 | Thomas À Becket |  |
SCENE III.
Apartments in Becket's Palace, gorgeously set out and illuminated. Knights, Ladies, Squires, Pages, Minstrels, Attendants: the former attired or disguised in different quaint or characteristic dresses. Cates and wines served round. Music. The King seen apparelled as a Soldan in an inner chamber.Becket enters, and signs to De Morville.
Becket.
De Morville, you love not these mummeries,
Whilst, as all other wise men, you allow them.
Hie to the porch, good sir; you know the Queen;
Should Jealousy, that ignis fatuus,
With green and flickering taper light her hither,—
Though she pretends in sourness of her soul
To love retreat, and feasts but on her spleen
(Which sprouts the more she crops it—crude refection,
That makes her meagrer still!); and though she is
Too proud for mirth's equality;—yet should she
Perchance come—
De Morville.
I am to give notice.— [Aside]
Hang him!
I scorn these gauds no more than Eleanor,
Though I scoff at them too.
Becket.
Brito is there,
But—“Two heads,” says the proverb. If she come,
Delay her with some shows of reverence,
Whilst you send word. There 's reason high—look to 't.
[Passes on.
I'll fill Sir Richard like a leathern jack
Up to the lips with Winton wine; and then
You shall have Roland for your Oliver!
[Exit.
[Several personages move through the rooms; among them a Veiled Lady, followed by a Gentleman-Usher. After they go out, re-enter Becket.
Becket.
Another guest I've mark'd within the halls,
Unbidden as the Queen,—at least by me!
When I besought her name, that frowning Usher
With courtesy more haught than baron's, said
Between his teeth,—Demoiselle Disconnue.
Whom she may be indeed, I but surmise,
For still she flits and flits, fair Spectre, gliding
Speechless along, nor mixing with us mortals,
More than the pale Moon with the enamour'd trees
Through which she glances, coldly beaming on them.—
Much time is in the minute. This bright thing,
Like some rich gem, is for a monarch's hand,
I guess, not being unskilful in such jewelry:
Let me do him—and some one else—a service,
By keeping it from the Gryphon; Eleanor
Must not lay clutch on it, lest she perhaps,
Like the Egyptian drunkardess, dissolve it
In some sharp menstruum—yea, so devour it,
Through luxury of revenge!—
Good king, thou 'lt thank me better for this deed,
And faster bind me friend, than had I saved
Rouen or Caen! Our private services seem
Love to the king, public but to the kingdom.
Harry of England!
Albeit thou hast much wisdom, for one born
But to be made a fool of from the cradle,—
Yet so predominates the weaker element
Of that same earth-and-water compost—Man—
That even the fiery spirit heaven put to it
But leaves thee mouldable by skilful hands—
What 's this? I am forgotten!
Most by myself, and worst—
[Turning to the guests.
Drink, gentlemen!
Ye trifle with me only!—Fill me there
[To a Page.
A horn of hippocras, so amber-pure
The yellow lights shall flame more lustrous through it!
Brim it up, boy! till the fresh dazzling foam
Swell o'er its burnish'd lip, like these fair bosoms
Above their bordering gold!—Health, beauteous Dames!
Sweet Demoiselles! health, noble Chevaliers!
Pledge me, I pray you, all!—my wishes are
So personal for the health of each, they ask
Unanimous return!
Guests.
Be happy, sir,
As you deserve; we need not wish you more!
Becket.
Thanks! thanks!—Now let the flood of joy roll on
And bear us with it,—so we keep our feet!
Now let the perfumed air with pleasure glow
Till even the hard heart melt, the iciest burn!
Now, gallants, lead your mistresses a measure
Where they can prove the Graces are not fled
With classic times!—Come, ladies!—Sooth I'll swear
You've not fine ancles if you fear to show 'em!—
Minstrels, strike up! let the gay mandolin
Mock the grave-voiced theorbo; whilst the harp
With intricacy sweet of various chimes,
Bewilders its own strain; and fife and shalm,
Piercing the tabret's solid-booming hum,
Give a clear edge to music!—Trouveurs! Conteurs!
Spread, spread about your free wits and yourselves!
Hie to the bow'red chamber and alcove
Whither Love's chief luxuriasts retire,
And in the ear of bending beauty pour
Or mirthful, to such triumph of your skill,
That these vast domes re-murmur with sweet sighs
Or throb with echoing laughter. Make all pleased
To be here, as I am to see them!
[Passes on.
1st Lady.
A gallant man, our Host! the cream of courtesy!
2d Lady.
