eye more steady than the sun can turn,—
A heart, to broach it on the heron's bill,
And never blench; and when he strikes, he strikes
Once and for all.

MARQUIS.
Tell me, good Bertolo,
What if such falcon in his mid ascent
Should stoop away to chase a silly dove,
How wouldst thou hold him back?

BERTOLO.
Marry! the call
Brings him to glove.

MARQUIS.
How if he will not heed?

BERTOLO.
Then must the silken jesses, and the hood,
Keep his hot folly down, and curb his flight.

MARQUIS.
Nay! but resolve me this:—if he shall scorn
The silken jesses, and the call, and hood,
To follow meaner fowl, how say'st thou then?

BERTOLO.
'Twere pity of his life, but he should die!
For it were past doubt that his heart would taint
With taste of meaner blood than royal birds'.

MARQUIS.
Aye! there were peril of it! Thou sayest well.
Leave me alone,—mew up the hawks again;
I will not ride to-day.
[Exit Bertolo.
He reads me not,
I am that royal falcon, and the dove
Is a most lowly lady. Ah! the day
I saw her at the hawking, all my heart
Broke from its jesses towards her, and what lure
Will bring the tassel-gentle back to me?
Why fair being low, or wherefore low being fair?
For now between thy beauty and my love,
Cometh this little crown, by whose scant breadth
I, being higher, may not stoop to thee,
Nor thou reach unto me. Lady of Grace!
Her quiet lip's light touch were like a rose-leaf;
And I, who would have had it here, on mine,
Must take it, if I take it, on this hand,
Most monarch-like, but most unlovingly:
Her clear blue eye, where hath Saluzzo such?
Her soft, smooth braids that bridle up and down
Over her neck, like on a field of snow
Bright birds new lit. Ah! beauty, rich and rare,
If thou be casket to a mind like thee,
There were a piece of quaint and perfect work
Worthy a monarch's winning. By my life!
I'd stoop to win it, though it cost a crown.
And I do think, and so the village saith,
That out of this fair house, the inner soul,
Shining, doth make it bright. Grant it but so!
If she be wise and good, patient and true,
Are not these virtues for a queen to wear,
And for a king to wed? On such a brow
Would not the royal gems sit royally,
And bear their glitter bravest? Aye, they shall!
I know my people have a prayer to me
This very matin, touching on the need
Of some young forehead to receive the crown;
And even now they come. E'en let them come.
If they shall press me hard, I'll be advised,
For smoothly goes the suit whose arbiter
Before he hears determines.
Enter Nobles, Courtiers, &c.
Signors, welcome!
What weighty purpose brings ye from your dreams
Before the day is certain of the sun?

ANTONIO.
A suit, my liege.

MARQUIS.
Doth it touch aught of mine?

ANTONIO.
It toucheth thee, the court, the country-side,
Most nearly, good my lord.

MARQUIS.
Let it have words;
It should be something wise if white beards wag
To give it utterance. Thou, Pietro Mala,
Tell out the message: I am set to hear.

PIETRO MALA.
My liege, not that we are not overblessed,—
Not that we are not well content and glad,—
Not that the land is not a land of plenty,
Bring we these anxious faces to thy throne;
For over all the fields a sea of grain
Floats like new gold, and the green berries swing
And swell to purple in the summer sun:
Our boys are brave and lusty, and our girls
Comely and straight; and in their hamlet-homes
No lack is known of music or of mirth,—
Such mirth as marketh holiday in hearts,
Such music as in merry laughter rings:
There's not a village green that hath not felt
The quick step of the dancers,—not a wife
That will not pour her wine and olive forth
As free as water,—not a loyal heart
That doth not at the Ave Mary bell
Give God and thy good sway the grace for these;—
And, therefore, we thy councillors are sad.

MARQUIS.
Sad at so goodly cheer, Sir Councillor!
I am no riddle-reader, make me know
What butt you bend at, aiming so awry.

PIETRO MALA.
We grieve because to-day is not to-morrow,
Nor now, eternity. Oh, my good lord!
Change only rules unchanged in this wide world.
The priestess that one morn decks us with flowers,
The morrow, slays us for the sacrifice.

ANTONIO.
Nay sooth! and men go to the knife like beasts
Fatted with fortune, dazzled with the gauds
That badge them for her shrine:—thence kneel we thus.

MARQUIS.
Ah! friends, lend me your hearts, and not your knees;
True love stands straight, the false can bend, and lie:
Show me the chain whose subtle links can hold
This Proteus present to his proper form,
And heart and hand myself will rivet it
Past the undoing.

PIETRO MALA.
Let the promise, then,
Be warrant for the boldness of our love.

