 | The Crown Jewel |  |
ACT. I.
(Scene. 1.)
—Room in Castle.Soartes
(solus.)
In the adventurous period of my youth,
When the steeled sinew and undaunted brow,
A bosom strongly garrisoned with hopes,
Gave scornful challenge to adversity,
She came not near me; now, that I am old,
Feeble, outworn, by every hope forsaken,
This bitter and ungenerous enemy
Provokes her cruel legions to the assault,
And all the missiles of her hoarded wrath
Hurls at my naked head. Another day
Lags on the track betwixt me and my ruin.
Is it too late or shall Gonseres triumph?
I have still choice betwixt the rags of scorn
And the high fortunes of this daring project.
Alas! time presses; beggary, dishonour,
Meranie wronged—the sharer in my woe,
All are arrayed before me. Shall I wait
In meek forbearance my untoward fates
Or by one act, too grasping to involve
In its miscarriage vulgar infamy,
Retrieve them?
(Enter Bertrand with a letter.)
Bring you more of news, good Bertrand,
And fresh reverses to this aching bosom?
A letter, give it me, some lawyer's claim
Or griping usurer's—my daily surfeit?
To the flames with it!
Ber.
Nay! hold, my lord, I warrant it free of mischief,
neither clamorous nor threatful,—a bill of costs
nor an attorney's writ. Note you the seal and motto, they
are noble and argue well of its contents.
Soartes.
True, I rcollect them,
The count Vicente's, with whose sire I was
Familiar in my boyhood. Afterwards,
As we grew up, dissimilar pursuits
Wrought our estrangement; and it so continued,
Until his death, when this, the present count,
On some State matter at the king's desire
Was sent abroad.
(Reads.)
“My Lord Soartes,
“I take the blame to myself of forming, unknown
to you (it is now upwards of two years ago), an acquaintance
with your ward and niece, concerning whose perfections
I have more will than ability to discourse. A
twelvemonth has elapsed since my father's death—an
event which is remembered by me with the deeper
interest from the circumstance of his having in his last
moments given kindly sanction to my desired union with
the Lady Meranie. Since that period to the present time,
I have been employed abroad on State matters, and thus
prevented from holding earlier communication with you
on the subject. As I am now, however, on the eve of
returning to my native country. I make all speed to
acquaint you with the bent of my purpose, and only wait
your approval, as guardian and relative of the lady, before
claiming the surrender of her hand, &c., &c.”
“Vicente.”
All of a web with what beside is looming (aside)
,
Hold! honest Bertrand! this one thing you harp on,
Justice to Meranie, is now at hand;
Here are proposals from the Count Vicente
Apprising me of his long-cherished love
For my fair niece; moreover, he entreats
My countenance to his suit.
Ber.
Which, as a matter of course, my lord, you will not
refuse?
Soartes.
Three weeks ago,
I, of all men—Go, fetch the girl, good Bertrand,
But stay—Alas! I have no heart to see her;
I have no heart to break my purpose to her—
To banish the rich life blood from her cheek—
To cloud the eye radiant with love and hope—
I cannot—dare not.
Ber.
How! my lord, you perplex me. The alliance is
desirable. It befits the rank and fortunes of your ward.
The Count, it appears, is an accepted lover. In your consent,
rests the happiness of both—that consent of
course—
Soartes.
This is honesty—
Your simple, over-scrupulous honesty,
That cannot with both eyes take estimate
Or put the brain to service. I perplex you!
No wonder Bertrand—being myself perplexed!
Justice to Meranie! I will be just—
Most just to her. She shall have boundless wealth.
The gold her spendthrift guardian gave the winds
Shall re-invade its coffers. Wealth! no fear!
To the last barren acre, I shall free
Her sire's estate. No one, at least, will say
“He has curtailed her dower.”
Ber.
Ha! a jest, my lord. True, I am owl-witted—a
dull drawer of inferences; but the rebuilding of your
niece's estate—what means it? a coinage of the brain?
Soartes.
So credit it. Th'event may shake this faith.