Oh a magnificent creature!—such a leg!—
1st Cavalier.
He is the prince of priests!
An Alderman.
Ay, and a learned, I 'll assure you: he
has read Geoffrey of Monmouth and the Lives of the Saints
—in Latin; besides being deep in Romance as not a minstrel
of them all!
An Abbot.
O sir, his accomplishment has gone much farther
than your imagination: Venerable Bede himself, who read
so much he did not know the extent of his own knowledge,
was an ignoramus to our Chancellor.
2d Cavalier.
Truly it is possible: what with his embassies
to Rome, and his studious sojourn among the Italians, he
must have their Latin talk as much at his tongue's end as
a nun's parrot has the vocabulary of scandal.
Abbot.
It must be so, for never unfledged wit
Could take such flight as his, so near the sun!
2d Lady.
He has learned somewhat better than your
learning, I'm sure! What is it all to La gaie Science? In
that he is perfect!
3d Cavalier.
Well, I forgive him being able to read and
write, which is only fit for those slugs of the cloister-garden,
the monks, but the disgrace of a preux chevalier; I forgive
it him all, because he can sing the Song of Roland better
than any man since—what-d'ye-call-him? that led us on at
Hastings.
Abbot.
You speak of Taillefer, the warrior-minstrel—
3d Cavalier.
Taillefer, or Tell-fair, either will do—he
told us fair enough we should be conquerors.
4th Cavalier.
This Becket is a Saxon—where did he get
so much fire of genius to clarify his fatness of brain derived
from such ancestors? What are the Saxons fit for, but to
swill, sleep, and tend swine?
Brito.
That's a libel, by St. Edward the Confessor!—
I confess it a most nefarious libel, and will prove it so on
this spot!
4th Cavalier.
You lie there as you stand, and shalt lie
again where you fall!
[Draws.
Brito.
Come on with your bull-rush, you perpendicular
French frog!—Here's my battle-axe!
[Swinging the jack.
An Esquire.
Oh, he is drunk, he 's drunk!—tongue and all
totter!
[Supporting Brito.
Brito.
You're drunk yourself! You've drunk so much,
everything dances before you, and so you think I totter!—
Tend swine, indeed? Saxons only fit to tend swine? You,
Norman squire jackanapes! you're only fit to tend me,—
and that's not much better!
Guests.
Ha! ha! ha! ha!—truth is in wine!
Brito.
I heard what ye said, backbiters—swine forsooth
only fit to tend Saxons!—Oh, I shall never forget it!—Was
not Harry Beauclerc (bless his scholarship!) half Saxon at
the least?
4th Cavalier.
Norman, to the backbone of his heart!—
how prove you him half Saxon?
Brito.
Ay, and more! Wasn't his wife, Maud Atheling,
Saxon,—and what call you that but his better half? Pish!
it is child's-play to put you addle-headed Normans down!
Was Alfred the Great Saxon or no? tell me that. And
was he only fit for a hog-herd, a tender of bristled sheep?
the Pater Noster into English, which every good Saxon,
who doesn't carry his prayers in his cheek, has by heart?
—Didn't he cudgel those sea-robbers the Danes (birds of
the same nest with the Normans, I trow!) till he hammered
the laws of propriety into their loggerheads?
4th Cavalier.
Cudgel the Normans?—
(Drawing.)
Brito.
Ay, Normans or Lord-Danes, 'twas all one!
[They fight.
Guests.
Part them! Peace, peace; here comes our
Entertainer!
Becket
(re-entering).
What is the matter? Revelry is not riot!—
How now, Sir Richard! wherefore thus come up
From the guard-chamber?
Brito.
Come up? marry come up!—I'm come up because
I was elevated!
Becket.
Who put this porker into such a pickle?
Brito.
Why, good Sir Hugh, none else! Sir Hugh
was my pickler, and preserver likewise—with drink—
or I had perished of a dry rot in your guard-cellar below!
—He thought to keep me from mounting, the knave! but
I roared beyond all forbearance.
Becket.
De Morville? ha! I smell a viper.—
(To the Attendants).
Look,
This swollen wine-skin tumble not about—
[Exit.
Brito.
Now a tankard of brown ale to damp my lips
with, and a song, when my throat is cleared for a chaste
melody—
While the beechen bowl
Trundles along the table—O!
And we 'll drink and sing
Like a priest or a king,
As long as we are able—O!
Henry (as Soldan), La Disconnue, and her Gentleman-Usher.
Henry.
Shine forth, fair Moon! I prithee, from beneath
The cloud which floats between me and thy beams,
To bless me with the soft blaze of thy beauty!
