University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—An Apartment in the Duke's Castle.
The Countess—Huon reading to her.
Countess.
Give o'er! I hate the poet's argument!
'Tis falsehood—'Tis offence. A noble maid
Stoop to a peasant!—Ancestry, sire, dam,
Kindred and all, of perfect blood, despised
For love!

Huon.
The peasant, though of humble stock,
High nature had ennobled.

Countess.
What was that?
Mean you to justify it? But, go on!

Huon.
Not to offend.

Countess.
Offend! No fear of that,
I hope, 'twixt thee and me! I pray you, sir,
To recollect yourself, and be at ease,
And, as I bid you, do. Go on.

Huon.
Descent,
You'll grant, is not alone nobility,
Will you not? Never yet was line so long,
But it beginning had; and that was found
In rarity of nature, giving one
Advantage over many—aptitude
For arms, for counsel, so superlative
As baffled all competitors, and made
The many glad to follow him as guide
Or safeguard; and with title to endow him,
For his high honour or to gain some end
Supposed propitious to the general weal,
On those who should descend from him entail'd.
Not in descent alone, then, lies degree,
Which from descent to nature may be traced,
Its proper fount! And that, which nature did,
You'll grant she may be like to do, again;
And in a very peasant, yea, a slave,
Enlodge the worth that roots the noble tree.
I trust I seem not bold, to argue so.

Countess.
Sir, when to me it matters what you seem,
Make question on't. If you have more to say,
Proceed—yet mark you how the poet mocks,
Himself, your advocacy; in the sequel
His hero is a hind in masquerade!
He proves to be a lord!

Huon.
The poet sinn'd
Against himself, in that! He should have known
A better trick, who had at hand his own
Excelling nature to admonish him,
Than the low cunning of the common craft.
A hind, his hero, won the lady's love.
He had worth enough for that! Her heart was his.
Wedlock joins nothing, if it joins not hearts.
Marriage was never meant for coats of arms.
Heraldry flourishes on metal, silk,
Or wood. Examine as you will the blood,
No painting on't is there!—As red, as warm,
The peasant's as the noble's!

Countess.
Dost thou know
Thou speak'st to me?

Huon.
'Tis, therefore, so I speak.

Countess.
And know'st thy duty to me?

Huon.
Yes.

Countess.
And see'st
My station, and thine own?

Huon.
I see my own.

Countess.
Not mine?

Huon.
I cannot, for the fair
O'ertopping height before.

Countess.
What height?

Huon.
Thyself!
That towerest 'bove thy station!—Pardon me!
O, wouldst thou set thy rank before thyself?
Wouldst thou be honour'd for thyself, or that?
Rank that excels its wearer, but degrades him.
Riches impoverish, that divide respect.
O, to be cherish'd for oneself alone!
To owe the love that cleaves to us to nought
Which fortune's summer—winter—gives or takes!
To know that, while we wear the heart and mind,
Feature and form, high Heaven endow'd us with,
Let the storm pelt us, or fair weather warm,
We still are loved! Kings, from their thrones cast down,
Have bless'd their fate, that they were valued for
Themselves, and not their stations; when some knee,
That hardly bow'd to them, before,
Has kiss'd the dust before them, stripp'd of all.

Countess
[confused].
I nothing see that's relative in this,
That bears upon the argument.

Huon.
O, much,
Durst but my heart explain.

Countess.
Hast thou a heart?
I thought thou wast a serf; and, as a serf,
Hadst thought and will none other than thy lord's;
And so no heart—that is, no heart of thine own.
But since thou say'st thou hast a heart, 'tis well!
Keep it a secret;—let me not suspect
What, were it e'en suspicion, were thy death.
Sir, did I name a banquet to thee now,
Thou lookedst so?

Huon.
To die, for thee, were such.

Countess.
Sir!

Huon.
For his master oft a serf has died,
And thought it sweet,—and may not, then, a serf
Say for his mistress, it were bliss to die?

Countess.
Thou art presumptuous—very—so no wonder
If I misunderstood thee. Thou'dst do well
To be thyself, and nothing more.

Huon.
Myself—

Countess.
Why, art thou not a serf? What right hast thou
To set thy person off with such a bearing?
And move with such a gait?—to give thy brow
The set of noble's, and thy tongue his phrase?
Thy betters' clothes sit fairer upon thee
Than on themselves, and they were made for them.
I have no patience with thee!—can't abide thee!
There are no bounds to thy ambition, none!
How durst thou e'er adventure to bestride
The war-horse—sitting him, that people say
Thou, not the knight, appear'st his proper load?
How durst thou touch the lance, the battle-axe,
And wheel the flaming falchion round thy head,
As thou wouldst blaze the sun of chivalry?—
I know—my father found thy aptitude,
And humour'd it, to boast thee off? He may chance
To rue it; and no wonder if he should;
If others' eyes see that they should not see,
Directed by his own.

Huon.
O, lady—

Countess.
What?

Huon.
Heard I aright?

Countess.
Aright—what heard'st thou, then?
I would not think thee so presumptuous,
As, through thy pride, to misinterpret me.
It were not for thy health!—Yea, for thy life!
Beware, sir. It would set my quiet blood,
On haste for mischief to thee, rushing through
My veins, did I believe—! Thou art not mad;
Knowing thy vanity, I aggravate it.
Thou know'st 'twere shame, the lowest free-woman
That follows in my train should think of thee?

Huon.
I know it, lady.

Countess.
That I meant to say,
No more. Don't read such books to me again.
I would you had not learn'd to read, so well,
I had been spared your annotations.
For the future, no reply, when I remark.
Hear, but don't speak—unless you're told—and then
No more than you're ask'd;—what makes the answer up,
No syllable beyond.
Enter Falconer with Hawk.
My falconer! So.
An hour I'll fly my hawk.

Fal.
A noble bird,
My lady, knows his bells—is proud of them.

Countess.
They are no portion of his excellence;
It is his own! 'Tis not by them he makes
His ample wheel; mounts up, and up, and up,
In spiry rings, piercing the firmament,
Till he o'ertops his prey; then gives his stoop
More fleet and sure than ever arrow sped!
How nature fashion'd him for his bold trade!
Gave him his stars of eyes to range abroad,
His wings of glorious spread to mow the air,
And breast of might to use them! I delight
To fly my hawk. The hawk's a glorious bird;
Obedient—yet a daring, dauntless bird!
You may be useful, sir; so wait upon me!

[They go out.