 | King René's Daughter |  |
SCENE II.
King René, Ebn Jahia, and Bertrand, enter through the concealed door. Almerik, Martha.René.
Martha, I bring thee here
Good Ebn Jahia. As I learn, he hath
Been here to-day already once before.
How goes it now?
Mar.
Even to a wish, my liege.
René.
All that the leech enjoined thou hast fulfilled?
Neglected nothing? Has Iolanthe lain
With eyes close bandaged every night?
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She has.
René
(to Ebn Jahia).
That was a perilous venture. It is strange
She bears it. Yet the chance was fortunate,
That the bee stung her on the temple lately.
This served us for a plausible pretext.
Ah! sure the little bee deceived itself.
In this fair world, that's tended by her care,
Where, like a flower, she grows amidst her flowers,
The insect, dazzled by the fragrant bloom,
Deemed that it nestled in a rose's bud.
Forgive me! It is sinful thus to speak
Of mine own child. But now no more of this.
Thou long'st to see the fruitage of thy skill.
Go, then, to Iolanthe. Bertrand! Martha!
Follow him in, perchance he may require you.
(Ebn Jahia exit into the house, followed by Bertrand and Martha.)
Now, Almerik, tell me, wert thou not amazed,
To see this valley so serene and still?
Was it not so? A little paradise?
Al.
Indeed it is!
René.
Oh, had it been my fate,
Here in the midst of all that most I love,
Of beauty, science, art, to spend my days,
How gladly, then, had I foregone, for ever,
Naples, Lorraine, and this long, bitter strife
With Vaudemont!
Al.
This strife is now healed up,
And you expect Count Tristan here ere long.
Then all shall end in peace.
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I hope it may,
And this my hope has daily gained in strength.
I told you—did I not?—that I expected
Geoffrey of Orange. He resided long
At Tristan's castle. The Count's teacher he
In minstrelsy, and poetry and song.
The youthful Count, so Geoffrey tells me, owns
A happy turn for poesy—a sense
Refined and gentle, with a mind of rare
Endowment and capacity of thought.
He sang to me a Sirventese, writ
By Tristan, nobly felt, and couched in words
Of a rare beauty. This I needs must own,
Though he be minded hostilely to me,
And would with grasping hand usurp Lorraine.
—But hush! I hear a voice.
(Goes to the house and looks in at the door.)
See, Ebn Jahia
Has wakened her! Slowly her eyes she raises;
She speaks; yet speaks as in a dream, while he
Looks down observantly into her eyes.
Now doth he lay the amulet once more
Upon her bosom—and she sleeps again.
Al.
How singular!
René.
Most singular! This Moor
Possesses powers that fill me with alarm.
He comes. Now leave us, Almerik! Yet stay!
Hence to the palace! Here I must remain.
Soon as a letter comes from Tristan, haste
And bring it here to me.
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Adieu, my liege.
(Exit, as Ebn Jahia enters from the house.)
René.
My Ebn Jahia, com'st thou like the dove,
That bears the olive branch? Thou lookest grave,
And, like thine art, unfathomable. How,
How shall I construe what thy looks import?
Ebn J.
I have the strongest hopes, my noble liege.
René.
Is't so? Oh, thou'rt an angel sent from heaven!
Thy dusky visage, like that royal Moor's,
Who knelt beside our great Redeemer's cradle,
Heralds the star, shall cheer my night of gloom.
Say, Jahia, say, whereon thy hope is based?
What is thy counsel, what thy purpose? Speak!
'Tis written in a book, which late I read,
That oftentimes an unsound eye is cured
By application of the surgeon's knife.
This thou wilt never try, my Ebn Jahia;
Thou know'st the eye is a most noble part,
And canst not gain such mastery o'er thyself,
As to approach my Iolanthe's eyes
With instrument of steel. Nay, thou must dread
To mar the beauty of their azure depths,
That dark, deep fount, which still, though saddened o'er,
Wells forth such glorious radiance. Oh, her eyes,
How is it possible, that night should brood
On two such orbs of matchless brilliancy?
Ebn J.
Nay, be at ease! You need not fear for this.
'Twould aid us little, should I have recourse
To instruments.
René.
What is thy purpose, then?
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Your pardon, good my lord! My treatment is
A mystery, like all my leech's craft;
It scarce would serve my purpose to divulge it.
'Tis not the fruitage of a moment's growth,
No, but the slow result of wakeful years,
Shaped—step by step conducted to one point,
Whereat, so speed it heaven, it shall succeed;
Ay, and succeed it must, this very day,
Or fail for ever.
René.
How! This very day?
Ebn J.
Soon as the sun has sunk beneath the hills,
And a soft twilight spreads along the vale,
Such as her eyes, still to the light unused,
May bear with safety, I will test my plan.
René.
Ah, Ebn Jahia, prithee, not to-day!
From day to day, from hour to hour, have I,
With restless eagerness, looked onwards for
This moment—and alas! now it hath come,
My heart grows faint, and wishes it away.
