 | An Unhistorical Pastoral |  |
ACT III
SCENE I.
—A Road.Enter Felice, Bruno and Scipio.
Scipio.
Yonder he is, puzzling over a paper. Neither of
your lordships knows him?
Felice.
No.
Scipio.
It is no wonder. Since he fell in love he affects
a kind of bearish melancholy; secludes himself; feeds his
passion on fish, and has gross dreams. It will take some
angling to catch him, gudgeon and all as he is.
Good-day, sir.
Torello.
Oh!—good-day.
Scipio.
Here are two gentlemen of the Prince's court,
who, their ears being infected with your absolute accomplishments,
have been plagued by the unsatisfied desire of
your acquaintance.
Torello.
It is not the first time I have plagued my
acquaintance. Gentlemen, who are you?
Felice.
Felice is my name; my title, lord; my having,
handsome; and my expectation, great.
Torello.
O sir, my name is Torello; my figure is at least
as handsome as yours; and my expectation is high and
sure.—Your name, sir?
Bruno.
My figure is as God made it; and my expectation
ends in salvation.
Mine ends in matrimony.
Felice.
You are he who loves Eulalie.
Torello.
Here is a copy of verses, a sonnet to her. Will
you read it? It will tell you.
Felice.
Are they yours? Did you write them?
Torello.
I scratched them down this morning.
Felice
[reading].
With no adornment, simply, ‘I love you.’
You ask me for a mint of words mayhap:
I give you none save these, ‘I do love you,’
In which is melted all my passion's gold.
Many a white plain have I deluged black
With overflowing, wordy, rhyming streams;
But I have found them all too weak, and so
I simply say and mean, ‘I do love you.’
This is excellent.
I answer, I have drained them dry already.
Better still.
I answer, that I keep my health for you.
O, admirable! This cannot fail to win her.
Scipio
[aside].
He may have written it after all.
Torello.
I will send it to her along with this string of
pearls.
Scipio.
If I might interest myself so far in your lordship's
affairs, I would suggest that, having thus engaged the services
of Plutus and Apollo, you now enlist under your love's flag
the potent Hecate.
Torello.
Ah! I shall consider your counsel.
Felice.
It is good counsel.
Who's this Hecate?
Felice.
She is a sorceress, and has her haunt in the wood.
She will tell you how you are to discover that you are to
marry Eulalie; and this certain knowledge of futurity,
stranded with the verses and the necklace, will form a cable
that draws her into your arms.
Torello.
Into my arms! Let us visit Hecate at once.
Felice.
It is too soon. She will not be approached till the
moon is up.
Torello.
Then come with me, and you shall see Eulalie.
But, look you, I will not make her known to you.
[Aside.]
She knows too many men already.
Felice.
It needs not: we will know her by her beauty.
Torello.
Ay; but you must not speak to her.
Felice.
How if she speak to us?
Torello.
Then must you be short in your answers, and by
no means attempt to gain her favour; I would have her
favour no man but me.
Felice.
Fear not us. Courtiers know how to behave, and
fishermen's daughters are excellent wenches.
Torello.
They are most sweet wenches. Eulalie is a most
sweet fisherman's wench.
Felice.
How was he sweet? Did he do business in fresh
water only?
Torello.
What, he? You start from our subject. Come
on, come on.
[Bruno and Torello go out.
Felice.
It will work, I think.
Scipio.
Assuredly. I know where to get such rig as will
pass for a witch's. Bring him along to the place you wot
of, and let chance guide our sport.
[They go out.
SCENE II.
—An Open Space.Beneath a hawthorn, Eulalie, garlanded; near her, Rupert, Felice, Bruno, Torello, and Scipio, standing together. Ivy and Green. Alardo and Conrad, dressed like soothsayers, among a crowd of Mayers beside a May-pole. Cinthio, apart.
Green.
Prince Rupert shall our May-lord be.
Ivy.
Well said!
Mayers.
The prince, the prince!
Green
[to Eulalie].
Fair queen, entreat the prince.
Eulalie.
Be you our lord of May, most gracious prince.
I pray you pardon me if I be bold;
Being but a puppet-queen, my subjects' pupil,
I speak as I am urged.
