 | Marie de Méraine |  |
ACT II.
SCENE I.
The Palace. An ante-room leading to the Council Chamber.Fontaine, Tournet, and La Roche. Nobles and others occasionally pass across the stage at the back.
Fon.
[Bringing Tournet and La Roche forward.]
See, they go in to council! Not so loud.
La Roche.
And so from that poor hint, that casual breath,
Thy art is like to work the queen's divorce!
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Ay, if the council be but the king's clerk,
Crying amen to what he prays for.
Tour.
Count not on that. The Churchmen whose advice
Is like to sway the synod may not strain
The law to such extremes. Divorce the queen
Because she was akin to Philip's wife,
Betrothed in boyhood! Thou dost prop our hope
On basement fine and frail as spider's line.
Fon.
A most substantial bridge—that spider's line.
The iron wills all earth can scarce roll on,
Are zephyrs when themselves elect to move.
Our spider's line will do. The queen's divorce
The king wills, and the bishops will to please
The king's will, save the reverend Lord of Paris, whom
The rest must overrule.
Tour.
I doubt the issue.
Fon.
Sir, the king's hate is threefold; in it blend
Jealousy of the Dane, disrelish fixed
Of Ingerburge, which she by threats and coldness
Has more inflamed, and passion for another.
La Roche.
How will this serve us?
Fon.
How? Art thou a mole,
That cannot see the daylight? Philip breaks
His oath to Ingerburge, and lays his crown
At Marie's feet. They wed. The incensed Dane,
His sister thus disgraced, withdraws his aids;
Nay, turns them to offence! John, Otho—seize
The auspicious hour! The Pope has been o'erlooked
By these impatient prelates. Ingerburge
Appeals to Rome. Rome, glad to arbitrate
In royal feuds, her quarrel doth espouse.
The Pope is Philip's foe. What penal fires
Sleep in those words!—what crushing consequence!
Then is our time for action and revenge.
Then slaughtered kinsman, then dishonoured line,
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Dost thou yet see?
La Roche.
I see.
Fon.
The council waits.
Come, come, the game proceeds! Craft matched with craft!
O conflict nobler far than sword with sword!
[They go out.
SCENE II.
The Council Chamber.Philip on the throne. Guérin; Archbishop of Rheims; Bishop of Paris and other Bishops; Tournet, La Roche, Fontaine; other Nobles, Officers, &c. &c.
Guér.
My gracious lord!
As counsellor, priest, soldier, friend, and man,
Do I abjure this deed. 'Twill shake your throne,
Stain your religion, blot your knighthood. What!
On this unheard-of cause ere scarce the sounds
Of marriage-bells have ceased—divorce your queen!
Sire, hear your servant!
Phil.
Guérin! Not with us
These issues rest. The king is passive here,
Waits sentence, doth not give it; but obeys
In all the synod's voice.
Fon.
[Aside.]
Apt policy!
On others lights the odium whom his will
Governs unseen. Great king!
Guér.
I turn to you
Whose mitred heads pledge justice. Sanction you
The queen's dismissal from his grace's arms?
Will you confirm a deed whose startling shame
Grows ranker if you gloss it; a vile deed
In all its aspects, unredeemed by pleas
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A deed whose nature but one question bears—
Whether its madness or its sin exceed?
B. of Paris.
I think with you. Yet must our private wills
Yield to the force of numbers.
Guér.
Not when numbers
Would counsel majesty to fraud and wrong.
A. of Rheims.
My lord, this vehemence denies respect
Unto the general voice o'erruling yours.
Phil.
Kind father! deem not harshly of his zeal;
None hold we dearer.
Fon.
[Aside.]
A sagacious prince!
Arch.
Reason is oftener the will's instrument
Than ruler. It doth gloss the act we wish,
But ne'er persuade to undesired conclusions.
Therefore, from argument I little hope.
I hold the marriage void, and shall record
My oath so in due time.
B. of Paris.
[Coldly.]
I yield submission
To your more reverend wisdom.
Arch.