—Think what I peril! When the sun goes down,
My one best hope, perchance, goes down with it.
Thou'rt wrapt in thought. Art thou content to pause?
Ebn J.
I will not wait.
René.
Then tell me, dost thou fear?
Art thou not certain of the issue? Thou
Didst put to question yonder silent stars,
From which thy potent art can wring response.
What was their answer, tell me, Ebn Jahia?
The horoscope—was't happy?
Ebn J.
Yes, it was.
I told you so already. Yet the stars
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The fortunes of mankind, yet do they not
Rule nature's laws with absolute control.
Rest thee at ease: I have no fear for this.
—Another hindrance menaces my skill.
René.
A hindrance?
Ebn J.
One, my liege, I apprehend,
Which you will find it hard to obviate.
Iolanthe, ere I bend me to my task,
Must comprehend, what she till now has lacked—
Must learn this very day that she is blind.
René.
No, Ebn Jahia, no, this cannot be!
Ebn J.
It must be, or my skill is powerless.
René.
No, no! oh, never! never! Thou wilt not
Constrain me to this monstrous cruelty,
And strip her all at once, with sudden wrench,
Of that unconsciousness, has been her blessing;
Not slowly, by degrees, but all at once,
Force on her tender soul this fearful truth?
And if the cure should fail us after all?
Hast thou forgot, how we, year after year,
With care almost incredible, have watched
To keep from her this melancholy truth?
This course thyself suggested—showing me
The difficult road, which I was bound to follow.
Now, wilt thou raze the fabric thou hast reared?
Say, wherefore, wherefore?
Ebn J.
I will tell you wherefore,
So please you lend a favouring ear the while.
You deem, belike, our sense of vision rests
Within the eye; yet is it but a means.
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And those fine nerves, that on the eye converge,
From the brain's secret workshop emanate.
Iolanthe must be conscious of her state—
Her inward eye must first be opened, ere
The light can pour upon the outward sense.
A want must be developed in her soul;
A feeling that anticipates the light,—
A craving sense—for know, my noble liege,
That nothing e'er is on mankind bestowed,
Unless for it he feel necessity.
Deep in his soul a yearning must arise
For a contentment, which it strives to win.
Let me, for you, exemplar take from what
Your studies make familiar. That fair art—
That joyous science of sweet poesy,
Which is so widely famed throughout Provence,—
Mankind receive it by the Muses' favour.
Is it not so? But how? Do all receive it?
No; only he within whose bosom dwelt,
As in a dream, a bright poetic world;
And who hath yearned for it with quenchless love.
René.
I'll not contest with thee, good Ebn Jahia!
I may not cope with thee in lore profound.
Yet pity's voice speaks loudly in my heart,
And drowns thy arguments with mightier tones.
I cannot do it! No, it may not be.
Ebn J.
E'en as you will. I only can advise,
And if you will not trust to my advice,
Then I am useless here. So, fare ye well!
Hence to the convent I! You'll find me there,
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Sink but the sun behind yon mountain-tops,
My utmost skill cannot again avail.
(Exit through the concealed door.)
René.
Oh, dreadful strait! and I so dearly bought
A hope, which yet so soon may be undone!
Shall I destroy at once her cheerful mood,
Convert it into comfortless despair,
And see her youth grow pale by slow degrees,
Wither and die in mournful consciousness?
No! This is Jahia's obstinacy merely;
He yet shall yield. I will not rest, until
He hears me, and submits to my desire.
(Exit after Ebn Jahia, as Martha and Bertrand enter.)
Mar.
The king gone hence, and, as it seemed, in wrath,
And Ebn Jahia nowhere to be seen!
What has occurred?
Bert.
Indeed, heaven only knows!
Yet am I ill at ease, as matters stand:
And Ebn Jahia, I do fear me much,
Will fail us at the last.
Mar.
Nay, think you so?
Bert.
Heaven grant that I be wrong! Yet like I not
The dark and moody nature of the man;
And, to be frank with you, I feel a dread
Of one endowed with such mysterious power.
There lies the child upon her couch, as though
Life were extinct; one motion of his hand,
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This is not—cannot come to good!
Mar.
Content thee,
Nor thus torment thyself with causeless fears.
Thou knowest well, that when her sleep is o'er,
And from her breast the amulet removed,
She beams afresh in bright and blooming health.
Is it not marvellous, how this strange sleep
Strengthens her more, much more, than sleep at night,
Gives vigour, and enlivens every sense?
Yea, even her eyes, as I have noted oft,
Are deepened in their lustre when she wakes,
As though the rays of light had found a way
Into their orbs, while she lay slumbering:
Trust me, this is a favourable sign.
Bert.
Well, well, thou may'st be right; and time will show!—
Let us away! Much yet is to be done
Among our people yonder in the field.
We may withdraw from Iolanthe now:
She sleeps, and cannot wake till our return.
(Exeunt behind the house.)
| King René's Daughter | |