Rupert.
As you are urged?
You are their spokesman, merely?
Eulalie.
Queen, they say,
But little more than their spokeswoman, sir.
Rupert.
I mean, you are mouthpiece only for them.
Eulalie.
Has any other, sir, petitioned you?
Rupert.
You will not understand me. This request
That I should share with you May's flowery throne,
Is, say, the utterance of a hundred hearts,
Well-purged and sweetened to the May-queen's prayer,
And she, the hundred first, breathes only air.
Eulalie.
Air, only air, prince, for these hundred hearts:
I speak for them; beseech you, be their king.
The May-queen would not have me for her consort?
Eulalie.
O yes, my lord, I would. My own heart's throbs
Are prayers beseeching you to take it all—
To reign, to tyrannise, to enslave, to kill.
My kingdom's conquered now and factious strife
Of modesty and love quelled and atoned
By your dictation; nobles and populace
Crown you, enthrone you, monarch absolute.
I pray you, speak not to me; I would weep.
The blush upon my cheek will hotly burn
Till flooding penitence has quenched its glow.
You are so pertinent an inquisitor,
Your eyes did burn my resolution through,
Your voice did drown me, and I cried for help.—
My lord of May, speak to the people, now.
[She leads him forward and goes out.
Torello
[aside].
Now will I offer it to her. Oh! she
has tears in her eyes. No; she must be in a merrier mood
to think of love.
Rupert
[aside].
Ay, lord of May, and lord of May again!
May-lord this year, lord of this May for aye;
Lord of this flowery season of love's bloom,
Lord of this flower of love, seasonably blown:
Prince am I—King, maybe, of Belmarie,
May-king, and king of sweet May Eulalie.—
Good friends, we thank you for this title new:
Its fresh addition gives us double power,
With which we join our queen's, two-fold as well,
Strong by your suffrage, by her beauty strong:
And in this combined and quadruple might,
Let study, commerce, labour, for a time—
In truth, three woes—be counted sins in act;
Shame anger, malice, envy, every ill
Back to the devil with loud-laughing mocks;
Drink hail to liberty in rosy wine;
Happy your faces with continuous smiles,
And spend mirth's overflow in jest and song;
Forsake stone walls; re-live the golden age
Among the trees in sweetness and moonlight.
Mayers.
We will, we will!
Rupert.
Our May-queen gone!
Felice.
She has retired to preserve her beauty.
Bruno.
Ay, sir, to pickle it, to wash it in brine, to weep.
Rupert.
Wept she, indeed?
[They talk apart.
Green.
Is it not a noble prince?
Alardo.
Truly he seems to be; but by this hue
We may not judge his nature's primal mood;
For princes, in their humours, are chameleons.
Ivy.
Camellias, sir, are of different colours. Our prince is
of the spotless dye.
Alardo.
Whitewashed—a sepulchre?
Ivy.
Sir, do you speak well?
Alardo.
Well; I hope I speak as well as other men.
Ivy.
But do you mean well?
Alardo.
By all means.
Green.
For he who speaks ill of the prince here, had need
to be his bosom-friend, or a cur whom no one would waste
a kick on.
Alardo.
The prince must lie warm-covered in your hearts.
You must be a stranger. Know, that this same
Prince Rupert is out of sight and beyond hearing the
mightiest monarch in these parts. To the nobles he is a
most egregious tyrant; to the commons, a very brother. But
yesterday he addressed me by the damnations of knave and
fellow: he could not have been more familiar though he had
been my own father, who always calls me rascal. His good
qualities are as contemptible as another man's sins.
Alardo.
Then, by your showing, worthy villager,
He is a very white crow of a prince.
But, tell me, is he not Alardo's son?
Ivy.
His son, and successor. Indeed, I may say, he is
his father, for he, being without question dead, Rupert is
king.
Alardo.
Dead without question! You are positive.
How, if I say I know he is alive?
Think you to gain a sire the prince would choose
To lose so mighty and august a throne?
Ivy.
Treasonless man! would you dethrone the prince?
Ho! lechery and faith! guard our good prince! His life's
in danger.
Rupert.
What cry is this?
Ivy.
