University of Virginia Library

COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY;

A PLAY

PERSONS.

• Colombe of Ravestein, Duchess of Juliers and Cleves.
• Sabyne, Adolf, her attendants.
• Guibert, Gaucelme, Maufroy, Clugnet, courtiers.
• Valence, advocate of Cleves.
• Prince Berthold, claimant of the Duchy.
• Melchior, his confidant.

Place.—The Palace at Juliers. Time, 16---.

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.

ACT II. NOON.

Scene.—The Presence-chamber.
The Duchess and Sabyne.
The Duchess.
Announce that I am ready for the court!

Sabyne.
'T is scarcely audience-hour, I think; your Grace
May best consult your own relief, no doubt,
And shun the crowd: but few can have arrived.

The Duchess.
Let those not yet arrived, then, keep away!
'T was me, this day last year at Ravestein,
You hurried. It has been full time, beside,
This half-hour. Do you hesitate?

Sabyne.
Forgive me!

The Duchess.
Stay, Sabyne; let me hasten to make sure
Of one true thanker: here with you begins
My audience, claim you first its privilege!
It is my birth's event they celebrate:
You need not wish me more such happy days,
But—ask some favour! Have you none to ask?
Has Adolf none, then? this was far from least
Of much I waited for impatiently,
Assure yourself! It seemed so natural
Your gift, beside this bunch of river-bells,
Should be the power and leave of doing good
To you, and greater pleasure to myself.
You ask my leave to-day to marry Adolf?
The rest is my concern.

Sabyne.
Your Grace is ever
Our lady of dear Ravestein,—but, for Adolf . . .

The Duchess.
“But”? You have not, sure, changed in your regard
And purpose towards him?

Sabyne.
We change?

The Duchess.
Well then? Well?

Sabyne.
How could we two be happy, and, most like,
Leave Juliers, when—when . . . but 't is audience-time!

The Duchess.
“When, if you left me, I were left indeed!”
Would you subjoin that?—Bid the court approach!
—Why should we play thus with each other, Sabyne?
Do I not know, if courtiers prove remiss,
If friends detain me, and get blame for it,
There is a cause? Of last year's fervid throng
Scarce one half comes now.

Sabyne
[aside].
One half? No, alas!

The Duchess.
So can the mere suspicion of a cloud
Over my fortunes, strike each loyal heart.
They've heard of this Prince Berthold; and, forsooth,
Some foolish arrogant pretence he makes,
May grow more foolish and more arrogant,
They please to apprehend! I thank their love.
Admit them!

Sabyne
[aside].
How much has she really learned?

The Duchess.
Surely, whoever's absent, Tristan waits?
—Or at least Romuald, whom my father raised
From nothing—come, he's faithful to me, come!
(Sabyne, I should but be the prouder—yes,
The fitter to comport myself aright)
Not Romuald? Xavier—what said he to that?
For Xavier hates a parasite, I know!

[Sabyne goes out.
The Duchess.
Well, sunshine's everywhere, and summer too.
Next year 't is the old place again, perhaps—
The water-breeze again, the birds again.
—It cannot be! It is too late to be!
What part had I, or choice in all of it?
Hither they brought me; I had not to think
Nor care, concern myself with doing good
Or ill, my task was just—to live,—to live,
And, answering ends there was no need explain,
To render Juliers happy—so they said.
All could not have been falsehood: some was love,
And wonder and obedience. I did all
They looked for: why then cease to do it now?
Yet this is to be calmly set aside,
And—ere next birthday's dawn, for aught I know,
Things change, a claimant may arrive, and I . . .
It cannot nor it shall not be! His right?
Well then, he has the right, and I have not,
—But who bade all of you surround my life
And close its growth up with your ducal crown
Which, plucked off rudely, leaves me perishing?
I could have been like one of you,—loved, hoped,
Feared, lived and died like one of you—but you
Would take that life away and give me this,
And I will keep this! I will face you! Come!

Enter the Courtiers and Valence.
The Courtiers.
Many such happy mornings to your Grace!

The Duchess
[aside, as they pay their devoir].
The same words, the same faces,—the same love!
I have been overfearful. These are few;
But these, at least, stand firmly: these are mine.
As many come as may; and if no more,
'T is that these few suffice—they do suffice!
What succour may not next year bring me? Plainly,
I feared too soon. [To the Courtiers.]
I thank you, sirs: all thanks!

Valence
[aside, as the Duchess passes from one group to another, conversing].
'T is she—the vision this day last year brought,
When, for a golden moment at our Cleves,
She tarried in her progress hither. Cleves
Chose me to speak its welcome, and I spoke
—Not that she could have noted the recluse
—Ungainly, old before his time—who gazed.
Well, Heaven's gifts are not wasted, and that gaze
Kept, and shall keep me to the end, her own!
She was above it—but so would not sink
My gaze to earth! The People caught it, hers—
Thenceforward, mine; but thus entirely mine,
Who shall affirm, had she not raised my soul
Ere she retired and left me—them? She turns—
There's all her wondrous face at once! The ground
Reels and . . .
[suddenly occupying himself with his paper]
These wrongs of theirs I have to plead!

The Duchess
[to the Courtiers].
Nay, compliment enough! and kindness' self
Should pause before it wish me more such years.
'T was fortunate that thus, ere youth escaped,
I tasted life's pure pleasure—one such, pure,
Is worth a thousand, mixed—and youth's for pleasure:
Mine is received; let my age pay for it.

Gaucelme.
So, pay, and pleasure paid for, thinks your Grace,
Should never go together?

Guibert.
How, Sir Gaucelme?
Hurry one's feast down unenjoyingly
At the snatched breathing-intervals of work?
As good you saved it till the dull day's-end
When, stiff and sleepy, appetite is gone.
Eat first, then work upon the strength of food!

The Duchess.
True: you enable me to risk my future,
By giving me a past beyond recall.
I lived, a girl, one happy leisure year:
Let me endeavour to be the Duchess now!
And so,—what news, Sir Guibert, spoke you of?
[As they advance a little, and Guibert speaks—
—That gentleman?

Valence
[aside].
I feel her eyes on me.

Guibert
[to Valence].
The Duchess, sir, inclines to hear your suit.
Advance! He is from Cleves.

Valence
[coming forward. Aside].
Their wrongs—their wrongs!

The Duchess.
And you, sir, are from Cleves? How fresh in mind,
The hour or two I passed at queenly Cleves!
She entertained me bravely, but the best
Of her good pageant seemed its standers-by
With insuppressive joy on every face!
What says my ancient famous happy Cleves?

Valence.
Take the truth, lady—you are made for truth!
So think my friends: nor do they less deserve
The having you to take it, you shall think,
When you know all—nay, when you only know
How, on that day you recollect at Cleves,
When the poor acquiescing multitude
Who thrust themselves with all their woes apart
Into unnoticed corners, that the few,
Their means sufficed to muster trappings for,
Might fill the foreground, occupy your sight
With joyous faces fit to bear away
And boast of as a sample of all Cleves
—How, when to daylight these crept out once more,
Clutching, unconscious, each his empty rags
Whence the scant coin, which had not half bought bread,
That morn he shook forth, counted piece by piece,
And, well-advisedly, on perfumes spent them
To burn, or flowers to strew, before your path
—How, when the golden flood of music and bliss
Ebbed, as their moon retreated, and again
Left the sharp black-point rocks of misery bare
—Then I, their friend, had only to suggest
“Saw she the horror as she saw the pomp!”
And as one man they cried “He speaks the truth:
“Show her the horror! Take from our own mouths
“Our wrongs and show them, she will see them too!”
This they cried, lady! I have brought the wrongs.

The Duchess.
Wrongs? Cleves has wrongs—apparent now and thus?
I thank you! In that paper? Give it me!

Valence.
(There, Cleves!) In this! (What did I promise, Cleves?)
Our weavers, clothiers, spinners are reduced
Since . . . Oh, I crave your pardon! I forget
I buy the privilege of this approach,
And promptly would discharge my debt. I lay
This paper humbly at the Duchess' feet.

[Presenting Guibert's paper.
Guibert.
Stay! for the present . . .

The Duchess.
Stay, sir? I take aught
That teaches me their wrongs with greater pride
Than this your ducal circlet. Thank you, sir!
[The Duchess reads hastily; then, turning to the Courtiers—
What have I done to you? Your deed or mine
Was it, this crowning me? I gave myself
No more a title to your homage, no,
Than church-flowers, born this season, wrote the words
In the saint's-book that sanctified them first.
For such a flower, you plucked me; well, you erred—
Well, 't was a weed; remove the eye-sore quick!
But should you not remember it has lain
Steeped in the candles' glory, palely shrined,
Nearer God's Mother than most earthly things?
—That if't be faded 't is with prayer's sole breath—
That the one day it boasted was God's day?
Still, I do thank you! Had you used respect,
Here might I dwindle to my last white leaf,
Here lose life's latest freshness, which even yet
May yield some wandering insect rest and food:
So, fling me forth, and—all is best for all!
[After a pause.]
Prince Berthold, who art Juliers' Duke it seems—
The King's choice, and the Emperor's, and the Pope's—
Be mine, too! Take this People! Tell not me
Of rescripts, precedents, authorities,
—But take them, from a heart that yearns to give!
Find out their love,—I could not; find their fear,—
I would not; find their like,—I never shall,
Among the flowers!
[Taking off her coronet.
Colombe of Ravestein
Thanks God she is no longer Duchess here!

