University of Virginia Library

Scene III.

A Hall in Eliduke's Castle at Yveloc.
Blancaflor and Blanchespee.
Blanc.
What shall I do with thee, thou idle boy?

Blanch.
I care not; when will there be wars again?

Blanc.
What's that to thee? wilt thou turn man-at-arms?

Blanch.
No; but I'll fight o' horseback by my brother;
Eliduke promised I should ride with him
When next he went to fight.

Blanc.
And when will that be?
Never, I hope.

Blanch.
Never, indeed! Why, silly Blancaflor,
What should we men do if there were no wars?

Blanc.
Talk not of wars. Tell me a tale, good Harry,—
Of bold King Arthur hid in Avalon,
Or Launcelot and gay Queen Guinevere,
False fair-haired Ysolde and true-hearted Tristan,—
Such tales as you would tell me in old times,
When we would sit half a long summer's day
In the old fir-wood, for our twisted fingers
Weaving each other rings of the long grass,
Which we would set with flowers for jewelry:
Daisies were diamonds; blue violets
Served for our amethysts, full fairly set;
For pearls, white may-buds; and for yellow topaz,
Most prized of all, the golden tormentil.
Do you remember those old happy days,
When you told tales, and both of us sang songs,
Our merry voices and quick-ringing laughs
Startling the stillness of the noon-tide air?

Blanch.
Oh, those were childish days. Well, here's a tale:
Once on a time, two mighty kings fell out;—
Why did my brother quarrel with Lord Roland?
Was it for Castabel?

Blanc.
I do not know.

Blanch.
Now you look sad, and so you always do
When I speak of Lord Roland. Yet I think,
Except my brother, he's the bravest man
Stands in all Brittany.

Blanc.
There's no man braver.

Blanch.
Then, why d'ye hate him? Why does Eliduke?

Blanc.
I do not hate him.

Blanch.
Why do you look sad, then?

Blanc.
I do not know.—Come, this is foolish talk;
Tell me your tale.

Blanch.
Well, as I said before—
Ha! who comes here? a soldier, by his gait. Enter Walter.

Sir Walter, as I live!—Welcome, good Walter!

Walt.
What, my young gallant, are you idling here?
Sitting in-doors when all the world's in arms?

Blanch.
In arms!

Walt.
O ignorance! our boats are manned,
Our armour's buckled, and our eager swords
Leap in their scabbards with the thoughts of war.

Blanch.
Whither away? Oh, I'll go with you too.

Walt.
To Cornwall, boy, to try a soldier's fortune.

Blanc.
He's jesting, Harry. Do we not know Sir Walter?

Walt.
Nay; it is true.

Blanc.
But Harry must not go.

Blanch.
Must not! I will!

Walt.
Had I a voice, thou shouldst.
Lord Eliduke comes close upon my heels;
Let's put it to him.

Blanch.
Ay!—look where he comes!

Blanc.
Eliduke home again? where's Castabel?
I'll fetch her here.—Harry, thou shalt not go.

[Exit Blancaflor.
Walt.
To him, boy! thou shalt go.

Enter Eliduke.
Blanch.
O my dear brother,
Let me go with you!

Eli.
What! wilt thou go too?

Blanch.
O good my brother, leave me not behind!
Why, I can fight, believe me, I can fight,—
Can I not, Walter? and in all your toils,
As well I know we soldiers suffer many,—
Hunger and thirst, sharp frost, and beating rain,—
If ever I so much as say “'Tis cold,”
Or “I'm a hungered;” if I do but sigh,
Or seek compassion with a piteous look,
Whip me and send me home. Come, let me go!

Eli.
What say'st thou, Walter? must we take the child?

Walt.
I'd rather leave any two men of them
Than miss this boy.

Eli.
Well, Harry, thou shalt go;
But fetch your sword, and get you to the ships,
Or we shall have your sister's tender fears
Tying you fast at home. Away, good Harry!

Blanch.
O my good brother, I am bound for ever!
Alas, poor Flora! she will weep to find
I have stol'n a march upon her; but in good time
We shall come back again; shall we not, brother?

Eli.
Ay, if we be not killed.