I am poor but thro' forbearance. When I seek,
Urged by th'occasion, to amend my fortunes,
Trust me! the strong expediency itself
Shall furnish means.
Ber.
You bewilder me, my lord, more and more—and
the Ladye Meranie? At least, this is good news—this—of
the count's return?
Soartes.
Say you? Good news indeed.
Be satisfied. Your head and heart have matched them.
Your heart, it has done well; your head, I fear,
Is all out of its reckoning. Hark you, Bertrand,
This must not pass your lips! Be cautious!
The Ladye Meranie shall be apprised
At the becoming juncture. Meanwhile, see to't,
No whisper of the Count's proposals reach
The air she breathes in.
[Exit Bertrand.
A devoted heart
This simple fellow has! How I have puzzled him!
And yet, alas! puzzled myself the more!
[OMITTED]
Must I abandon all? throw off Gonseres
And to th'impatient lover of the girl
Denounce my villany—confess to have played
The reckless gambler with her trusted gold,
And to the fickle mercy of the dice
Consigned her fairest acres? Must I stoop,
Taking advantage of love's generous heyday,
To move Vicente's pity—gaining only
The more contempt? I am resolved,
A well-timed word will school into compliance
My gentle ward. She must renounce the Count
And to a rougher lover link her fortunes.
[Exit.
Scene. 2.
—A Wood.(Enter Inora and Gonseres.)
Inora.
Success is on thy brow. My bold and brave one!
These tell-tale eyes flash triumphs, and the cheek
That yesterday proclaimed thee by its chills
To have renounced hope, is warm and radiant—
How fares thy noble master?
Gon.
Prosperously.—
The drowning mariner clutches at a straw,
(To use a current phrase) so, when I made
In jesting tones allusion to our project,
As if it were a fancy of my own,
Boyish, unshaped and inconsiderate,
At once, he caught at it, “Say you, Gonseres,”
These were his words, “but this is treason, lad,—
Ungrateful treason and a breach of trust.
To patch my fortunes by such desperate means
I have no liking. True, the jewels avail not,
And may as well enrich their native mines
As lie barred up, unhonoured and disused,
In cage of State.” No more, for a short space,
He said, but into moody silence lapsed.
At length, the harboured tenor of his thoughts
Betrayed itself in curt soliloquies.
“Three hundred thousand crowns!”; he spake their value,
“That rascal Zachary;” The usurer's bond
Laden with interests hung upon the beam—
Debts, obligations, his fair ward's estate,
All were compressed into the spiteful term,—
All weighed against the back of lavish fortune.
Inora.
So guessed you, boy? The Baron was not wont
To drivel thus.
Gon.
His dotage is upon him,
Misfortune and old age are feeble-tongued
And frail of purpose; were it otherwise,
Sinewed with that strong sense of loyalty
Which courtiers, more than life, esteem and cherish,
The Lord Soartes, had a whisper fallen
Counselling treason to his noble office,
On the swift instant, would have stayed th'offence
In the life's blood of him who uttered it—
Nay! but a year ago, (so suddenly
Adversity hath changed him) to have perilled
A jest within his hearing on this matter,
Were dangerous—now—
At such a standstill hast thou left our emprise?
Then needest thou the heels of Mercury
Wherewith to baffle the blood-hounds of justice.
Gon.
Patience, good mother, I have boldly spoken
Without reserve or niggard caution,
He is our own—to our high daring sworn—
The right hand of our purpose. Nay, look not
Incredulous. More strange things have occurred
Than a perplexed, distressed, unhonoured noble—
The jaundice in his eye, surrendering
His disarmed heart to strong expediency.
A tithe of this rich booty will suffice
To reinstate Soartes, mend his fortunes,
Recal his friends, prop up his drooping credit,
To the best graces of the world restore him
Hushing all rumours of his guardianship,—
How, to the injury of his niece's interests,
He hath discharged its duties; such amend,
One stone, and that not costliest in renown,
Of the rich hoard which to its kingly uses
No eye of living man hath seen applied,
Will render him.
Inora.