MARQUIS.
Speak it, and think it sealed.

PIETRO MALA.
My gracious prince,
The change we dread is not the change that comes
At seed-time, or at harvest, or at fall,—
A blight to rust the young grain in the blade,
Or suns to scorch the clusters from the vines,
Or murrain in the fair and speckled herds,
Or pestilence, doing the young to death;
These might be borne or bettered; but, alas!
If the fair fountain whence the river flows,
Whose gracious waters give the land its life,—
If this be dried, and die, what hope of help?
We draw the breath on trust,—all—all, my lord,
Living the little minutes at the will
Of one grim creditor, whose sudden stroke
Signs the acquittance with the blood of life.
Oh! if his shadow cross the palace-porch,
And turn thy banquet to a funeral,
Could we find remedy, or thy soul rest?

MARQUIS.
Therefore—

PIETRO MALA.
Therefore, my liege, lest we be left
A prey to the best blade and longest lance,
We pray thee take thyself a crownèd wife;
And when thy palace, like a tree in May,
Puts forth its promise of the after-fruit,
We shall learn early how to love our kings;
And thou shalt leave thy crown and royalties
To foreheads broad enough to bear them well,—
Living another life in their young beauty,
Dying the father of a line of Lords.

MARQUIS.
What if I say, I will?

PIETRO MALA.
Then, by your grace,
Such as are happy in your trust and love
Shall from the spacious garden of the court
Pluck out the newest and the queenliest flower
To lay it at your heart.

MARQUIS.
By Mary! no!
If for your sakes I bend me to this yoke,
I will be free to choose what yoke I will.

ANTONIO.
We ask no other law than that high will,
But like to like, my lord, is fairest match.

MARQUIS.
Say you so—know you so? I cannot tell;
The rose-stock, grafted with a stranger slip,
Puts out new blossoms, brighter than before.
Doth not the miner seek the diamond
Down in the rubbish of the under-world?

ANTONIO.
But there 'tis dark and rough; the workman's hand
Lends it the courtly splendour and the glint
That rank it with the trappings of a king.

MARQUIS.
What! ratest thou the work beyond the gem?
The world's astray, my lords, if kings must teach
Courtiers the lesson of humility;
Yet to be courtly is not to be wise,
Nor just, nor generous, nor valiant;
And many goods strong gold is weak to buy.
It were to be indeed a king, if kings
Had more of greatness than a meaner man.
But ah for us! the world's nobility
Is not named noble for its nobleness.
Virtue is as the universal sky
That kisseth all alike the hills and dales;
And ye shall meet her, oh! as easily
In huts where Poverty and Sorrow wait
To bar her path, as in the halls of kings,
Where gilded doorways gape to take her in;
Ever she makes her house in noble hearts,
Careless of clime or creed, like birds that build
Under mosque-roof or Christian basilic
Their nests for loves and lives. But birth and blood,
What are these to her, when, alas! my lords,
Not the nice palate of the grave-yard worm
Knows the cast shell of vassal from a king's.
Ye smile, sirs,—sooth, for all your smiles and mine,
It may be, that in God's great book of life
The blood a peasant poureth for his lord,
Is writ more precious than the stream that warms
The heart he died to keep at even beating.

PIETRO MALA.
Our right is none to curb your royal will,
Our skill is small to guide you in the choosing;
Only if you are purposed, we depart
Asking no other boon.

MARQUIS.
Thus far, be sure;
Before another moon hath time to trim
Another silver lamp to guide the Night,
Myself will for myself fill up the throne
And take a wife. So ye shall promise me
This on your faith.

PIETRO MALA.
My liege, we wait to hear.

MARQUIS.
That be she come of peasant or of lord,
The lady whom my love shall dignify,—
Be she of matchless beauty, or of none,
Gentle or simple, eloquent or mute,
Wise or unwise, wealthy or dowerless,
She shall in all things hold your hearts and swords
Alway her own; and not a deed of yours,
A thought, a look, shall ever derogate
From your true service and her sovereignty:—
This shall ye swear on your cross-hilted blades.

OMNES.
Kneeling we swear.

MARQUIS.
Then wake the ghittern-strings!
Bid hearts be light, and happy eyes, like stars,
Shine to make brighter this our wedding-week.
Let seneschals make matters for a feast,
And cellarers ungaol the prisoned wine,
Till, like a rosy river, it o'erflow,
And drown care fathom-deep. Bring gold and pearls
From their dark houses in the earth and sea,
And make me wedding-robes and coronals
Of bravest colours, and of richest stuff;
Till our gay gear shall make the rainbow dull.
Oh! we will bring her home—this queen of ours,
As if like angels we were leading up
A wandered planet to its place in heaven.
So speed you well.