Blanch.
And then she'll be
More glad to welcome an approved soldier
Than sorry now to lose an idle boy.
Ho! for the ships, good Walter! come,—away!

Eli.
Expect me, Walter, in some two hours' time;
Heave up your anchors, and have all prepared
To push from shore when I set foot on board.

Walt.
I will, my lord.—Away, thou prince of boys!

[Exeunt Walter and Blanchespee.
Eli.
Look, how the rolling world turns round and round,
And circumstance, life's busy scene-shifter,
Alters our aspects with a magic hand!
I, that was late the moving-spring of power,
Am now an exile; powerless, here I stand
Unpropped by state, and now am first a man.
Now has my soul stripped off her cumbrances,
And naked stands to try a fall with Fate;
Whom I contemn, because she cannot move me
To war against myself and lose my virtue,
The sole true loss.

Enter Blancaflor.
Blanc.
Welcome, good Eliduke.
Where's Harry gone?

Eli.
I greet you, gentle sister!
He is not here.

Blanc.
But was a moment since;
Walter hath taken him. Harry! good Harry!

[Exit, calling.
Eli.
Here's the true end of man,—to light within him
A clearer soul; and purging the dim vapours,
The clinging smoke that hangs about that fire,
To feed it with keen fuel,—contemplation,
High aspirations, piety, devotion,—
Till it becomes an offering fit for Death
To pluck and lay before the feet of God.
I am dismissed from fortune, that I may
Prove myself fit to cope necessity.
Vicissitude's the hammer with which Heaven
Tries its best-fashioned souls: like diamonds,
Being without a flaw, they'll stand the shock;
Being worthless, fly to pieces. I contemn it.
Rather like iron I'll become more tough
Under the doubling strokes. Enter Castabel.

Why, sweet, in tears?
This is poor welcome.

Cas.
Oh, they are idle drops;
The sunshine of your presence dries them up.
Will you see Ned? he sleeps; his little brain,
That all day long has painted shapes of you,
Having forgot your semblance, is now still;
And little Mary,—oh, you must hush for that,
And you shall see her tiny crimson cheek
Set with a smile under her yellow hair,
That hangs over her dimpled arm outspread
On the white coverlet. But you'll be still?

Eli.
Oh, I'll be still. But do you know, indeed,
I am an exile?

Cas.
Why, there's not much in that,
Since in your presence, love, there's more delight
Than pangs in twenty exiles;—not much to me.
In exile I shall see you every hour,
Attend you, taste your accents, not as now,
By your most frequent absence at the court,
Live less like wife than widow. Oh, to me
Exile is precious.

Eli.
Sweet, this cannot be.

Cas.
How, dearest?

Eli.
O love, be calm; you cannot share
My exiled fortunes—must not go with me.

Cas.
Not go with you! Oh, here's a grief indeed.

Eli.
Indeed, indeed, love, no. Nay, do but think
How this your show of sorrow wounds my soul,
And you will check the flow. We have no means,
In our most hasty soldier-passages,
That could make life endurable to you
Who only know its comforts. Why, one night
Under the battering rain of stormy heaven
Would freeze the spirit in your tender frame.
We must go unencumbered, bearing only
Arms, our best tools, with their sharp aid to win
Lodging and food; and failing oft in these,
Wander sad outcasts, fronting the keen wind.
It were to murder you to let you go.
Besides, even granting that you could sustain
Life in these toils (though so to grant were madness),
The scanty time admits no preparation:
I must away to-night; to-morrow's sun
Shines death upon me with his waking eye;—
And, heart, your children!

Cas.
O my little ones!

Eli.
Could they endure these toils, or could you leave them
In the cold hands of strangers, all alone;
Their pretty cheeks dabbled with rolling tears,
And for the sweet voice of your lullaby
Sobbing themselves to sleep the weary night?
Oh, no, indeed. Come, you shall stay with them,
And breed my Ned a soldier. Will you not?

Cas.
I will obey you. I will be calm. O me!