On these sore points to intrude
And offend not, requires a skilful tongue,
Licensed by usage, eloquent by nature,
Winning as music, yet, discreet as silence.
Gon.
Oh! You mistake; no theme more welcome to him
Than his home sorrows—none so simply dealt with,
A garrulous old man finds arguments
In the mere look and bearing of his audience,
And is entreated more by his own prate
Than by the sage lips of a counsellor.
To give Soartes rein upon this matter
Is to economise my own blunt speech
And shift the peril of incautious words
To his more fitting shoulders.
Inora.
A rare youth!
And of good promise—yet, have care, Gonseres,
Old foxes are more crafty than their cubs.
Gon.
I have not been the Baron's confidant
(Servitor call it, or some baser term,)
All to no purpose. From my boyhood upward,
Each feature of the man I've made my study;
In every varying and conjunction—
His mirth and melancholy—smile and frown—
His virtues and his failings—how to move
His gusty nature and again allay it,
Lulling the storm with timeous flattery—
How to adjust him to a hundred fancies
And his whole heart attune and modulate.
Inora.
This cannot be the noble Baron Soartes?
Thou facest me with falsehood, daring boy!
To such a depth of degradation
He is not fallen that was my bosom's lord?
Unsay thy words that I may yet regard him
In my mind's eye a valorous nobleman,
Without a rival in accomplishments—
One fit to league with us in this design
And do it honour—not the wretch thou picturest,
So facile and made ready to our purpose.
Nay—move me not to pity
But say what chances aid our enterprise—
How thrives thy love suit with the Baron's niece?
Gon.
As love-suits thrive where one heart beats for both,
The Lady Meranie is all attuned
To the soft zephyrs of persuasion,
And her formed ear recoils from my rude wooing.
Inora.
Of this I warned thee; fix no blame on me,
But should thy gusty passion be allayed
By such reception, 'tis auspicious.
Than a career of love thou hast before thee
A loftier course; leave simple souls to love!
Its stratagems are all of vulgar sort
Which the most lowly of capacities
May compass. Of what purpose is't to urge
Thy scorned suit upon a scornful heart,
When in the time thus fritter'd, thou could'st build
Thy claim upon her hand? The ward's consent
Is bound up in the guardian's iron will—
That gained, thou hast a more availing key
To this fair fortress and its stubborn gates,
Than the slow siege of love,
Gon.
Now, I give credit
To the strange tale of yesterday. That thus
You do foresay my fix'd expedient
Argues our kindred more than solemn oaths,
Good mother!
Inora.
If thou hast, Gonseres,
On thy aspiring passion laid this curb,
So to acquit thyself betokens thee
A man of purpose. By such strong resolves,
Triumphs are made secure and unknown names
Enslave the winds to carry them abroad.
Now, at this moment, thou'rt a surer gainer—
The prize more safe than were thy love requited.
Proceed—say, by what subtle leading strings
Toward our project thou hast drawn Soartes—
The measure, tell, of his entanglement
And what retreat is left him.
Gon.
To have moved
The proud old noble by a mere suggestion,
Drop't artfully in seeming artlessness,
Of this, I reckon lightly. Poverty,—
The estrangement of his friends—the pressing claims
Of creditors, but chiefly, (for brave men
Dare browbeat fortune when their hands are stainless)
Threat'ning dishonour have so wrought on him
That in this desperate state, no remedy
Too desperate is, not to engage his fancy.
In such apt humour is the tended soil,
A child may sow the seeds of disaffection.
Inora.
At such a standstill hast thou left our emprise?
Then needest thou the heels of Mercury
Wherewith to baffle the blood-hounds of justice.
Gon.
Patience, good mother, I have boldly spoken
Without reserve or niggard caution,
He is our own—to our high daring sworn—
The right hand of our purpose. Nay, look not
Incredulous. More strange things have occurred
I feared it all. Some inexpedient craze
O'ertakes you, mother. To ennoble thus
Into a valiant and renowning feat,
Needful of men of spirit and great aims
This burglar's enterprise, is out of question.