Valence
[advancing to Guibert].
Sir Guibert, knight, they call you—this of mine
Is the first step I ever set at court.
You dared make me your instrument, I find;
For that, so sure as you and I are men,
We reckon to the utmost presently:
But as you are a courtier and I none,
Your knowledge may instruct me. I, already,
Have too far outraged, by my ignorance
Of courtier-ways, this lady, to proceed
A second step and risk addressing her:
—I am degraded—you let me address!
Out of her presence, all is plain enough
What I shall do—but in her presence, too,
Surely there's something proper to be done.
[To the others.]
You, gentles, tell me if I guess aright—
May I not strike this man to earth?

The Courtiers
[as Guibert springs forward, with-holding him].
Let go!
—The clothiers' spokesman, Guibert? Grace a churl?

The Duchess
[to Valence].
Oh, be acquainted with your party, sir!
He's of the oldest lineage Juliers boasts;
A lion crests him for a cognizance
“Scorning to waver”—that's his 'scutcheon's word;
His office with the new Duke—probably
The same in honour as with me; or more,
By so much as this gallant turn deserves.
He's now, I dare say, of a thousand times
The rank and influence that remain with her
Whose part you take! So, lest for taking it
You suffer . . .

Valence.
I may strike him then to earth?

Guibert
[falling on his knee].
Great and dear lady, pardon me! Hear once!
Believe me and be merciful—be just!
I could not bring myself to give that paper
Without a keener pang than I dared meet
—And so felt Clugnet here, and Maufroy here
—No one dared meet it. Protestation's cheap,—
But, if to die for you did any good,
[To Gaucelme.]
Would not I die, sir? Say your worst of me!
But it does no good, that's the mournful truth.
And since the hint of a resistance, even,
Would just precipitate, on you the first,
A speedier ruin—I shall not deny,
Saving myself indubitable pain,
I thought to give you pleasure (who might say?)
By showing that your only subject found
To carry the sad notice, was the man
Precisely ignorant of its contents;
A nameless, mere provincial advocate;
One whom't was like you never saw before,
Never would see again. All has gone wrong;
But I meant right, God knows, and you, I trust!

The Duchess.
A nameless advocate, this gentleman?
—(I pardon you, Sir Guibert!)

Guibert
[rising, to Valence].
Sir, and you?

Valence.
—Rejoice that you are lightened of a load.
Now, you have only me to reckon with.

The Duchess.
One I have never seen, much less obliged?

Valence.
Dare I speak, lady?

The Duchess.
Dare you! Heard you not
I rule no longer?

Valence.
Lady, if your rule
Were based alone on such a ground as these
[Pointing to the Courtiers.
Could furnish you,—abjure it! They have hidden
A source of true dominion from your sight.

The Duchess.
You hear them—no such source is left . . .

Valence.
Hear Cleves!
Whose haggard craftsmen rose to starve this day,
Starve now, and will lie down at night to starve,
Sure of a like to-morrow-but as sure
Of a most unlike morrow-after-that,
Since end things must, end howsoe'er things may.
What curbs the brute-force instinct in its hour?
What makes—instead of rising, all as one,
And teaching fingers, so expert to wield
Their tool, the broadsword's play or carbine's trick,
—What makes that there's an easier help, they think,
For you, whose name so few of them can spell,
Whose face scarce one in every hundred saw,—
You simply have to understand their wrongs,
And wrongs will vanish—so, still trades are plied,
And swords lie rusting, and myself stand here?
There is a vision in the heart of each
Of justice, mercy, wisdom, tenderness
To wrong and pain, and knowledge of its cure:
And these embodied in a woman's form
That best transmits them, pure as first received,
From God above her, to mankind below.
Will you derive your rule from such a ground,
Or rather hold it by the suffrage, say,
Of this man—this—and this?

The Duchess
[after a pause].
You come from Cleves:
How many are at Cleves of such a mind?

Valence
[from his paper].
“We, all the manufacturers of Cleves—”

The Duchess.
Or stay, sir—lest I seem too covetous—
Are you my subject? such as you describe,
Am I to you, though to no other man?

Valence
[from his paper].
—“Valence, ordained your Advocate at Cleves”—

The Duchess
[replacing the coronet].
Then I remain Cleves' Duchess! Take you note,
While Cleves but yields one subject of this stamp,
I stand her lady till she waves me off!
For her sake, all the Prince claims I withhold;
Laugh at each menace; and, his power defying,
Return his missive with its due contempt!

[Casting it away.
Guibert
[picking it up].
—Which to the Prince I will deliver, lady,
(Note it down, Gaucelme)—with your message too!

The Duchess.
I think the office is a subject's, sir!
—Either . . . . how style you him?—my special guarder
The Marshal's—for who knows but violence
May follow the delivery?—Or, perhaps,
My Chancellor's—for law may be to urge
On its receipt!—Or, even my Chamberlain's—
For I may violate established form!
[To Valence.]
Sir,—for the half-hour till this service ends,
Will you become all these to me?

Valence
[falling on his knee].
My liege!

The Duchess.
Give me! [The Courtiers present their badges of office.
[Putting them by.]

Whatever was their virtue once,
They need new consecration. [Raising Valence.]
Are you mine?
I will be Duchess yet!

[She retires.
The Courtiers.
Our Duchess yet!
A glorious lady! Worthy love and dread!
I'll stand by her,—And I, whate'er betide!

Guibert
[to Valence].
Well done, well done, sir! I care not who knows,
You have done nobly and I envy you—
Tho' I am but unfairly used, I think:
For when one gets a place like this I hold,
One gets too the remark that its mere wages,
The pay and the preferment, make our prize.
Talk about zeal and faith apart from these,
We're laughed at—much would zeal and faith subsist
Without these also! Yet, let these be stopped,
Our wages discontinue,—then, indeed,
Our zeal and faith, (we hear on every side,)
Are not released—having been pledged away
I wonder, for what zeal and faith in turn?
Hard money purchased me my place! No, no—
I'm right, sir—but your wrong is better still,
If I had time and skill to argue it.
Therefore, I say, I'll serve you, how you please—
If you like,—fight you, as you seem to wish—
(The kinder of me that, in sober truth,
I never dreamed I did you any harm) . . .

Gaucelme.
—Or, kinder still, you'll introduce, no doubt,
His merits to the Prince who's just at hand,
And let no hint drop he's made Chancellor
And Chamberlain and Heaven knows what beside!

Clugnet
[to Valence].
You stare, young sir, and threaten! Let me say,
That at your age, when first I came to court,
I was not much above a gentleman;
While now . . .

Valence.
—You are Head-Lackey? With your office
I have not yet been graced, sir!

Other Courtiers
[to Clugnet].
Let him talk!
Fidelity, disinterestedness,
Excuse so much! Men claim my worship ever
Who staunchly and steadfastly . . .

Enter Adolf.
Adolf.
The Prince arrives.

Courtiers.
Ha? How?

Adolf.
He leaves his guard a stage behind
At Aix, and enters almost by himself.

1st Courtier.
The Prince! This foolish business puts all out.

2nd Courtier.
Let Gaucelme speak first!

3rd Courtier.
Better I began
About the state of Juliers: should one say
All's prosperous and inviting him?

4th Courtier.
—Or rather,
All s prostrate and imploring him?

5th Courtier.
That's best.
Where's the Cleves' paper, by the way?

4th Courtier
[to Valence].
Sir—sir—
If you'll but lend that paper—trust it me,
I'll warrant . . .

5th Courtier.
Softly, sir—the Marshal's duty!

Clugnet.
Has not the Chamberlain a hearing first
By virtue of his patent?

Gaucelme.
Patents?—Duties?
All that, my masters, must begin again!
One word composes the whole controversy:
We're simply now—the Prince's!

The Others.
Ay—the Prince's!

Enter Sabyne.
Sabyne.
Adolf! Bid . . . Oh, no time for ceremony!
Where's whom our lady calls her only subject?
She needs him. Who is here the Duchess's?

Valence
[starting from his reverie]
Most gratefully I follow to her feet.

ACT III. AFTERNOON.

Scene.—The Vestibule.
Enter Prince Berthold and Melchior.
Berthold.
A thriving little burgh this Juliers looks.
[Half-apart.]
Keep Juliers, and as good you kept Cologne:
Better try Aix, though!—

Melchior.
Please't your Highness speak?

Berthold
[as before].
Aix, Cologne, Frankfort,—Milan;—Rome!—

Melchior.
The Grave.
More weary seems your Highness, I remark,
Than sundry conquerors whose path I've watched
Through fire and blood to any prize they gain.
I could well wish you, for your proper sake,
Had met some shade of opposition here
—Found a blunt seneschal refuse unlock,
Or a scared usher lead your steps astray.
You must not look for next achievement's palm
So easily: this will hurt your conquering.