Then why tarry?
We with our holy brethren have conferred
And are as one agreed.
Enter Officer.
Officer.
In Denmark's name,
Ambassadors crave audience.
Phil.
Shoals so near port!
[Aside.
In very season! Straight conduct them hither.
Enter Briorn, the Danish envoy, and others, preceded by a Herald.
Speak; your lord's errand, Briorn!
[Herald sounds his trumpet.
Bri.
Denmark's king
Greets thee, King Philip, with accustomed love,
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Thou wouldst divorce and shame his royal sister.
Phil.
How if this fame speak truth?
Bri.
Then princely Canute
Recalls his succours, and disowns his pact,
Holds thee, till death, worse foe than Death himself,
And bids thee know he hath appealed to Rome,
Whose mandate, disallowing thy intent,
I but some hours outspeed.
Guér.
Thank Heaven! the Pope
From this black deed shall save us!
B. of Paris.
[To the Bishops.]
Rome! methinks,
'Twere best deliberate. Her supremacy
We peril by this act.
Phil.
Wavering! [Aside. To Briorn.]
Return!
Tell Canute, who would play upon our fear
With Rome's dread wrath, our cause already seeks
Judgment from Rome's sworn ministers—our bishops;
Who, though we may augment, reduce, or wrest
From them entire rank, profit, and revenue,
As vagrant friars would rather beg than sell
Their conscience for reward.
Fon.
Sagacious prince!
Most aptly put; their all depends on him.
[Aside.
Arch.
[To Bishop of Paris.]
We do but ill to dread the morrow's storm
When the fire-gendering cloud o'erhangs our heads,
The king's displeasure!
[Other Bishops signify assent.
B. of Paris.
Even as you will.
Lay not this servile weakness to my charge.
Arch.
This embassy, that threats the Pontiff's wrath,
Bears no credentials from him. We maintain
Our purpose here.
[To Briorn.
Guér.
Oh madness—infamy!
Defy the Pope? Our buckler cast away—
The Dane's alliance? while on every side
Foes draw their arrows headward! Rome, insulted,
Applauds each shaft, and lends her arm to crush!
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I see you heed.
Tour.
[Apart to Fontaine.]
By heaven, they quail! Our stake
Is one with Philip's. We shall lose.
Fon.
[Apart to Tournet and La Roche.]
Mark, mark!
His brows contract and ope: his hands unite,
And straight unclench; the torrent bursts. I said it.
Phil.
No word to sway your sentence; but, brave lords,
Let not the menaced loss of foreign aid
Weigh on your thought unduly! I was wrong
To trust this land's defence to alien hands.
'Tis in itself a State is strong. No foe
Can sap such strength; no friend its want repair.
O grey-haired warriors, who fight again
Your battles, in the young your memories fire,
And ye, of their renown the heirs, who burn
Their great bequest—undimmed to leave your sons,
Witness how legions fled your lonely brands;
Conquest is child of hearts that trust themselves!
So with a State. 'Tis that life-blood called faith—
Faith in itself—that floods its frame with might!
No hireling arm for us! Our own we raise
In our own war. [Rises.]
Wake, France, thy crutches fall;
Thou towerest singly in thine inborn health,
Match for the banded world's dependencies!
Whose bosom echoes mine?
Fon.
Long live the king!
Nobles.
Long live the king! Long live the king!
Phil.
Pronounce
Sentence!
Arch.
The queen's divorce.
[Chorus of Nobles and Bishops.
Phil.
Break up the council.
This sentence, Briorn, to thy lord report.
On, sirs!
[The King goes out, followed by Bishops and Nobles.
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[Aside.]
The seeds are madness—death the fruit!
Fon.
[To La Roche and Tournet.]
Brave, brave! how zealously he fought for ruin!
His brain an engine turned against himself.
Our swords may rest. We need not strike to win.
[All go out.
SCENE III.
Apartment in the Chateau of Marie de Méranie.Enter Sir Lucien and Anne.
Sir L.