As mover in it, take thy fill of credit,
But now, that I am part in the design,
I will be leader or throw up all part in't.
Nay! look not so incredulous of my speech
Or my unfilial temper think to sway
By motherly advice, or threat or scorn.
If, toward Soartes you have such contempt
Because adversity hath sharpened him
Into a tool for traitrous purposes,
The less occasion you shall have to hold
Gonseres at the same drawback of credit.
Inora.
That thou betray'st thyself a child of shame
More than thy mother's son, thy father's bastard,
I make no boast of. Go and prosper, boy;
All claims to thy success I now renounce,
If shame be thy reward, take what is due thee,
If riches and the safety of thy neck,
Thou wilt need both and yet have shift to live.
[Exit.
Gon.
Oh mother! whom as witch I did regard,
Pregnant with direful maledictions,
Until the day thou did'st disclose thyself;
This is the jargon of thy cast-off trade,
No foreign devil doth inspire thee to't.
Much less a truthful angel! 'Tis at random
Thou venturest thy shafts upon the wind:
For one that strikes, a thousand fall abroad.
Good bye! Take thanks for the suggestion
That builds my fortunes! I have faith in thee,
Because the ark of my unformed life
Was thy warm womb. Thou would'st not slay with blab
What on the inauspicious day of birth
Escaped thy hands unstrangled? Good bye, mother!
[Exit.
Scene. 3.
(Enter Soartes and Gonseres.)Gon.
I have seen Zachary the usurer,
As you desired, my lord.
Soartes.
Good! he agrees
To abate his claim and stretch the term of payment?
Gon.
'Tis an unwholesome den and starving air
That coops him up. I marked no living thing
But a swoll'n spider on the murky walls.
Soartes.
You moved him—pleaded for me?
Gon.
Oh! I used
Blunt eloquence—the sword's hilt to the elbow—
It prevailed nothing. His lack lustre eye
Moved from the parchment to my sheathed weapon
And then resum'd its charge. No tremor shook
Or checked th'impetuous quill. Its talk complete,
He folded up the missive—nothing said
But slid it towards me, then graciously
Waved a good-morrow. See, this will explain—
(Soartes reads)—
“I have indulged your lordship too often. The
pretext is still the same. There is no course left me but
the one in progress. Of the resources your lordship hints
at I am entirely ignorant. The interest on the bonds continues
unpaid. The bonds themselves are unredeemed.
No movement has been made to relieve or extinguish
them. It pains me once more to refuse your lordship's
request. The execution must proceed, Further delay is
impossible.”
“Zachary.”
Soartes.
The flint hearted villain!
Gon.
Being at this pass.
Matters are fain to mend. Courage, my lord.
Soartes.
These threats of angry fortune help to arm me
And her rough usage drills for worse encounter.
Your desperate scheme, so desperate yesterday,
Is now at this dark crisis of events
An inspired Godsend. I embrace it—cling to it;
It is no longer desperate—no longer
The criminal, dishonouring, traitorous project
Which, at the unfolding, to your features gave
Uncarnate lustre, startling and repelling.
Now do I know that crushing poverty
Makes apt for crime, and crimes, at whose recital
Prosp'rous men shudder, to the consciences
Of their necessitous and goaded actors
Bring no reproach. Good angels more upbraid
The boastful virtues of the Pharisee
Than the compliances which men unread
In the abrupt law of Adversity,
Punish with scourge and chain. I shrink no longer.
Gonseres! you have gained me to your purpose.
Gon.
Betwixt us, let no misconception halt.
Foremost, you engage,
Being by virtue of a regal charter,
Hereditary warder of the palace,
Within whose walls, since the demise of—
The jewels have lain, caged up in idle state;
To the sealed chamber where this treasure lies
You pledge me safe direction.
Soartes.
Be assured
Of full instructions—all facility,
No one to challenge you—no mask required.
The sentinels that pace the palace walls
Are in the dark: even the king himself
Suspects no buried entrance to his home—
No bolt unguarded—guarding royalty.
Gon.