Berthold.
My next? Ay, as you say, my next and next!
Well, I am tired, that's truth, and moody too,
This quiet entrance-morning: listen why!
Our little burgh, now, Juliers—'t is indeed
One link, however insignificant,
Of the great chain by which I reach my hope,
—A link I must secure; but otherwise,
You'd wonder I esteem it worth my grasp.
Just see what life is, with its shifts and turns!
It happens now—this very nook—to be
A place that once . . not a long while since, neither—
When I lived an ambiguous hanger-on
Of foreign courts, and bore my claims about,
Discarded by one kinsman, and the other
A poor priest merely,—then, I say, this place
Shone my ambition's object; to be Duke—
Seemed then, what to be Emperor seems now.
My rights were far from judged as plain and sure
In those days as of late, I promise you:
And't was my day-dream, Lady Colombe here
Might e'en compound the matter, pity me,
Be struck, say, with my chivalry and grace
(I was a boy!)—bestow her hand at length,
And make me Duke, in her right if not mine.
Here am I, Duke confessed, at Juliers now.
Hearken: if ever I be Emperor,
Remind me what I felt and said to-day!

Melchior.
All this consoles a bookish man like me.
—And so will weariness cling to you. Wrong,
Wrong! Had you sought the lady's court yourself,—
Faced the redoubtables composing it,
Flattered this, threatened that man, bribed the other,—
Pleaded by writ and word and deed, your cause,—
Conquered a footing inch by painful inch,—
And, after long years' struggle, pounced at last
On her for prize,—the right life had been lived,
And justice done to divers faculties
Shut in that brow. Yourself were visible
As you stood victor, then; whom now—(your pardon!)
I am forced narrowly to search and see,
So are you hid by helps—this Pope, your uncle—
Your cousin, the other King! You are a mind,—
They, body: too much of mere legs-and-arms
Obstructs the mind so! Match these with their like:
Match mind with mind!

Berthold.
And where's your mind to match?
They show me legs-and-arms to cope withal!
I'd subjugate this city—where's its mind?

[The Courtiers enter slowly.
Melchior.
Got out of sight when you came troops and all!
And in its stead, here greets you flesh-and-blood:
A smug œconomy of both, this first!
[As Clugnet bows obsequiously.
Well done, gout, all considered!—I may go?

Berthold.
Help me receive them!

Melchior.
Oh, they just will say
What yesterday at Aix their fellows said
At Treves, the day before! Sir Prince, my friend.
Why do you let your life slip thus?—Meantime,
I have my little Juliers to achieve—
The understanding this tough Platonist,
Your holy uncle disinterred, Amelius:
Lend me a company of horse and foot,
To help me through his tractate—gain my Duchy!

Berthold.
And Empire, after that is gained, will be—?

Melchior.
To help me through your uncle's comment,
Prince!

[Goes.
Berthold.
Ah? Well: he o'er-refines—the scholar's fault!
How do I let my life slip? Say, this life,
I lead now, differs from the common life
Of other men in mere degree, not kind,
Of joys and griefs,—still there is such degree
Mere largeness in a life is something, sure,—
Enough to care about and struggle for,
In this world: for this world, the size of things;
The sort of things, for that to come, no doubt.
A great is better than a little aim:
And when I wooed Priscilla's rosy mouth
And failed so, under that grey convent-wall,
Was I more happy than I should be now
[By this time, the Courtiers are ranged before him.
If failing of my Empire? Not a whit.
—Here comes the mind, it once had tasked me sore
To baffle, but for my advantages!
All's best as 't is: these scholars talk and talk.

[Seats himself.
The Courtiers.
Welcome our Prince to Juliers!—to his heritage!
Our dutifullest service proffer we!

Clugnet.
I, please your Highness, having exercised
The function of Grand Chamberlain at court,
With much acceptance, as men testify . . .

Berthold.
I cannot greatly thank you, gentlemen!
The Pope declares my claim to the Duchy founded
On strictest justice—you concede it, therefore,
I do not wonder: and the kings my friends
Protest they mean to see such claim enforced,—
You easily may offer to assist.
But there's a slight discretionary power
To serve me in the matter, you've had long,
Though late you use it. This is well to say—
But could you not have said it months ago?
I'm not denied my own Duke's truncheon, true—
'T is flung me—I stoop down, and from the ground
Pick it, with all you placid standers-by:
And now I have it, gems and mire at once,
Grace go with it to my soiled hands, you say!

Guibert.
(By Paul, the advocate our doughty friend
Cuts the best figure!)

Gaucelme.
If our ignorance
May have offended, sure our loyalty . . .

Berthold.
Loyalty? Yours? Oh—of yourselves you speak!
I mean the Duchess all this time, I hope!
And since I have been forced repeat my claims
As if they never had been urged before,
As I began, so must I end, it seems.
The formal answer to the grave demand!
What says the lady?

Courtiers [one to another].
1st Courtier.
Marshal!

2nd Courtier.
Orator!

Guibert.
A variation of our mistress' way!
Wipe off his boots' dust, Clugnet!—that, he waits!

1st Courtier.
Your place!

2nd Courtier.
Just now it was your own!

Guibert.
The devil's!

Berthold
[to Guibert].
Come forward, friend—you with the paper, there!
Is Juliers the first city I've obtained?
By this time, I may boast proficiency
In each decorum of the circumstance.
Give it me as she gave it—the petition,
Demand, you style it! What's required, in brief?
What title's reservation, appanage's
Allowance? I heard all at Treves, last week.

Gaucelme
[to Guibert].
“Give it him as she gave it!”

Guibert.
And why not?
[To Berthold.]
The lady crushed your summons thus together,
And bade me, with the very greatest scorn
So fair a frame could hold, inform you . . .

Courtiers.
Stop—
Idiot!

Guibert.
—Inform you she denied your claim,
Defied yourself! (I tread upon his heel,
The blustering advocate!)

Berthold.
By heaven and earth!
Dare you jest, sir?

Guibert.
Did they at Treves, last week?

Berthold
[starting up].
Why then, I look much bolder than I knew,
And you prove better actors than I thought:
Since, as I live, I took you as you entered
For just so many dearest friends of mine,
Fled from the sinking to the rising power
—The sneaking'st crew, in short, I e'er despised!
Whereas, I am alone here for the moment,
With every soldier left behind at Aix!
Silence? That means the worst? I thought as much!
What follows next then?

Courtiers.
Gracious Prince, he raves!

Guibert.
He asked the truth and why not get the truth?

Berthold.
Am I a prisoner? Speak, will somebody?
—But why stand paltering with imbeciles?
Let me see her, or . . .

Guibert.
Her, without her leave,
Shall no one see: she's Duchess yet!

Courtiers
[footsteps without, as they are disputing].
Good chance!
She's here—the Lady Colombe's self!

Berthold.
'T is well!
[Aside.]
Array a handful thus against my world?
Not ill done, truly! Were not this a mind
To match one's mind with? Colombe! Let us wait!
I failed so, under that grey convent wall!
She comes.

Guibert.
The Duchess! Strangers, range yourselves!

[As the Duchess enters in conversation with Valence, Berthold and the Courtiers fall back a little.
The Duchess.
Presagefully it beats, presagefully,
My heart: the right is Berthold's and not mine.

Valence.
Grant that he has the right, dare I mistrust
Your power to acquiesce so patiently
As you believe, in such a dream-like change
Of fortune—change abrupt, profound, complete?

The Duchess.
Ah, the first bitterness is over now!
Bitter I may have felt it to confront
The truth, and ascertain those natures' value
I had so counted on; that was a pang:
But I did bear it, and the worst is over.
Let the Prince take them!

Valence.
And take Juliers too?
—Your people without crosses, wands and chains—
Only with hearts?

The Duchess.
There I feel guilty, sir!
I cannot give up what I never had:
For I ruled these, not them—these stood between.
Shall I confess, sir? I have heard by stealth
Of Berthold from the first; more news and more:
Closer and closer swam the thundercloud,
But I was safely housed with these, I knew.
At times when to the casement I would turn,
At a bird's passage or a flower-trail's play,
I caught the storm's red glimpses on its edge—
Yet I was sure some one of all these friends
Would interpose: I followed the bird's flight
Or plucked the flower: some one would interpose!

Valence.
Not one thought on the People—and Cleves there!

The Duchess.
Now, sadly conscious my real sway was missed,
Its shadow goes without so much regret:
Else could I not again thus calmly bid you,
Answer Prince Berthold!

Valence.
Then you acquiesce?

The Duchess.
Remember over whom it was I ruled!

Guibert
[stepping forward].
Prince Berthold, yonder, craves an audience, lady!

The Duchess
[to Valence].
I only have to turn, and I shall face
Prince Berthold! Oh, my very heart is sick!
It is the daughter of a line of Dukes
This scornful insolent adventurer
Will bid depart from my dead father's halls!
I shall not answer him—dispute with him—
But, as he bids, depart! Prevent it, sir!
Sir—but a mere day's respite! Urge for me
—What I shall call to mind I should have urged
When time's gone by: 't will all be mine, you urge!
A day—an hour—that I myself may lay
My rule down! 'T is too sudden—must not be!
The world's to hear of it! Once done—for ever!
How will it read, sir? How be sung about?
Prevent it!