OMNES.
Great thanks and humble, Lord.

[Exeunt Omnes, but Marquis.
MARQUIS
(solus).
What! they would have me lose thee, my Griselda,—
My alder-liefest beauty, for some pair
Of soulless eyes, and some fair frozen lady,
Whose blood is all too courtly to run quick?
Methinks I have more skill at merchant-craft,
Than for gay goods of parcel-gilt to give
Mine own unpolished gold. Now am I not
A most bold bachelor to make the feast,—
The wedding-feast, and not to bid the bride?
Shall I not go before I buy my wares
And sight them closer? All that seems a prince
A trader's gown will hide. Aye! I will go,
And see my jewel glitter in the dusk,
Before its splendour flashes in the sun.

[Exit Marquis.

SCENE II.

The Cottage of Janicola.
Griselda spinning, and Lenette.
LENETTE.
Thou'lt not come?

GRISELDA.
I cannot, if I would,—
Indeed I cannot.

LENETTE.

Why, you turn your wheel as if it spun you music
and gold threads.

GRISELDA.

It spins all that is mine of either.

LENETTE.

If nothing else will make you idle, this must then.

GRISELDA.

What is it, thou silly one?

LENETTE.

Why, thy crown; and thou wilt wear it? Look,
now, here are the reddest rose-buds in the valley,
tied with grape-leaf and myrtle; and all, by
Baccho! plucked when the moon was up and the
dew down, to make thee queen of the feast. If

thou say'st another no, we'll put rosemary in it,
and the sad ancient rue, and thy subjects shall mock
thee. Thou'lt come?

GRISELDA.

I may not say it, good Lenette! Take them my
thanks. Say that I grieve to lose dances and
flowers, for I specially love both; but, in sooth, they
have many a girl fitter for the flower-crown.

LENETTE.

They'll not think so; if Griselda lead it not, who
will say the feast was fine?

GRISELDA.

Nay! but I must not in truth dance and leave
my father. It were better I tended his white hairs
than crowned mine with roses. Thou art ever
kind, Lenette; fill me this jar from the well: he

comes anon, and I must shred the herbs he loves,
and spread his seat.

LENETTE.

I'll have another answer then, thou stay-at-home!
Dost thou know the sound of a mandoline, or the
colour of the sky on a summer-night? Alas! no—
well, heaven send thee merrier mood.

GRISELDA.
(She sings.)

JANICOLA.
Dost thou think I run
To such rare sights as an unfurnished board,
A hearth unlighted, and a house unroofed,
Where every idle wind comes whistling in
At his own will?

GRISELDA.
Nay, then, there's goodly store
Of herbs and fruits; and if the roof is thin,
The nights are clear; so we shall have the stars
To light us to our beds. Hast not thou seen
A thousand worse provided?

JANICOLA.
Aye! I have,
And counselled them to care no more for care,
And to give over the dull drudgery
That earns enough of life, only to feel
Life's wretchedness and curse. Thou!—why dost thou
Keep thy white fingers working? Take thy rest!

GRISELDA.
Ah! now, if thinking on a thing to do
Were all one with the doing, we would sit
And see the hours wear themselves away,
As carelessly as though they measured sands,
And not sad lives.

JANICOLA.
Ho! dost thou think them sad?

GRISELDA.
Sorely for thee.

JANICOLA.
Good daughter! bear with me.
Only for comfort of those patient eyes,
I have not left this buffeting for life,
Nor dropped my arms, nor sunk away, away,
Down in this salt life-sea.

GRISELDA.
Nor shalt thou yet;
Why, father, is the happy talk all gone
Of yester-night? Didst thou not say a star
Was named in heaven the night that I was born,
And nurses talked of—

JANICOLA.
Talked of gold—Aye! aye!
And said there was a line along the brow
That meant a crown; and that the little hands
Would come to touch velvets and silvered silks,
And think them common stuff.—I mind it well;
Oh, I'll be merry as a mocking-bird,
So thou wilt kiss me.

GRISELDA.
Nay! I'll not do that
Till thou hast laughed a quarter by the glass;
Now to thy supper. When I am a queen
Thou shalt eat out o' gold.
[Some one knocks.
Ah! 'tis Lenette,
The kind wild girl—how quickly she is come!
[She opens.
Enter Marquis of Saluzzo disguised as a trader.
What is your will?

MARQUIS.
I pray you pardon me:
I fear I break the quiet of your home
With an unwelcome footstep.

GRISELDA.
Oh, sir, no!
How may we stead you?