This is all well. A dragon to confront
Tempts not my fancy. I am used to hold
Danger, itself the intruder, in disdain,
Not to adventure in bold quest of it,
Or woo its presence. When it comes—a fig for't!
Soartes.
Let not such confidence o'ermatch discretion—
Seem but yourself; while you are doubly prudent,
And note you, good Gonseres! I am here
In the back ground, myself—the Baron Soartes—
Trust-worthy keeper of the royal palace,
No plotter or accomplice—ignorant
As the unconscious infant of your purpose!
Gon.
Not safer is your secret in the grave
Than in my living bosom. I, alone,
Stir in the matter, scheme and execute,
Betrayed by circumstance, I only suffer.
Enough! Gonseres—we agree in this,
Gon.
I consent to it; leave all to my care,
Thus far, up to this crisis, our design
Promises well—further, the jewels secured,
We are, in bettering us, no way advanced
But stand in peril imminent as ever.
The rarest diamonds—pure as angels' tears,
Which their possessor trembles to disclose
Or traffick with, are of less vantage to him
Than pebbles by disdainful billows tossed,
And re-tossed on the surly ocean's marge;
Nay! when thus bid and hampered in their lustre,
They become baleful and, like stars eclipsed,
Bode evil.
Soartes.
True, Gonseres, and in this—
The vigilant disposal of our booty;
Lies your chief service! Let discretion guide you.
The prize secured, push boldly to the frontiers—
Make no delay nor doubtful seem nor anxious,
But use the common diligence of traders;
And see to it, Gonseres, that the gems
Singled and unincumbered of their setting,
Are so concealed about you—so disposed
Upon your person, as to give no pretext
Of busy search to keen officials.
I say—push boldly on, hie thee to ---
And there arrived, enquire for one Balsido
A jeweller and vendor of rare things
Whom having found, treat with considerately,
Disclosing to his view no other portion
Of our rich booty than may satisfy
For my relief and your necessities.
And this observe, Gonseres, I require
The gold without delay. Old Zachary
Is clamorous for his crowns and must be heeded.
Three hundred thousand will redeem the bond—
Clear off all burdens on my ward's estate
And for the brief remainder of life's voyage
Refit my labouring and exhausted bark.
Gon.
Three hundred thousand crowns! a lavish sum
To raise at notice. Think you this Balsido
Will prove compliant?—has the means at hand?
Soartes.
I know him by report.
He is no stinted, haggling usurer,
Like Zachary. Kings treat with him and flourish!
The mystic touchstone of philosophers
Is in his keeping. The red gold is dealt him
In generous ingots by his god-dame Fortune—
Not doled out peevishly in single coins,
But from her dazzling and unfailing hoard
Emptied in lapfuls.
Gon.
You describe, my lord,
One much too honest or too much a knave.
Soartes.
Of such rare knaves, the pride is honesty:
Count on Balsido, he will faithful prove;
As for outwitting you, that is your care.
At lowest estimate, the jewels are worth
A million crowns—one diamond put aside—
A priceless gem famed in old history.
At his sword's point transferred from Moorish casque
To his own princely brow the glittering trophy.
This gem, regard me, let the sun shine on't
Will start to life, aye, like a trumpet speak,
And stir the very midriff of the realm.
It's king adorning lustre, in the course
Of centuries has travell'd the wide earth,
Troubling high thrones and filling camps with envy.
Indolent monarchs, for this jewel's sake,
And to increase the honour of their crowns,
Have menaced war, purposed alliances,
Achievments wrought by lovers unexcelled.
From its renown, base men have culled renown,
And those of gentle birth, denied its presence,
Have halted betwixt death and infamy.
Such virtues as to this rare gem belong,
Mark me, Gonseres, must have no display.
To traitors, loyalty is treacherous;
The amulet of royalty doubly so,
Bury it, therefore, deep in the dark soil,
As thou would'st hide a woful pestilence,
With humid clods sealing the sun's bright eye
And disencouraging the prying stars.
Gon.