Berthold
[approaching].
Your frank indignation, lady,
Cannot escape me. Overbold I seem;
But somewhat should be pardoned my surprise
At this reception,—this defiance, rather.
And if, for their and your sake, I rejoice
Your virtues could inspire a trusty few
To make such gallant stand in your behalf,
I cannot but be sorry, for my own,
Your friends should force me to retrace my steps:
Since I no longer am permitted speak
After the pleasant peaceful course prescribed
No less by courtesy than relationship—
Which I remember, if you once forgot.
But never must attack pass unrepelled.
Suffer that, through you, I demand of these,
Who controverts my claim to Juliers?

The Duchess.
—Me
You say, you do not speak to—

Berthold.
Of your subjects
I ask, then: whom do you accredit? Where
Stand those should answer?

Valence
[advancing].
The lady is alone.

Berthold.
Alone, and thus? So weak and yet so bold?

Valence.
I said she was alone—

Berthold.
And weak, I said.

Valence.
When is man strong until he feels alone?
It was some lonely strength at first, be sure,
Created organs, such as those you seek,
By which to give its varied purpose shape:
And, naming the selected ministrants,
Took sword, and shield, and sceptre,—each, a man!
That strength performed its work and passed its way:
You see our lady: there, the old shapes stand!
—A Marshal, Chamberlain, and Chancellor—
“Be helped their way, into their death put life
“And find advantage!”—so you counsel us.
But let strength feel alone, seek help itself,—
And, as the inland-hatched sea-creature hunts
The sea's breast out,—as, littered 'mid the waves
The desert-brute makes for the desert's joy,
So turns our lady to her true resource,
Passing o'er hollow fictions, worn-out types,
—And I am first her instinct fastens on.
And prompt I say, as clear as heart can speak,
The People will not have you; nor shall have!
It is not merely I shall go bring Cleves
And fight you to the last,—though that does much,
And men and children,—ay, and women too,
Fighting for home, are rather to be feared
Than mercenaries fighting for their pay—
But, say you beat us, since such things have been,
And, where this Juliers laughed, you set your foot
Upon a steaming bloody plash—what then?
Stand you the more our lord that there you stand?
Lord it o'er troops whose force you concentrate,
A pillared flame whereto all ardours tend—
Lord it 'mid priests whose schemes you amplify,
A cloud of smoke 'neath which all shadows brood—
But never, in this gentle spot of earth,
Can you become our Colombe, our play-queen,
For whom, to furnish lilies for her hair,
We'd pour our veins forth to enrich the soil.
—Our conqueror? Yes!—Our despot? Yes!—Our Duke?
Know yourself, know us!

Berthold
[who has been in thought].
Know your lady, also!
[Very deferentially.]
—To whom I needs must exculpate myself
For having made a rash demand, at least.
Wherefore to you, sir, who appear to be
Her chief adviser, I submit my claims,
[Giving papers.
But, this step taken, take no further step,
Until the Duchess shall pronounce their worth.
Here be our meeting-place; at night, its time:
Till when I humbly take the lady's leave!

[He withdraws. As the Duchess turns to Valence, the Courtiers interchange glances and come forward a little.
1st Courtier.
So, this was their device!

2nd Courtier.
No bad device!

3rd Courtier.
You'd say they love each other, Guibert's friend
From Cleves, and she, the Duchess!

4th Courtier.
—And moreover,
That all Prince Berthold comes for, is to help
Their loves!

5th Courtier.
Pray, Guibert, what is next to do?

Guibert
[advancing].
I laid my office at the Duchess' foot—

Others.
And I—and I—and I!

The Duchess.
I took them, sirs.

Guibert
[apart to Valence].
And now, sir, I am simple knight again—
Guibert, of the great ancient house, as yet
That never bore affront; whate'er your birth,—
As things stand now, I recognize yourself
(If you'll accept experience of some date)
As like to be the leading man o' the time,
Therefore as much above me now, as I
Seemed above you this morning. Then, I offered
To fight you: will you be as generous
And now fight me?

Valence.
Ask when my life is mine!

Guibert.
('Tis hers now!)

Clugnet
[apart to Valence, as Guibert turns from him].
You, sir, have insulted me
Grossly,—will grant me, too, the selfsame favour
You've granted him, just now, I make no question?

Valence.
I promise you, as him, sir.

Clugnet.
Do you so?
Handsomely said! I hold you to it, sir.
You'll get me reinstated in my office
As you will Guibert!

The Duchess.
I would be alone!
[They begin to retire slowly; as Valence is about to follow—
Alone, sir—only with my heart: you stay!

Gaucelme.
You hear that? Ah, light breaks upon me! Cleves—
It was at Cleves some man harangued us all—
With great effect,—so those who listened said,
My thoughts being busy elsewhere: was this he?
Guibert,—your strange, disinterested man!
Your uncorrupted, if uncourtly friend!
The modest worth you mean to patronize!
He cares about no Duchesses, not he—
His sole concern is with the wrongs of Cleves!
What, Guibert? What, it breaks on you at last?

Guibert.
Would this hall's floor were a mine's roof! I'd back
And in her very face . . .

Gaucelme.
Apply the match
That fired the train,—and where would you be, pray?

Guibert.
With him!

Gaucelme.
Stand, rather, safe outside with me!
The mine's charged: shall I furnish you the match
And place you properly? To the antechamber!

Guibert.
Can you?

Gaucelme.
Try me! Your friend's in fortune!

Guibert.
Quick—
To the antechamber! He is pale with bliss!

Gaucelme.
No wonder! Mark her eyes!

Guibert.
To the antechamber!

[The Courtiers retire.
The Duchess.
Sir, could you know all you have done for me
You were content! You spoke, and I am saved.

Valence.
Be not too sanguine, lady! Ere you dream,
That transient flush of generosity
Fades off, perchance. The man, beside, is gone,—
Him we might bend; but see, the papers here—
Inalterably his requirement stays,
And cold hard words have we to deal with now.
In that large eye there seemed a latent pride,
To self-denial not incompetent,
But very like to hold itself dispensed
From such a grace: however, let us hope!
He is a noble spirit in noble form.
I wish he less had bent that brow to smile
As with the fancy how he could subject
Himself upon occasion to—himself!
From rudeness, violence, you rest secure;
But do not think your Duchy rescued yet!

The Duchess.
You,—who have opened a new world to me,
Will never take the faded language up
Of that I leave? My Duchy—keeping it,
Or losing it—is that my sole world now?

Valence.
Ill have I spoken if you thence despise
Juliers; although the lowest, on true grounds,
Be worth more than the highest rule, on false:
Aspire to rule, on the true grounds!

The Duchess.
Nay, hear—
False, I will never—rash, I would not be!
This is indeed my birthday—soul and body,
Its hours have done on me the work of years.
You hold the requisition: ponder it!
If I have right, my duty's plain: if he—
Say so, nor ever change a tone of voice!
At night you meet the Prince; meet me at eve!
Till when, farewell! This discomposes you?
Believe in your own nature, and its force
Of renovating mine! I take my stand
Only as under me the earth is firm:
So, prove the first step stable, all will prove.
That first, I choose: [Laying her hand on his.]
—the next to take, choose you!

[She withdraws.
Valence
[after a pause].
What drew down this on me?
—on me, dead once,
She thus bids live,—since all I hitherto
Thought dead in me, youth's ardours and emprise,
Burst into life before her, as she bids
Who needs them. Whither will this reach, where end?
Her hand's print burns on mine . . . Yet she's above—
So very far above me! All's too plain:
I served her when the others sank away,
And she rewards me as such souls reward—
The changed voice, the suffusion of the cheek,
The eye's acceptance, the expressive hand,
—Reward, that's little, in her generous thought,
Though all to me . . .
I cannot so disclaim
Heaven's gift, nor call it other than it is!
She loves me!
[Looking at the Prince's papers.]
—Which love, these, perchance, forbid.
Can I decide against myself—pronounce
She is the Duchess and no mate for me?
—Cleves, help me! Teach me,—every haggard face,—
To sorrow and endure! I will do right
Whatever be the issue. Help me, Cleves!

ACT IV. EVENING.

Scene.—An Antechamber.
Enter the Courtiers.
Maufroy.
Now, then, that we may speak—how spring this mine?

Gaucelme.
Is Guibert ready for its match? He cools!
Not so friend Valence with the Duchess there!
“Stay, Valence! Are not you my better self?”
And her cheek mantled—

Guibert.
Well, she loves him, sir:
And more,—since you will have it I grow cool,—
She's right: he's worth it.

Gaucelme.
For his deeds to-day?
Say so!

Guibert.
What should I say beside?

Gaucelme.
Not this—
For friendship's sake leave this for me to say—
That we're the dupes of an egregious cheat!
This plain unpractised suitor, who found way
To the Duchess through the merest die's turn-up
A year ago, had seen her and been seen,
Loved and been loved.