Nay, trust me; change so sudden and extreme
Springs not from light occasion! She—a lady
Of charity, more prompt than need was urgent;
So patient, kind, serene—observe her now:
Imperious oft, secluded, well-nigh stern;
Capricious, fitful, motiveless in mirth!
Anne.
Why, that's to say she's woman. Women change
Sea-like, to show their rich variety.
To-day there's scarce a ripple, and to-morrow
The waves are mountains. Now they're sober grey;
Now brightly blue, they laugh and chase each other;
Now, a black, moving wall, they crash in thunder.
Sweet saints, how stale that man or woman were
Who could not change. I've known such.
Sir L.
You evade me.
Some cruel stroke of fate has thus transformed her.
It may be loss of friends, or trust betrayed,
Or hopeless love.
Anne.
Or it may be the toothache.
Hopeless love! Good!
[With laughter.
Sir L.
You jest, not knowing love.
Anne.
Prythee, set not
Thyself to teach me.
Sir L.
Why not?
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Why not, Wisdom?
Because to me love means a smiling face,
While thine is rueful,—the brave march of life
To clashing cymbals or the ring of steel,
While thou dost drone on lute and mope in chambers.
Why, thou wouldst woo in sermons, wed in black,
And celebrate thy marriage by a fast!
Nay, lay aside the sword and don the cowl;
'Tis sad the Church should lack one skilled like thee
In framing homilies!
Sir L.
They shall not tire you.
[Aside.]
Anne has no heart. 'Tis pity she is fair;
More pity I should know it.
[He bows coldly, and goes out.
Anne.
He would pierce
The silent mystery of the heart she shrouds,
Or would shroud, from my love, and then, perchance,
As he hath caught the minstrel's craft, regale
The ears of languid knights and curious squires
With my dear lady's story. Ah! she comes.
Enter Marie.
Anne.
[Aside, regarding her.]
Beneath pride's robe grief hides its throbs in vain:
The fluttering folds betray the heart beneath.
Marie.
[Suddenly turning and observing her.]
Well, mistress! What offence?
Anne.
Madam! Offence?
Marie.
Ay; where's the flaw? Where fails my tire-woman?
See'st thou my robe awry, or hair unbound?
From head to foot, where's my defect?
Anne.
Indeed,
I mark none, madam.
Marie.
What has made me, then,
So curious in your sight—Lucien's and yours?
Why meet and follow me your constant eyes?
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It lacks the sunshine!
Anne.
They who seek its face
In sunshine—use the dial; but who bends
O'er it in cloudy hours is won to gaze
By gratitude alone.
Marie.
[Sitting.]
A fair conceit!
My footstool! And who taught my joyous Anne
These grave moralities? Be blithe, my girl!
Thought comes with sorrow; sorrow comes with years.
Alas! sometimes with few. For me, I'm vowed
To mirth so deeply, no calamity
Shall e'er make me less happy than I am.
Enter Sir Lucien, hastily.
Sir L.
News, Lady Anne! The king—
Marie.
The king! Well, sir?
Sir L.
Madam, 'tis said between his majesty
And his new queen such difference hath grown
As rends the solemn ties that lately bound them.
'Tis rumoured that their marriage is annulled
By order of the Council; on what ground
I know not yet.
Marie.
On any, friend; for power
Is its own argument. Unhappy lady!
My heart bleeds for thee. [Aside.]
Lucien, thou hast found
Our hall too like a prison. Forth and join
The city's pageant.
Sir L.
Ah! the day is lost
That sees me from your service.
Marie.
Thanks! But go.
So wilt thou serve me. 'Tis my wish.
[Sir Lucien goes out.
He's gone!
I have a partner in calamity
In this wronged queen. I could not weep till now!
[Falling on Anne's neck.
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'Tis strange I should be glad to see thee weep;
And yet I am.
Marie.
The bitterness is past.
I've too much strained thy patience. Thou'lt forgive me?
To-morrow we return to Méranie;
And there, if Marie midst her sire's dependants
Their humble lot may cheer, their burthens ease,
Her life may yet have use. What mean those sounds?