Your prudent wishes to the very letter
I shall comply with, credit me, my lord,
The impatience of my nature, kingly gewgaws
Avail to move, less, oh, immeasurably!
Than the surpassing jewel—the bright star
To possess which I am thus stirred to serve you.
Soartes.
This lovers extasy, I fear, Gonseres,
Is inauspicious and befriends us not.
For heaven's sake stay it, so our lofty fortunes
May run together, side by side, and prosper.
Why charge, I ask, so perilous an adventure
With such a freight and thus below itself
Debase the noble emprise you are sworn to?
Be more the man and shake this boy-love off.
It is a taming, heart-dividing folly
Which unmakes those who cherish it.
Gon.
Fear not;
This very extasy you lavish doubts on
Is your salvation—the main-spring that prompts me—
The pledge of our success. Having it not,
I hold no tie but simple gratitude,
Towards your cause, and gratitude is never
The faithful and absorbing power that love is,
So strong yet so compliant—so enslaving
And yet so servile—so ingenious
And manifold in its devices, yet,
Toward the single purpose of the heart
So steadfast. Gratitude is a forced virtue,
And its exotic life, a crossing breath
May chill and wither. Even the hand that rears it,
By one ungentle pressure, often stays it.
But love, how different! exalts and thrives
On its necessities, endures to increase,
And is more weakened by indulgent care
Than unkind usage. Oh! you wrongly judge,
When you would leave to feeble gratitude
A charge to save you and love's higher claim
So disregard.
Gonseres, be more generous.
It was but yesterday that you extolled
The virtue you now slander. There was nothing
You durst not brave under its influence—
Stalk lions—leap into the heart of battle—
Wrestle with serpents—harness crocodiles
And ferry ocean on their scaly backs;
These to the grateful heart were feats of pleasure.
Such gratitude expressed in such big words
I trusted. Have I erred? Am I deceived?
And is this virtue a mere text to rant on?
What then your love but a more recent boast-word?
Gon.
I spake of honesty—of honest service.
Command me still and I engage myself
T'atchieve all this and yet remain your debtor.
In such adventure life is hazarded,
Not in contempt of honour, but to win it,
'Tis otherwise when men are tasked to crime,
To midnight murders, robberies and treasons;
More than sweet life is honour then imperilled,—
A thing so sacred in some men's esteem
It is the life of life and slain its slayer,
Soar.
Honour and thou, Gonseres! Thou and Honour!
Gon.
Does it amaze you more than my presumption?
Have I aspired to your fair niece's hand
And hold the assent of her dear guardian—
Her worthy, doting, conscientious uncle,
Yet am denied the common grace of life,
And in my teeth submit to have dishonour
Flung thus—its days vile garbage to a cur?
Soartes.
Gonseres!
Gon.
The name savours of reproach!
My ears construe it so, and yet, my lord,
It is a faultless name, not like Iscariot;
I might discard it for its euphony
And pride myself in some jaw-breaking terms
That would rout scandal and arrest the tongue
Of froward men, familiar in their phrase;
But no! thy favorite hound was my god-father
And to this dog-call I am broken-in,
Yet not so used, but that my ears do tingle
When base lips utter it.
Soar.
I cry you mercy!
The young blood in you is too hot for me.
Be careful of your scorn while it is harmless.
Lest it draw ruffling smiles and words that fester.
Boy! oh, boy!
Am I persuaded to entrust myself
All to your keeping—an old world-worn man—
To so unformed and rash a counsellor?
That I am thus possessed, what is my crime?
And what the spell you have to mould me thus?
Reply, just heavens! and free me from this bondage!
Poverty cannot crush as you would crush me;
The usurer's grip is not so torturing—
His worst, not the extreme of all extremes.
If human and no demon, as I fear,
You who, not holding can discourse of honour
And rate the price so highly. Oh! be moved!
In my behalf, not to abate its value,
But what remains to me, allow to live.
Gon.