Guibert.
Impossible!

Gaucelme.
—Nor say,
How sly and exquisite a trick, moreover,
Was this which—taking not their stand on facts
Boldly, for that had been endurable,
But worming on their way by craft, they choose
Resort to, rather,—and which you and we,
Sheep-like, assist them in the playing-off!
The Duchess thus parades him as preferred,
Not on the honest ground of preference,
Seeing first, liking more, and there an end—
But as we all had started equally,
And at the close of a fair race he proved
The only valiant, sage and loyal man.
Herself, too, with the pretty fits and starts,—
The careless, winning, candid ignorance
Of what the Prince might challenge or forego—
She had a hero in reserve! What risk
Ran she? This deferential easy Prince
Who brings his claims for her to ratify
—He's just her puppet for the nonce! You'll see,—
Valence pronounces, as is equitable,
Against him: off goes the confederate:
As equitably, Valence takes her hand!

The Chancellor.
You run too fast: her hand, no subject takes.
Do not our archives hold her father's will?
That will provides against such accident,
And gives next heir, Prince Berthold, the reversion
Of Juliers, which she forfeits, wedding so.

Gaucelme.
I know that, well as you,—but does the Prince?
Knows Berthold, think you, that this plan, he helps,
For Valence's ennoblement,—would end,
If crowned with the success which seems its due,
In making him the very thing he plays,
The actual Duke of Juliers? All agree
That Colombe's title waived or set aside,
He is next heir.

The Chancellor.
Incontrovertibly.

Gaucelme.
Guibert, your match, now, to the train!

Guibert.
Enough!
I'm with you: selfishness is best again.
I thought of turning honest—what a dream!
Let's wake now!

Gaucelme.
Selfish, friend, you never were:
'T was but a series of revenges taken
On your unselfishness for prospering ill.
But now that you're grown wiser, what's our course?

Guibert.
—Wait, I suppose, till Valence weds our lady,
And then, if we must needs revenge ourselves,
Apprise the Prince.

Gaucelme.
—The Prince, ere then dismissed
With thanks for playing his mock part so well?
Tell the Prince now, sir! Ay, this very night,
Ere he accepts his dole and goes his way,
Explain how such a marriage makes him Duke,
Then trust his gratitude for the surprise!

Guibert.
—Our lady wedding Valence all the same
As if the penalty were undisclosed?
Good! If she loves, she 'll not disown her love,
Throw Valence up. I wonder you see that.

Gaucelme.
The shame of it—the suddenness and shame!
Within her, the inclining heart—without,
A terrible array of witnesses—
And Valence by, to keep her to her word,
With Berthold's indignation or disgust!
We'll try it!—Not that we can venture much.
Her confidence we've lost for ever: Berthold's
Is all to gain.

Guibert.
To-night, then, venture we!
Yet—if lost confidence might be renewed?

Gaucelme.
Never in noble natures! With the base ones,—
Twist off the crab's claw, wait a smarting-while,
And something grows and grows and gets to be
A mimic of the lost joint, just so like
As keeps in mind it never, never will
Replace its predecessor! Crabs do that:
But lop the lion's foot—and . . .

Guibert.
To the Prince!

Gaucelme
[aside].
And come what will to the lion's foot, I pay you,
My cat's-paw, as I long have yearned to pay.
[Aloud.]
Footsteps! Himself! 'Tis Valence breaks on us,
Exulting that their scheme succeeds. We'll hence—
And perfect ours! Consult the archives, first—
Then, fortified with knowledge, seek the Hall!

Clugnet
[to Gaucelme as they retire].
You have not smiled so since your father died!

As they retire, enter Valence with papers.
Valence.
So must it be! I have examined these
With scarce a palpitating heart—so calm,
Keeping her image almost wholly off,
Setting upon myself determined watch,
Repelling to the uttermost his claims:
And the result is—all men would pronounce
And not I, only, the result to be—
Berthold is heir; she has no shade of right
To the distinction which divided us,
But, suffered to rule first, I know not why,
Her rule connived at by those Kings and Popes,
To serve some devil's-purpose,—now 't is gained,
Whate'er it was, the rule expires as well.
—Valence, this rapture . . . selfish can it be?
Eject it from your heart, her home!—It stays!
Ah, the brave world that opens on us both!
—Do my poor townsmen so esteem it? Cleves,—
I need not your pale faces! This, reward
For service done to you? Too horrible!
I never served you: 't was myself I served—
Nay, served not—rather saved from punishment
Which, had I failed you then, would plague me now.
My life continues yours, and your life, mine.
But if, to take God's gift, I swerve no step—
Cleves! If I breathe no prayer for it—if she,
[Footsteps without.
Colombe, that comes now, freely gives herself—
Will Cleves require, that, turning thus to her,
I . . . Enter Prince Berthold.

Pardon, sir! I did not look for you
Till night, i' the Hall; nor have as yet declared
My judgment to the lady.

Berthold.
So I hoped.

Valence.
And yet I scarcely know why that should check
The frank disclosure of it first to you—
What her right seems, and what, in consequence,
She will decide on.

Berthold.
That I need not ask.

Valence.
You need not: I have proved the lady's mind:
And, justice being to do, dare act for her.

Berthold.
Doubtless she has a very noble mind.

Valence.
Oh, never fear but she'll in each conjuncture
Bear herself bravely! She no whit depends
On circumstance; as she adorns a throne,
She had adorned . . .

Berthold.
A cottage—in what book
Have I read that, of every queen that lived?
A throne? You have not been instructed, sure,
To forestall my request?

Valence.
'Tis granted, sir!
My heart instructs me. I have scrutinized
Your claims . . .

Berthold.
Ah—claims, you mean, at first preferred?
I come, before the hour appointed me,
To pray you let those claims at present rest,
In favour of a new and stronger one.

Valence.
You shall not need a stronger: on the part
O' the lady, all you offer I accept,
Since one clear right suffices: yours is clear.
Propose!

Berthold.
I offer her my hand.

Valence.
Your hand?

Berthold.
A Duke's, yourself say; and, at no far time,
Something here whispers me—an Emperor's.
The lady's mind is noble: which induced
This seizure of occasion ere my claims
Were—settled, let us amicably say!

Valence.
Your hand!

Berthold.
(He will fall down and kiss it next!)
Sir, this astonishment's too flattering,
Nor must you hold your mistress' worth so cheap.
Enhance it, rather,—urge that blood is blood—
The daughter of the Burgraves, Landgraves, Markgraves,
Remains their daughter! I shall scarce gainsay.
Elsewhere or here, the lady needs must rule:
Like the imperial crown's great chrysoprase,
They talk of—somewhat out of keeping there,
And yet no jewel for a meaner cap.

Valence.
You wed the Duchess?

Berthold.
Cry you mercy, friend!
Will the match also influence fortunes here?
A natural solicitude enough.
Be certain, no bad chance it proves for you!
However high you take your present stand,
There's prospect of a higher still remove—
For Juliers will not be my resting-place,
And, when I have to choose a substitute
To rule the little burgh, I'll think of you
Who need not give your mates a character.
And yet I doubt your fitness to supplant
The grey smooth Chamberlain: he'd hesitate
A doubt his lady could demean herself
So low as to accept me. Courage, sir!
I like your method better: feeling's play
Is franker much, and flatters me beside.

Valence.
I am to say, you love her?

Berthold.
Say that too!
Love has no great concernment, thinks the world,
With a Duke's marriage. How go precedents
In Juliers' story—how use Juliers' Dukes?
I see you have them here in goodly row;
Yon must be Luitpold—ay, a stalwart sire!
Say, I have been arrested suddenly
In my ambition's course, its rocky course,
By this sweet flower: I fain would gather it
And then proceed: so say and speedily
—(Nor stand there like Duke Luitpold's brazen self!)
Enough, sir: you possess my mind, I think.
This is my claim, the others being withdrawn,
And to this be it that, i' the Hall to-night,
Your lady's answer comes; till when, farewell!

[He retires.
Valence
[after a pause].
The heavens and earth stay as they were; my heart
Beats as it beat: the truth remains the truth.
What falls away, then, if not faith in her?
Was it my faith, that she could estimate
Love's value, and, such faith still guiding me,
Dare I now test her? Or grew faith so strong
Solely because no power of test was mine?

Enter the Duchess.
The Duchess.
My fate, sir! Ah, you turn away. All's over.
But you are sorry for me? Be not so!
What I might have become, and never was,
Regret with me! What I have merely been,
Rejoice I am no longer! What I seem
Beginning now, in my new state, to be,
Hope that I am!—for, once my rights proved void,
This heavy roof seems easy to exchange
For the blue sky outside—my lot henceforth.

Valence.
And what a lot is Berthold's!

The Duchess.
How of him?