MARQUIS.
I have goods of store,
Somewhat too loosely guarded from the storm,
Crimson brocades, and stuffs of Genoa,
With silver-work of Florence rarely wrought;
And for I fear a cloud is sweeping up,
I would be bold to borrow for a space
The shadow of your homestead.

GRISELDA.
Enter, sir;
My father then shall bid you better welcome
Than I have skill to make you.

JANICOLA.
Signor, sit!
I am well pleased to serve you, pray you sit;
Little but welcome, and a right good will
We have to greet you with; but these are yours,
As free as words can make 'em.

MARQUIS.
Reverend sir,
Small service is true service when the will,
And not the work, is rated. I had rather
A cup of water from a willing hand,
Than a great bowl of purple Cyprus wine
Meted me drop by drop.

JANICOLA.
Thou sayest well;
So our poor hut is thine.

MARQUIS.
But you are rich,
If this fair, gentle maiden be your daughter,
As I must think she is.

JANICOLA.
Aye! upon that,
I'll string as many stories of her love
As ever thou didst pearls.

GRISELDA.
Alas! I fear
They are not fine enough to set in words;
Therefore, dear father, leave them. Didst thou come
By Saluzzo, Sir Trader?

MARQUIS.
Even thence;
There was a talk at court of wedding-feasts
That would be soon, and that the Prince would take
A sharer of his crown.

GRISELDA.
It is the tale.

MARQUIS.
I trust my wares will find a market then.
What of this Prince? Hath he the general love?

JANICOLA.
Not to be slandered is a step to praise,
And thus much praise he hath. 'Tis a brave Prince:
But men do say that he can change and change;
They say he hath two faces, and two favours—
One for his fasting-days, and one for feasts,
Bitter and sweet.

MARQUIS.
Why, that, methinks, were well;
A great king standing lone 'mid friends and foes,
Should look o' both sides. Mark yon mighty Alps,
They front the Switzer woods with frowning crags
Where storms are stored, but smile on Italy
With summer softness and eternal green.
(To Griselda.)
Hast thou beheld this Janus?

GRISELDA.
I!—I saw
A gallant, goodly gentleman ride by
One morning at the hawking, and they said
It was the Prince.

MARQUIS.
Saw you him not again?

GRISELDA.
Twice by our village-well,—yes! it was twice;
For the last time he seemed to gaze on me
Something too earnestly.

MARQUIS.
I wonder not
But rather how his eyes could leave the looking.
Hath he not yellow hair?

GRISELDA.
Nay, liker yours,
Black and close-curled.

MARQUIS.
His port, I think, was meek,
With nothing of a kingly bearing in 't.

GRISELDA.
Oh! it was full of knightly majesty,
He sate his steed as 'twere a canopied throne,
Chafing its proud heart into mutiny
Only for the dear joy of taming it
With curb and rowel. Sooth! I think again,
His inches were most nearly thine, Sir Trader.

MARQUIS.
'Tis very like. Now if I were to choose
A wife for him, I would not seek her far.

GRISELDA.
How, Sir?

MARQUIS.
I pray thee let me see thy hand;
I have some skill at palmistry.

GRISELDA.
'Tis there.
Not fair, but very frank: what canst thou read?

MARQUIS.
A world of meanings in its tender white;
And goodness, gentleness, and maidenhood,
In its blue-veined beauty. It reminds me
Of a dear lady who will be my wife.
I pray thee, let the memory pardon me
If mine unworthy lips shall touch it thus,
Thinking it hers.

GRISELDA.
Is this thy palmistry?
Betake thee to thy craft.

MARQUIS.
Canst bear to hear
All I can tell? Look a broad line of life,
Crossed once and once again. Aye, thou wilt be
All that thou wouldst, and more. There's a fair table,
Promising pretty children, and a crown,
Palaces, wealth beyond the counting, gems;
With all the ornaments that ladies love,
To deck these dainty fingers, that unfold
Their destiny so fairly. Wilt have more?

GRISELDA.
Aye! when the half of what you tell is true,—
Till then I am contented.

JANICOLA.
Gentle Sir,
Keep your fine words—they'll be fair ware at Court:
We be plain folk, whose candle is the sun,
And he, thou seest, burns down; if thou'lt rest here
We'll give thee willing lodgment.

MARQUIS.
Oh! your bounty
Beggars my thanks. The night is clear again,
And tempts me to my road. To-morrow, Sir,
By your good leave, I will repay you better.

JANICOLA.
Nay, Sir, God give you speed!

MARQUIS.
And you! (Aside.)
To-morrow,—
Not later, lest I die before I fetch
This white vale-lily from its hidden home
And set it first o' the garland.

[Exit.