My lord, upon a treasure long renounced
You lavish words. When your fair ward's estate
Lies at the hammer's mercy, will men say
Her guardian was a just, fair dealing man,
The paragon of honour? Will the Jew,
Old Zachary, remain your right-hand surety,
And to keep up your good repute, defer
His pond'rous claims? He is not Mammon's priest
Who at the altar stone, with bloodless knife
Unbinds his victim. Talk no more of this—
Irresolute old man! Honour and thou!
So far I cast the words back in your teeth
Honour and thou are at their quarrel's door!—
Soar.
Alas! the remedy—
Gon.
A Godsend, call it,
That shall repair your fortunes and prop up
The crazed idol at its hour of doom.
Soar.
But Meranie?
Gon.
Whom you have doated on,
Whom you have tended, like another father,
And made forget the true home of her youth
Garnished with love in your still kinder home;
When the storm breaks which gathers over you,
Look in the piteous face of that fair girl
And ask in whose behoof and by what limner
Those features have been wrought?
Soar.
Then you, Gonseres,
You too, can pity her? Say, you do pity
And will accord one kindness for her sake;
I will be slave you to in all the rest,
You shall the choicest of our spoils have choice of—
A double portion, yield but this one favour.
Gon.
Express it, name it, I have patience left me
To endure the surmise of my heart, no longer.
Soar.
Hear me, I pray, in simple charity,
When in a pressing moment I agreed
To indulge your claim, no other end had I
Than to divert the fancies of a boy.
Esteeming them of wild, uncertain nature—
Sudden of dissolution as of growth,
Which if untended by the hand that sprung them
Could not survive even the noon heats of summer.
Gon.
A natural deceit. You flatter me.
I am less harmed than obliged—what then?
My fancies are unchanged—my claim unshaken—
The centre-spring of all my services—
Th'impelling power that would revive your fortunes
My life is in this love—all fixed here!
Such truth deserves return, is it so met?
Or have you cast it on the aimless winds
And wait their message of repaying love?
Oh! dupe, that tak'st to heart the scorn of woman
Yet think'st to overcome it by endurance!
Gon.
Three weeks ago, you soldered up this chain
And led me by it. Am I tamer grown
Or have you ready-forged a heavier shackle?
Ev'n yesterday, you quoted from love's jest book
Some idle rhythm and winked with vexing pleasure,
When for the rightful heroine, you supplied
The name of Meranie—making sly halt thereon.
Soar.
You force me to be plain. The Count Vicente
Has now returned and claims my niece's hand.
I am appris'd by him—but see, here is
The document itself. It needs no comment,
And will explain my conduct.
Gon.
Count Vicente!
I bear this man no love. Two years ago,
The dates agree—he rescued from the lash
A ragged urchin who had crossed my path
In the deer forest on the quarry's track;
Rescued, I said,—fair words did all the office
Backed by the presence of his retinue.
They were enough and nettled more than threats,
This feigned courtesy I fix'd no quarrel on,
But now, that with less reason in his meddling,
He quaffs my fountain, plucks my odorous flower
Darkens and disenchants my purest star,
Betwixt us, Heaven! there beats a life too many!
Soar.
Had one requiting turn befallen your love,
A smile, a word, a ringlet, the hand's pressure,
And Meranie betrayed you by such token
There were excuse for this outburst of hate.
Assert not her affection for Vicente
Thus unincumbered, is Vicente's crime,
And at his guileless door lay all your wrongs,
Heap them at once upon this hoary head
And nerve your fullest vengeanca to the stroke,
So that no dregs remain to satisfy:
Let not a shadow of past friendship—nothing
Presume to intrude betwixt you and your victim.
Hear me, Gonseres! must I say coward to stir you?
Gon.
A choicer word hath deluged hearths with blood,
But they were men that used it and not dotards.
To take for such reproach a life reproached,
Th'exacting code of honour does not teach me.
Soar.
More cruel are your tongue-thrusts than your sword,
The word I spake to move you, now, take home!
(draws)
Gon.
Of the same tide, this is the second billow!
In vain I am assailed. Put up your weapon.
An earthquake hath disordered both our senses.
I have no quarrel but with my destiny.