Valence.
He gathers earth's whole good into his arms;
Standing, as man now, stately, strong and wise,
Marching to fortune, not surprised by her.
One great aim, like a guiding-star, above—
Which tasks strength, wisdom, stateliness, to lift
His manhood to the height that takes the prize;
A prize not near—lest overlooking earth
He rashly spring to seize it—nor remote,
So that he rest upon his path content:
But day by day, while shimmering grows shine,
And the faint circlet prophesies the orb,
He sees so much as, just evolving these,
The stateliness, the wisdom and the strength,
To due completion, will suffice this life,
And lead him at his grandest to the grave.
After this star, out of a night he springs;
A beggar's cradle for the throne of thrones
He quits; so, mounting, feels each step he mounts,
Nor, as from each to each exultingly
He passes, overleaps one grade of joy.
This, for his own good:—with the world, each gift
Of God and man,—reality, tradition,
Fancy and fact—so well environ him,
That as a mystic panoply they serve—
Of force, untenanted, to awe mankind,
And work his purpose out with half the world,
While he, their master, dexterously slipt
From such encumbrance, is meantime employed
With his own prowess on the other half.
Thus shall he prosper, every day's success
Adding, to what is he, a solid strength—
An aëry might to what encircles him,
Till at the last, so life's routine lends help,
That as the Emperor only breathes and moves,
His shadow shall be watched, his step or stalk
Become a comfort or a portent, how
He trails his ermine take significance,—
Till even his power shall cease to be most power,
And men shall dread his weakness more, nor dare
Peril their earth its bravest, first and best,
Its typified invincibility.
Thus shall he go on, greatening, till he ends—
The man of men, the spirit of all flesh,
The fiery centre of an earthly world!

The Duchess.
Some such a fortune I had dreamed should rise
Out of my own—that is, above my power
Seemed other, greater potencies to stretch—

Valence.
For you?

The Duchess.
It was not I moved there, I think:
But one I could,—though constantly beside,
And aye approaching,—still keep distant from,
And so adore. 'T was a man moved there.

Valence.
Who?

The Duchess.
I felt the spirit, never saw the face.

Valence.
See it! 'Tis Berthold's! He enables you
To realize your vision.

The Duchess.
Berthold?

Valence.
Duke—
Emperor to be: he proffers you his hand.

The Duchess.
Generous and princely!

Valence.
He is all of this.

The Duchess.
Thanks, Berthold, for my father's sake! No hand
Degrades me.

Valence.
You accept the proffered hand?

The Duchess.
That he should love me!

Valence.
“Loved” I did not say.
Had that been—love might so incline the Prince
To the world's good, the world that's at his foot,—
I do not know, this moment, I should dare
Desire that you refused the world—and Cleves—
The sacrifice he asks.

The Duchess.
Not love me, sir?

Valence.
He scarce affirmed it.

The Duchess.
May not deeds affirm?

Valence.
What does he? . . . Yes, yes, very much he does!
All the shame saved, he thinks, and sorrow saved—
Immitigable sorrow, so he thinks,—
Sorrow that's deeper than we dream, perchance.

The Duchess.
Is not this love?

Valence.
So very much he does!
For look, you can descend now gracefully:
All doubts are banished, that the world might have,
Or worst, the doubts yourself, in after-time,
May call up of your heart's sincerencess now.
To such, reply, “I could have kept my rule—
“Increased it to the utmost of my dreams—
“Yet I abjured it.” This, he does for you:
It is munificently much.

The Duchess.
Still “much!”
But why is it not love, sir? Answer me!

Valence.
Because not one of Berthold's words and looks
Had gone with love's presentment of a flower
To the beloved: because bold confidence,
Open superiority, free pride—
Love owns not, yet were all that Berthold owned:
Because where reason, even, finds no flaw,
Unerringly a lover's instinct may.

The Duchess.
You reason, then, and doubt?

Valence.
I love, and know.

The Duchess.
You love? How strange! I never cast a thought
On that. Just see our selfishness! You seemed
So much my own . . . I had no ground—and yet,
I never dreamed another might divide
My power with you, much less exceed it.

Valence
Lady,
I am yours wholly

The Duchess.
Oh, no, no, not mine!
'Tis not the same now, never more can be.
—Your first love, doubtless. Well, what's gone from me?
What have I lost in you?

Valence.
My heart replies—
No loss there! So, to Berthold back again:
This offer of his hand, he bids me make—
Its obvious magnitude is well to weigh.

The Duchess.
She's . . . yes, she must be very fair for you!

Valence.
I am a simple advocate of Cleves.

The Duchess.
You! With the heart and brain that so helped me,
I fancied them exclusively my own,
Yet find are subject to a stronger sway
She must be . . . tell me, is she very fair?

Valence.
Most fair, beyond conception or belief.

The Duchess.
Black eyes?—no matter! Colombe, the world leads
Its life without you, whom your friends professed
The only woman: see how true they spoke!
One lived this while, who never saw your face,
Nor heard your voice—unless . . . Is she from Cleves?

Valence.
Cleves knows her well.

The Duchess.
Ah—just a fancy, now!
When you poured forth the wrongs of Cleves,—I said,
—Thought, that is, afterward . . .

Valence.
You thought of me?

The Duchess.
Of whom else? Only such great cause, I thought,
For such effect: see what true love can do!
Cleves is his love. I almost fear to ask
. . . And will not. This is idling: to our work!
Admit before the Prince, without reserve,
My claims misgrounded; then may follow better
. . . When you poured out Cleves' wrongs impetuously,
Was she in your mind?

Valence.
All done was done for her
—To humble me!

The Duchess.
She will be proud at least.

Valence.
She?

The Duchess.
When you tell her.

Valence.
That will never be.

The Duchess.
How—are there sweeter things you hope to tell?
No, sir! You counselled me,—I counsel you
In the one point I—any woman—can.
Your worth, the first thing; let her own come next—
Say what you did through her, and she through you—
The praises of her beauty afterward!
Will you?

Valence.
I dare not.

The Duchess.
Dare not?

Valence.
She I love
Suspects not such a love in me.

The Duchess.
You jest.

Valence.
The lady is above me and away.
Not only the brave form, and the bright mind,
And the great heart, combine to press me low—
But all the world calls rank divides us.

The Duchess.
Rank!
Now grant me patience! Here's a man declares
Oracularly in another's case—
Sees the true value and the false, for them—
Nay, bids them see it, and they straight do see.
You called my court's love worthless—so it turned:
I threw away as dross my heap of wealth,
And here you stickle for a piece or two!
First—has she seen you?

Valence.
Yes.

The Duchess.
She loves you, then.

Valence.
One flash of hope burst; then succeeded night:
And all's at darkest now. Impossible!

The Duchess.
We'll try: you are—so to speak—my subject yet?

Valence.
As ever—to the death.

The Duchess.
Obey me, then!

Valence.
I must.

The Duchess.
Approach her, and . . . no! first of all
Get more assurance. “My instructress,” say,
“Was great, descended from a line of kings,
“And even fair”—(wait why I say this folly)—
“She said, of all men, none for eloquence,
“Courage, and (what cast even these to shade)
“The heart they sprung from,—none deserved like him
“Who saved her at her need: if she said this,
“What should not one I love, say?”

Valence.
Heaven—this hope—
Oh, lady, you are filling me with fire!
The Duchess. Say this!—nor think I bid you cast aside
One touch of all the awe and reverence;
Nay, make her proud for once to heart's content
That all this wealth of heart and soul's her own!
Think you are all of this,—and, thinking it,
. . . (Obey!)

Valence.
I cannot choose.

The Duchess.
Then, kneel to her!
[Valence sinks on his knee.
I dream!

Valence.
Have mercy! Yours, unto the death,—
I have obeyed. Despise, and let me die!

The Duchess.
Alas, sir, is it to be ever thus?
Even with you as with the world? I know
This morning's service was no vulgar deed
Whose motive, once it dares avow itself,
Explains all done and infinitely more,
So, takes the shelter of a nobler cause.
Your service named its true source,—loyalty!
The rest's unsaid again. The Duchess bids you,
Rise, sir! The Prince's words were in debate.

Valence
[rising].
Rise? Truth, as ever, lady, comes from you!
I should rise—I who spoke for Cleves, can speak
For Man—yet tremble now, who stood firm then.
I laughed—for 't was past tears—that Cleves should starve
With all hearts beating loud the infamy,
And no tongue daring trust as much to air:
Yet here, where all hearts speak, shall I be mute?
Oh, lady, for your own sake look on me!
On all I am, and have, and do—heart, brain,
Body and soul,—this Valence and his gifts!
I was proud once: I saw you, and they sank,
So that each, magnified a thousand times,
Were nothing to you—but such nothingness,
Would a crown gild it, or a sceptre prop,
A treasure speed, a laurel-wreath enhance?
What is my own desert? But should your love
Have . . . there's no language helps here . . . singled me,—
Then—oh, that wild word “then!”—be just to love,
In generosity its attribute!
Love, since you pleased to love! All's cleared—a stage
For trial of the question kept so long:
Judge you—Is love or vanity the best?
You, solve it for the world's sake—you, speak first
What all will shout one day—you, vindicate
Our earth and be its angel! All is said.
Lady, I offer nothing—I am yours:
But, for the cause' sake, look on me and him,
And speak!

The Duchess.
I have received the Prince's message:
Say, I prepare my answer!