I am an eagle of the night, that dares
Fix on the glorious Sister of the Sun
His ardent eye, which broadens as she brightens,
To take in more of her loved radiancy
With which his rapt soul kindles!—Oh, at length
Put off that shroud; unless thou 'lt have me think
Death hath o'er-marbled thee, so cold thou seem'st,
So mute, so still!
La Disconnue.
Alas! I am yet living!—
But we are now alone, and shelter'd here:
Yet here, in secret and heart-quivering sounds,
I must speak only to thee, as a bird
That warns her mate the fowler is too nigh.
Thou know'st whose will it is has brought me hither
To-night, unto this Castle Dangerous,
No Joyous one to me!
Henry.
Fair Rose of England!
My flower! my bosom's sweet!—look not, I pray,
With such a sadness and lost pensiveness
Upon this secret venture for my sake,
Thy harmless presence here: nor ever deem
Love's blossomy ways are so bestrewn with thorns
To pierce all tenderest things.
La Disconnue.
Ay, to the heart!
Henry.
Nay, nay, not thine!
They shall not: trust thy puissant king and knight!
La Disconnue.
Well! well!
I wish'd thee here, it is so rare for us
And difficult to meet; what with the jealousy
Of my gaunt Queen, and thy self-chariness,
Which ne'er confides thy honour unto mine,
[Nodding at her Attendant.
Sans surveillance, for all my promises,
My book-sworn faith and heaven-register'd vows.
La Disconnue.
Ay me!
Henry.
Thou murmuring dove!—fear not; shalt soon,
And safe, betake thee to thine own dim bower.
Meantime thou 'rt here but La Belle Disconnue!
Unknown and unsuspected.
La Disconnue.
Let me still
To all here seem a vision, save to thee.
Henry.
Nay, by Love's shaft! thou art no substance yet
Even to me!—I have not touch'd thy hand—
[Taking her hand.
Most delicate thing! let mine eyes drink thy lustre!
Can o'er-and-o'er refined earth become
Indeed so dazzling-pure? I could scarce guess thee
From lightest leaf freighted with new-fall'n snow
Which the chill evening sun tinges so faint,
Save that thou throbb'st (as thou wert all one pulse)
Though laid in my soft clasp!—Sweet, tremble not!
England himself's thy champion!—Once to my lips—
Once, and no more!—
Kisses her hand.
Dian, who gazes on us,
Might consecrate this sin!
La Disconnue.
O no! methinks
Yon moving shrine of purity doth shudder—
It sheds bright tears—grows dim—We have offended!
Let me depart.
Henry.
Wilt thou be yet so coy
And credulous of ill?—Take this as seal
[Shows a Ring.
Of my drawn bond to thee: canst thou have more?
The carved saints and sovereigns in our Abbey,
(Which she is wrinkled grim enough to be!)
Thou art my Queen!—By all above I swear it,
And all beneath!—Is this enough, suspectful?
La Disconnue.
Hear'st thou, Lord Walter?
Gentleman-Usher.
I am satisfied!
Becket
(passing swift behind, mutters)
—The Queen! the Queen!
Henry.
Now wish I from my soul
Louis had kept her or the Devil ta'en her!
[Exeunt different ways: the Ring drops in the confusion.
Enter Queen Eleanor.
Eleanor.
Plantagenet, by his port—Vain guise! I know
Well, the crown-bearing air of that proud head,
And fitful clenching of that hand, as if
It aye grasp'd at a sword!—I can see all!—
Were no companions here? Methought I heard
The rustling harsh of gauzes, and light step
Of silver-slipper'd woman, fleeting away!—
They've barred my passage, but I 'll break one—
[Turning towards the Verandah.
Vengeance!
I pray'd thee for a vision of my rival,
And there it is—vanish'd into the night!
Curses on both!—
[Seeing the Ring.
What's this? thou basilisk,
That kill'st me with thy fatal glare! cold glitterer,
Which, like the jewel that the bright-eyed toad
Voids from his head, poison'st e'en by thy touch,—
How I abhor—nay, love thee!—
[Snatching it up.
Thou that show'st
The wrong, wilt haply cast some little ray
On the wrong-doer. One gleam, where'er so deep
Aghast,—as to all workers in dark ways,
One sunbeam is a thunderbolt!—Good night,
Thou whom they blazon—La Belle Disconnue,
For ignorance is idolatrous. We yet
May know each other; till then, rest ye well!
[Exit.
| Thomas À Becket | |