[Trumpets heard without.
Re-enter Sir Lucien, followed by the King.
Sir L.
Madam, the king craves audience.
Phil.
Whose the lip
But his to ask that boon? Marie!
Marie.
Your grace!
Wherefore?—Nay, sir, 'tis granted.—Friends, retire.
[Sir Lucien and Anne go out.
Phil.
How poor are thanks for payment. Thou wilt hear,
Perchance—oh! dare I hope it—pity?
Marie.
Both.
If you endure a grief unmerited,
I pity much; and if deserved, still more.
Phil.
Severer than rebuke is this forbearance.
Goes thy heart with it?
Marie.
Comprehend me, sir.
I do not feign that you have used me well,
Or that I have not suffered. But the wrong
Heaven strengthened me to bear, it bids me pardon.
As these are parting words, believe their truth.
Phil.
Speak'st thou of parting?
Marie.
To my father's land
The morrow lights me.
Phil.
Sooner be it quenched!
I come to atone the madness which awhile
Shut out thine image. To the throne of France
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Her chains are rent!
Marie.
[Sternly.]
How rent?
Phil.
She stands divorced.
Marie.
And thou hast done this! King, one woman's heart
Glows not with triumph at another's fall;
But shivers 'neath the warmest robe of love
Rent from a sister freezing in her woe,
And naked to the insult of the world!
Phil.
She loves me not; our differing wills recoil.
A grant in land to compensate her dower
Will medicine all her grief. Besides, in this,
I but obey the Church. Say, can thy voice
Cancel our prelates' judgment, or recal
Whom they have exiled? No; on me alone
Thy vengeance falls. Alas! I have deserved
Thou shouldst forget or scorn me.
Marie.
I forget!
I scorn, whose memory has no other wealth
Than those blest hours which, diving in the past,
She bears me back—dear relics of Hope's wreck!
[Aside.
I scorn! No, Philip! It will make my pulse
Beat quicker in its silence, when I hear
That you are happy; and should perils come,
The faltering prayer your ear will never know,
May yet reach Heaven's. And so we do not part
In anger. From my inmost heart I bless you!
Phil.
What words are these that bless me in their sound,
And curse me in their sense? O Marie, hear me!
Thy love is not alone my fortune's crown;
'Tis Nature's need! not to my branch of life
An added blossom, but the vital essence
Replenishing the root! You changed my being!
I measured glory once by daring deeds,
Extended empire and prostrate foes.
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A holier name than Victor; that the rod
Of terror rules but shrinking clay, while love
Sits throned in living hearts! I thought of thee,
And from the captive dropped his chain; of thee,
And pardoned, rose the traitor at my feet;
Of thee, and bade the tyrant-stricken serf
Look up, and greet a father in his king!
O saint of mercy, I have built thee shrines
By happy hearths through France! It is thy life
That thrills in every pulse, thy soul that floods
Each artery of my own! Each thought of good
Is but thyself reflected! Spurn not, crush not,
That which thou didst create!
[Sinking on his knee.
Marie.
[Aside.]
My feet are fixed.
I would depart, but cannot.
Phil.
[Rising.]
Listen, heed!
Thou seest me contrite, pardon; weak, sustain;
Erring, direct me! Snatch me from the toils
Of selfish brains, the chill of frigid hearts,
The infected air that stifles and corrupts
The soul that pants to live! Unpitying still,
Still silent! Then farewell; but when the years
Of woe unshared, of struggles with the base
Who taint even what resists them, aims unguided,
Have frozen impulse into apathy,
Mercy to rigour; when the man, whom once
You might have raised, bless'd, saved, becomes—Well, well,
Whate'er I may become, think what I was,
And what I might have been had Marie loved me!
Marie.
Had Marie loved thee?
Phil.
And I dreamed she did.
Marie.
O Philip! I am thine.
[Throwing herself into his arms.
Phil.
Mine! 'tis a sound
I could repeat for ever. Mine, mine, mine!
| Marie de Méraine | |