Valence.
Take me, Cleves!

[He withdraws.
The Duchess.
Mournful—that nothing's what it calls itself!
Devotion, zeal, faith, loyalty—mere love!
And, love in question, what may Berthold's be?
I did ill to mistrust the world so soon:
Already was this Berthold at my side.
The valley-level has its hawks no doubt:
May not the rock-top have its eagles, too?
Yet Valence . . . let me see his rival then!

ACT V. NIGHT.

Scene.—The Hall.
Enter Berthold and Melchior.
Melchior.
And here you wait the matter's issue?

Berthold.
Here.

Melchior.
I don't regret I shut Amelius, then.
But tell me, on this grand disclosure,—how
Behaved our spokesman with the forehead?

Berthold.
Oh,
Turned out no better than the foreheadless—
Was dazzled not so very soon, that's all!
For my part, this is scarce the hasty showy
Chivalrous measure you give me credit of.
Perhaps I had a fancy,—but 'tis gone.
—Let her commence the unfriended innocent
And carry wrongs about from court to court?
No, truly! The least shake of fortune's sand,
—My uncle-Pope chokes in a coughing fit,
King-cousin takes a fancy to blue eyes,—
And wondrously her claims would brighten up;
Forth comes a new gloss on the ancient law,
O'er-looked provisoes, o'er-past premises,
Follow in plenty. No: 'tis the safe step.
The hour beneath the convent-wall is lost:
Juliers and she, once mine, are ever mine.

Melchior.
Which is to say, you, losing heart already,
Elude the adventure.

Berthold.
Not so—or, if so—
Why not confess at once that I advise
None of our kingly craft and guild just now
To lay, one moment, down their privilege
With the notion they can any time at pleasure
Retake it: that may turn out hazardous.
We seem, in Europe, pretty well at end
O' the night, with our great masque: those favoured few
Who keep the chamber's top, and honour's chance
Of the early evening, may retain their place
And figure as they list till out of breath.
But it is growing late: and I observe
A dim grim kind of tipstaves at the doorway
Not only bar new-comers entering now,
But caution those who left, for any cause,
And would return, that morning draws too near;
The ball must die off, shut itself up. We—
I think, may dance lights out and sunshine in,
And sleep off headache on our frippery:
But friend the other, who cunningly stole out,
And, after breathing the fresh air outside,
Means to re-enter with a new costume,
Will be advised go back to bed, I fear.
I stick to privilege, on second thoughts.

Melchior.
Yes—you evade the adventure: and, beside,
Give yourself out for colder than you are.
King Philip, only, notes the lady's eyes?
Don't they come in for somewhat of the motive
With you too?

Berthold.
Yes—no: I am past that now.
Gone 'tis: I cannot shut my soul to fact.
Of course, I might by forethought and contrivance
Reason myself into a rapture. Gone:
And something better come instead, no doubt.

Melchior.
So be it! Yet, all the same, proceed my way,
Though to your ends; so shall you prosper best!
The lady,—to be won for selfish ends,—
Will be won easier my unselfish . . . call it,
Romantic way.

Berthold.
Won easier?

Melchior.
Will not she?

Berthold.
There I profess humility without bound:
Ill cannot speed—not I—the Emperor.

Melchior.
And I should think the Emperor best waived,
From your description of her mood and way.
You could look, if it pleased you, into hearts;
But are too indolent and fond of watching
Your own—you know that, for you study it.

Berthold.
Had you but seen the orator her friend,
So bold and voluble an hour before,
Abashed to earth at aspect of the change!
Make her an Empress? Ah, that changed the case!
Oh, I read hearts! 'T is for my own behoof,
I court her with my true worth: wait the event!
I learned my final lesson on that head
When years ago,—my first and last essay—
Before the priest my uncle could by help
Of his superior, raise me from the dirt—
Priscilla left me for a Brabant lord
Whose cheek was like the topaz on his thumb.
I am past illusion on that score.

Melchior.
Here comes
The lady—

Berthold.
—And there you go. But do not! Give me
Another chance to please you! Hear me plead!

Melchior.
You'll keep, then, to the lover, to the man?

Enter the Duchess—followed by Adolf and Sabyne and, after an interval, by the Courtiers.
Berthold.
Good auspice to our meeting!

The Duchess.
May it prove!
—And you, sir, will be Emperor one day?

Berthold.
(Ay, that's the point!) I may be Emperor.

The Duchess.
'Tis not for my sake only, I am proud
Of this you offer: I am prouder far
That from the highest state should duly spring
The highest, since most generous, of deeds.

Berthold.
(Generous—still that!) You underrate yourself.
You are, what I, to be complete, must gain—
Find now, and may not find, another time.
While I career on all the world for stage,
There needs at home my representative.

The Duchess.
—Such, rather, would some warrior-woman be—
One dowered with lands and gold, or rich in friends—
One like yourself.

Berthold.
Lady, I am myself,
And have all these: I want what's not myself,
Nor has all these. Why give one hand two swords?
Here's one already: be a friend's next gift
A silk glove, if you will—I have a sword.

The Duchess.
You love me, then?

Berthold.
Your lineage I revere,
Honour your virtue, in your truth believe,
Do homage to your intellect, and bow
Before your peerless beauty.

The Duchess.
But, for love—

Berthold.
A further love I do not understand.
Our best course is to say these hideous truths,
And see them, once said, grow endurable:
Like waters shuddering from their central bed,
Black with the midnight bowels of the earth,
That, once up-spouted by an earthquake's throe,
A portent and a terror—soon subside,
Freshen apace, take gold and rainbow hues
In sunshine, sleep in shadow, and at last
Grow common to the earth as hills or trees—
Accepted by all things they came to scare.

The Duchess.
You cannot love, then?

Berthold.
—Charlemagne, perhaps!
Are you not over-curious in love-lore?

The Duchess.
I have become so, very recently.
It seems, then, I shall best deserve esteem,
Respect, and all your candour promises,
By putting on a calculating mood—
Asking the terms of my becoming yours?

Berthold.
Let me not do myself injustice, neither.
Because I will not condescend to fictions
That promise what my soul can ne'er acquit,
It does not follow that my guarded phrase
May not include far more of what you seek,
Than wide profession of less scrupulous men.
You will be Empress, once for all: with me
The Pope disputes supremacy—you stand,
And none gainsays, the earth's first woman.

The Duchess.
That—
Or simple Lady of Ravestein again?

Berthold.
The matter's not in my arbitrament:
Now I have made my claims—which I regret—
Cede one, cede all.

The Duchess.
This claim then, you enforce?

Berthold.
The world looks on.

The Duchess.
And when must I decide?

Berthold.
When, lady? Have I said thus much so promptly
For nothing?—Poured out, with such pains, at once
What I might else have suffered to ooze forth
Droplet by droplet in a lifetime long—
For aught less than as prompt an answer, too?
All's fairly told now: who can teach you more?

The Duchess.
I do not see him.

Berthold.
I shall ne'er deceive
This offer should be made befittingly
Did time allow the better setting forth
The good of it, with what is not so good,
Advantage, and disparagement as well:
But as it is, the sum of both must serve.
I am already weary of this place;
My thoughts are next stage on to Rome. Decide!
The Empire—or,—not even Juliers now!
Hail to the Empress—farewell to the Duchess!

[The Courtiers, who have been drawing nearer and nearer, interpose.
Gaucelme.
—“Farewell,” Prince? when we break in at our risk—

Clugnet.
Almost upon court-licence trespassing—

Gaucelme.
—To point out how your claims are valid yet!
You know not, by the Duke her father's will,
The lady, if she weds beneath her rank,
Forfeits her Duchy in the next heir's favour—
So 'tis expressly stipulate. And if
It can be shown 'tis her intent to wed
A subject, then yourself, next heir, by right
Succeed to Juliers.

Berthold.
What insanity?—

Guibert.
Sir, there's one Valence, the pale fiery man
You saw and heard this morning—thought, no doubt,
Was of considerable standing here:
I put it to your penetration, Prince,
If aught save love, the truest love for her
Could make him serve the lady as he did!
He's simply a poor advocate of Cleves
—Creeps here with difficulty, finds a place
With danger, gets in by a miracle,
And for the first time meets the lady's face—
So runs the story: is that credible?
For, first—no sooner in, than he's apprised
Fortunes have changed; you are all-powerful here,
The lady as powerless: he stands fast by her!

The Duchess
[aside].
And do such deeds spring up from love alone?

Guibert.
But here occurs the question, does the lady
Love him again? I say, how else can she?
Can she forget how he stood singly forth
In her defence, dared outrage all of us,
Insult yourself—for what, save love's reward?

The Duchess
[aside].
And is love then the sole reward of love?

Guibert.
But, love him as she may and must—you ask,
Means she to wed him? “Yes,” both natures answer!
Both, in their pride, point out the sole result;
Nought less would he accept nor she propose.
For each conjecture was she great enough
—Will be, for this.

Clugnet.
Though, now that this is known,
Policy, doubtless, urges she deny . . .