In the crusade of love, to be so routed
Lies beyond all conception of disaster:
Let us shake hands, my lord, I am restored;
The qualm is off and with it all ill-will,
I bear no malice to Vicente longer.
But when your niece and he have joined their fortunes,
Out of my own division of the booty.
Soar.
Your generous heart is once more in its place.
Now, I can proudly glance to my right hand
And re-assured turn face upon the future.
(Enter Bertrand.)
Ber.
My lord, the whole synagogue is upon us. Here is
the Jew Zachary, two clerks, a notary, three timber merchants,
a picture dealer, and half a score besides of the
city gentry, just let loose from the diligence. Such a swarm
of hornets hasn't buzzed about our ears for many a day.
I have a shrewd guess they are here for some mischief,
and to judge by the wistful eye which one fellow, a
scampish looking quill-driver armed with a birding piece,
bears towards the park, your lordship's venison is in some
danger.
Soar.
The earth is not yet cold pressed by your footsteps
Betwixt us and that usurer's pestilent den
Before th'impatient bloodhounds are let forth.
What shall I do to keep the roof above me
And stretch for my proud oaks their day of grace?
I pray you aid my wits to some expedient
Gon.
How is it with the larder?
Soar.
Help me Bertrand.
Ber.
I have known matters a trifle better, my lord. It
is now fifty years ago—
Soar.
Plague take your slow digestion!
Ber.
Since my late lord your noble father, peace to his
soul! gave an entertainment to his most Christian
majesty—
Soar.
Tush! Bertrand,
The bones of buried feasts are marrowless
And sad fare is the memory of abundance;
Speak to the point. How is your larder stocked?
Ber.
As to the quality, my lord, I declare nothing. It is
wholesome meat which agrees with those who engulph it;
and if the carcase of an old buck found dead by the
ranger this day se'night can be rendered savoury, trust
me, there will be no reason to say, were there a score of
guests to look to, that we starve either Jew or Christian.
Besides, the fish pond has a stray jack or two in it, and
there's the old gander in the barn-yard.
Gon.
Good, at this pinch, it serves you to shew plenty
Garnished with garden stuffs and summer fruits—
The gatherings of the woods; a treat so rare,
Given spontaneously will win you favour.
Soar.
But Zachary? I have no hope to appease him?
Gon.
Oh, fear not. Melt the others to your wishes
And he will parley out of helplessness.
You must have generous wine to work their brains with,
A prime old vintage, gracious to the taste
But cunning in its fume.
Soar.
What say you, Bertrand?
Is the dry rot aspread among your casks
And all the virtue of our cellars gone?
Ber.
Why, my lord, that there is no lack of empty binns
and staved barrels, is beyond arguing. I have known the
day—
Well-well, conclude this threatened roundabout.
Say, you have wine?
Ber.
There is the cask my lord in which your honour, as
master Gonseres who had a hand in the freak will remember,
'tis now seven years past and upwards, drowned a
litter of puppies. You gave orders that it should be
closed up and kept unbroached.
Soar.
It was a happy thought. I had lost mind o't.
By this time, the grape
Will have attained maturity. I envy
The dogs their spicy swill. May the whole litter
Choke in its dregs. Bertrand, you know my wishes.
For lack of cooks spare not the venison.
These cits are kitchen-bred and con amore
Will play their part. Remember tankard law—
Beguile them with a toast or flageolet air—
A snatch of silly song and see they quaff to't,
Let none escape until his wits lie drenched;
Meanwhile Gonseres, I will go and pay
A host's respects to master Zachary.
[Exeunt Soartes and Bertrand.
Gonseres
(solus.)
A boyish love! not one requiting turn in't!
Oh these baffled eyes!
Where were they when this doating rival crossed them?
To yield to love's neglect and he th'occasion
Is to receive my sentence from his mouth.
I can endure it. We shall not fall out
Until this weakness pass, and Meranie—
(The name hath an expiring fragrance in't
That wins me to inhale it to the latest),
Being Vicente's so enriches him,
That my revenge, now inexpedient
Shall have full swing and opportunity.
[Exit.
End of Act I.
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