Eli.
That's my brave wife. Come; it will not be long.
This king can little spare me. While fresh Peace
Dandles him like a baby on his throne,
He can play insolent and cast me off;
But when red War rattles his iron teeth
And shakes his flag over the land again,
He cannot spare my arm,—I know it well,—
And will send gifts to sue me home again;
Which I receiving with his pleading summons,
Swift as the swallow hung on autumn wing
Taking a homeward flight, will back return
Into thy arms, O darling! dearer to me
Than all the world beside. Come, love, smile;
Let us have soldiers' parting,—sweet and hasty,—
For I must straight away. Gallant companions,
Clustering the shore, blame this my slow delay;
The low-benched rowers bend; the ready sailors
Hold back their unreefed sails, like dogs i' the leash,
That ruffling in the wind do chide and growl,
Eager to chase the ocean. The keen steersman
Twirls with impatient hand the rattling helm;
And eager Haste hangs on the dipping prow,
Shaking her wings for flight. All but await
My coming, who do waste the busy moments
In lingering talk, and know not how to leave thee.

Cas.
So short a time! our meeting and our parting
Wrapped in the little space of half an hour,—
Great circumstance to be so closely packed;
A grief and joy, that in the common count
Might last through all the year, so quickly gone!

Eli.
You are not left unguarded. Lord Roland
Will in my absence hold you free from fear,
And with your best assistance keep my lands—
Manage and minister in my affairs.
Make him an honoured guest, and pay him all
Observance that becomes my dearest friend.

Cas.
Do you mean Roland that was once my lover?

Eli.
Is he not honourable?

Cas.
Oh, most truly!
But sure, no friend of yours.

Eli.
Tush! that's gone by.
We're closely knit in love. He'll tell you all.

Cas.
I am most glad to hear't. In such good hands
I better shall sustain the heavy weight
Of your long absence.

Eli.
I am well pleased to learn
You find such comfort in it. Sweet, farewell!

Cas.
Not yet, not yet! I cannot say farewell.
Clip not farewell so close. How long will't be
Ere I claim back this kiss? alas, perhaps never.
O dearest love, in your long wanderings
Do not forget your home-enthralled wife,
That, lost to comfort, counts the weary hours,
Clogging their flight with tears. O love, be true!

Eli.
Why should you doubt me? I must chide your fears.
Do I bid thee keep wedded faith unblemished?

Cas.
Bid me be faithful! Yet why should you not,
Since I enjoin it you? Faith, I'll believe
You are as strong in truth as I myself,
And then I need not doubt you. Oh, but I
Can feed my heart with thought and memory
Of your high excellence. You have no such theme.
You'll see new scenes, and light on fairer faces
Than that which pales at home; but none so true.
O love, forgive me! Idle jealousy,
Bred of a fickle heart, shall never thrust
His smoky glass between our constant loves,
By it's transmitted dark blackening all thoughts,
Turning all fair to foul, and trust to doubt.
Shaming mistrust, I will believe your love
Rooted in constancy and never fading.

Eli.
Build, love, on this,—that to forego the claim
I have in you, the priceless property.
Were like a child to fling a gem away
That I can never match. And now, away!
See, Night unrolls his banner, and ere morn
Break in the east I must be far from shore.
Would I might breathe in this your air for ever!

Cas.
Oh, linger not when an impatient death
Lurks on your trail so close. Haste, love, away!
Hang but another kiss upon my lips
For a most dear memento. God be with you!

Eli.
Kiss me the little ones; in your constant prayers
Remember me to Heaven. Fare you well!

[Exit.
Cas.
O scanty parting for so long a stay!
Oh, gone, and perhaps for ever! This dear hour,
That hung i' the future like a golden star,
Has burst in grief, and fallen darkling down;
The hour of welcome in the parting hour
Merged, and all joy in ugly absence whelmed.
My soul breeds sad presentiments of woe;
But it were weak to trust them. Thoughts to Heaven!
Great God of waters! whose sustaining hand
Teaches the tides their course,—Thou who dost train
The eager-footed storms, oh, chain them now!
Thou through the weary nights dost light the sea,
Tending the safety of the lonely sailor,
Sad waggoner of Ocean, who does drive
His winged team over the furrowed deep,
Safe in thy guidance,—oh, this night, if ever,
Spread out thy fostering hand and calm the sea,
Carry my husband to the distant shore,
And in time's circling flight bring him again
Unchanged from what he was! O heavy heart!