The Duchess.
—What, sir, and wherefore?—since I am not sure
That all is any other than you say!
You take this Valence, hold him close to me,
Him with his actions: can I choose but look?
I am not sure, love trulier shows itself
Than in this man, you hate and would degrade,
Yet, with your worst abatement, show me thus.
Nor am I—(thus made look within myself,
Ere I had dared)—now that the look is dared—
Sure that I do not love him!

Guibert.
Hear you, Prince?

Berthold.
And what, sirs, please you, may this prattle mean
Unless to prove with what alacrity
You give your lady's secrets to the world?
How much indebted, for discovering
That quality, you make me, will be found
When there's a keeper for my own to seek.

Courtiers.
“Our lady?”

Berthold.
—She assuredly remains.

The Duchess.
Ah, Prince—and you too can be generous?
You could renounce your power, if this were so,
And let me, as these phrase it, wed my love
Yet keep my Duchy? You perhaps exceed
Him, even, in disinterestedness!

Berthold.
How, lady, should all this affect my purpose?
Your will and choice are still as ever, free.
Say, you have known a worthier than myself
In mind and heart, of happier form and face—
Others must have their birthright: I have gifts.
To balance theirs, not blot them out of sight.
Against a hundred alien qualities,
I lay the prize I offer. I am nothing:
Wed you the Empire?

The Duchess.
And my heart away?

Berthold.
When have I made pretension to your heart?
I give none. I shall keep your honour safe;
With mine I trust you, as the sculptor trusts
Yon marble woman with the marble rose,
Loose on her hand, she never will let fall,
In graceful, slight, silent security.
You will be proud of my world-wide career,
And I content in you the fair and good.
What were the use of planting a few seeds
The thankless climate never would mature—
Affections all repelled by circumstance?
Enough: to these no credit I attach,—
To what you own, find nothing to object.
Write simply on my requisition's face
What shall content my friends—that you admit,
As Colombe of Ravestein, the claims therein,
Or never need admit them, as my wife—
And either way, all's ended!

The Duchess.
Let all end!

Berthold.
The requisition!

Guibert.
—Valence holds, of course!

Berthold.
Desire his presence!

[Adolf goes out.
Courtiers
[to each other].
Out it all comes yet;
He'll have his word against the bargain yet;
He's not the man to tamely acquiesce.
One passionate appeal—upbraiding even,
May turn the tide again. Despair not yet!

[They retire a little.
Berthold
[to Melchior].
The Empire has its old success, my friend!

Melchior.
You've had your way: before the spokesman speaks,
Let me, but this once, work a problem out,
And ever more be dumb! The Empire wins?
To better purpose have I read my books!

Enter Valence.
Melchior
[to the Courtiers].
Apart, my masters!
[To Valence.]
Sir, one word with you!
I am a poor dependant of the Prince's—
Pitched on to speak, as of slight consequence.
You are no higher, I find: in other words,
We two, as probably the wisest here,
Need not hold diplomatic talk like fools.
Suppose I speak, divesting the plain fact
Of all their tortuous phrases, fit for them?
Do you reply so, and what trouble saved!
The Prince, then—an embroiled strange heap of news
This moment reaches him—if true or false,
All dignity forbids he should inquire
In person, or by worthier deputy;
Yet somehow must inquire, lest slander come:
And so, 't is I am pitched on. You have heard
His offer to your lady?

Valence.
Yes.

Melchior.
—Conceive
Her joy thereat?

Valence.
I cannot.

Melchior.
No one can.
All draws to a conclusion, therefore.

Valence
[aside].
So!
No after-judgment—no first thought revised—
Her first and last decision!—me, she leaves,
Takes him; a simple heart is flung aside,
The ermine o'er a heartless breast embraced.
Oh Heaven, this mockery has been played too oft!
Once, to surprise the angels—twice, that fiends
Recording, might be proud they chose not so—
Thrice, many thousand times, to teach the world
All men should pause, misdoubt their strength, since men
Can have such chance yet fail so signally,
—But ever, ever this farewell to Heaven,
Welcome to earth—this taking death for life—
This spurning love and kneeling to the world—
Oh Heaven, it is too often and too old!

Melchior.
Well, on this point, what but an absurd rumour
Arises—these, its source—its subject, you!
Your faith and loyalty misconstruing,
They say, your service claims the lady's hand!
Of course, nor Prince nor lady can respond:
Yet something must be said: for, were it true
You made such claim, the Prince would . . .

Valence.
Well, sir,—would?

Melchior.
—Not only probably withdraw his suit,
But, very like, the lady might be forced
Accept your own. Oh, there are reasons why!
But you'll excuse at present all save one,—
I think so. What we want is, your own witness,
For, or against—her good, or yours: decide!

Valence
[aside].
Be it her good if she accounts it so!
[After a contest.]
For what am I but hers, to choose as she?
Who knows how far, beside, the light from her
May reach, and dwell with, what she looks upon?

Melchior
[to the Prince].
Now to him, you!

Berthold
[to Valence].
My friend acquaints you, sir,
The noise runs . . .

Valence.
—Prince, how fortunate are you,
Wedding her as you will, in spite of noise,
To show belief in love! Let her but love you,
All else you disregard! What else can be?
You know how love is incompatible
With falsehood—purifies, assimilates
All other passions to itself.

Melchior.
Ay, sir:
But softly! Where, in the object we select,
Such love is, perchance, wanting?

Valence.
Then indeed,
What is it you can take?

Melchior.
Nay, ask the world!
Youth, beauty, virtue, an illustrious name,
An influence o'er mankind.

Valence.
When man perceives . . .
—Ah, I can only speak as for myself!

The Duchess.
Speak for yourself!

Valence.
May I?—no, I have spoken,
And time's gone by. Had I seen such an one,
As I loved her—weighing thoroughly that word—
So should my task be to evolve her love:
If for myself!—if for another—well.

Berthold.
Heroic truly! And your sole reward,—
The secret pride in yielding up love's right?

Valence.
Who thought upon reward? And yet how much
Comes after—oh, what amplest recompense!
Is the knowledge of her, nought? the memory, nought?
—Lady, should such an one have looked on you,
Ne'er wrong yourself so far as quote the world
And say, love can go unrequited here!
You will have blessed him to his whole life's end—
Low passions hindered, baser cares kept back,
All goodness cherished where you dwelt—and dwell.
What would he have? He holds you—you, both form
And mind, in his,—where self-love makes such room
For love of you, he would not serve you now
The vulgar way,—repulse your enemies,
Win you new realms, or best, to save the old
Die blissfully—that's past so long ago!
He wishes you no need, thought, care of him—
Your good, by any means, himself unseen,
Away, forgotten!—He gives that life's task up,
As it were . . . but this charge which I return—
[Offers the requisition, which she takes.
Wishing your good.

The Duchess
[having subscribed it].
And opportunely, sir—
Since at a birthday's close, like this of mine,
Good wishes gentle deeds reciprocate.
Most on a wedding-day, as mine is too,
Should gifts be thought of: yours comes first by right.
Ask of me!

Berthold.
He shall have whate'er he asks,
For your sake and his own.

Valence
[aside].
If I should ask—
The withered bunch of flowers she wears—perhaps,
One last touch of her hand, I never more
Shall see!
[After a pause, presenting his paper to the Prince.
Cleves' Prince, redress the wrongs of Cleves!

Berthold.
I will, sir!

The Duchess
[as Valence prepares to retire].
—Nay, do out your duty, first!
You bore this paper; I have registered
My answer to it: read it and have done!
[Valence reads it
I take him—give up Juliers and the world.
This is my Birthday.

Melchior.
Berthold, my one hero
Of the world she gives up, one friend worth my books,
Sole man I think it pays the pains to watch,—
Speak, for I know you through your Popes and Kings!

Berthold
[after a pause].
Lady, well rewarded! Sir, as well deserved!
I could not imitate—I hardly envy—
I do admire you. All is for the best.
Too costly a flower were this, I see it now,
To pluck and set upon my barren helm
To wither—any garish plume will do.
I'll not insult you and refuse your Duchy—
You can so well afford to yield it me,
And I were left, without it, sadly lorn.
As it is—for me—if that will flatter you,
A somewhat wearier life seems to remain
Than I thought possible where . . . 'faith, their life
Begins already! They're too occupied
To listen: and few words content me best.
[Abruptly to the Courtiers.]
I am your Duke, though! Who obey me here?

The Duchess.
Adolf and Sabyne follow us—

Guibert
[starting from the Courtiers].
—And I?
Do I not follow them, if I may n't you?
Shall not I get some little duties up
At Ravestein and emulate the rest?
God save you, Gaucelme! 'T is my Birthday, too!

Berthold.
You happy handful that remain with me
. . That is, with Dietrich the black Barnabite
I shall leave over you—will earn your wages
Or Dietrich has forgot to ply his trade!
Meantime,—go copy me the precedents
Of every installation, proper styles
And pedigrees of all your Juliers' Dukes—
While I prepare to plod on my old way,
And somewhat wearily, I must confess!

The Duchess
[with a light joyous laugh as she turns from them].
Come, Valence, to our friends, God's earth . . .

Valence
[as she falls into his arms].
—And thee!