Great prince, it might have been a crying matter;
but I, thank the gods, have been man enough to stifle it.
Rupert.
So you have turned approver: renegades
I never trust; but what have you to say?
Ivy.
I will prove that this greybeard is the most noteworthy
renegade and trusty traitor these times have seen.
Rupert.
Your language is too original for ordinary
capacities.—What are you, old man?
Alardo.
A soothsayer.
Is he affiliated in your trade?
His dress betokens that. What have you said
That this clod could construe as treasonable?
Alardo.
I but suggested that your highness' sire
May yet be canopied by yon blue sky,
With no damp mouldering roof, or watery pall
Between him and the tabernacling air;
That you would joy at loss of sovereignty
To clasp Alardo in your arms once more;
Whereon this loyal sirrah bellowed out,
And laid on me officious needless hands.
Rupert.
Ha! those of your profession are not wont
To talk at random even in courtesy.
Approach us nearer; we would speak with you.—
[To Ivy.]
For you, sir—there: we pay your blundering faith.
[To Alardo.]
Now, summon to thine aid thy powerfullest sprite;
Or if thy demon be unknown, and speed
All unappealed and unannounced, whether
He fly from heaven or mid-aërial limbo,
Subdue all motion and prostrate thy will,
Yea, let thy soul evacuate, that, void,
Thy genius may usurp its empty fane,
And prophesy with scope and native truth.
To question were to slight thy divination;
Therefore say sooth of all I seek to know.
Alardo.
Two things by thee desired most
Cannot be thine: one must be lost:
One's forfeit is the other's cost.
Rupert.
An oracle. Expound it now, good sage.
Remember one, absent and dear;
Think of another, loved and near;
Their interests clash; their clashing fear.
Before the moon does twice uplight
The dusky countenance of night,
It shall be past, this bosom-fight.
Rupert.
I understand, and half believe, because
On an event so sudden and unlike
As that of King Alardo's re-appearance
Thou stak'st thy fame thus openly. Say more.
Alardo.
No more to-day; I am dispirited:
And never twice 'twixt ruddy morn and morn
Are we with visionary prospect blessed.
Your eyes are on my comrade. Brother, speak.
Conrad.
Nothing to you, Prince Rupert. There is one
Of lowlier state whom I have news to tell.
He yonder stands and broods with eyes downcast.
Rupert.
Cinthio, hither and hear thy fortune told.
Alardo.
Prince, I have converse for your private ear.
[They talk apart.
Cinthio.
Soothsayers and augurers of old were held
In high repute for dreams and prophecies.
Their star is waning now, their traffic being
Unto a race, better in being busy,
In barren, fallow fancy, how much worse!
Divine you from the stars, old man; or from
Men's shapes, complexions, palms, dreams and the like?
Scan you a mutton's clean-picked shoulder-blade,
Or have you any visionary aid?
Conrad.
I'll tell thee truths about thyself thou know'st not.
Say on.
Conrad.
Three lustres has this orb in heaven rung,
Swinging around its vast and vaulted bell
Of measured space, striking its own deep knell
From side to side, a huge and pendulous tongue,
Since thou, then five years' journey to thy grave,
Wast filched most vilely from a lordly home.
Thou shalt not, shepherd, twice Pan's blessing crave,
Morning and evening on thy flock; nor roam
Upon these hills beneath a twice-risen sun
Before thou find'st a father; he, a son.
Cinthio.
A mutual treasure-trove. But by what sign
May I believe this bare assertion true?
Conrad.
Beneath thy left breast is a crescent mole;
A flame has sealed a kiss upon thy cheek;
A gold chain quaintly wrought hangs round thy neck,
Hidden from every but the second sight.
Cinthio.
By heaven, these things are so! Now, who art thou?
Rupert.
Presumptuous, meddling fool! A plot, a plot!
Confess who bribed thee. Guido 'twas, I warrant.
Cinthio, what says the other?
Cinthio.
He gives me
A noble father at no later date
Than sunset of to-morrow; vouching this
By nominating several private marks
About my body.
Rupert.
So; well-planned, indeed!
Wretched dissemblers, bear these wrinkles hence,
That, being hypocrites, for age is wise,
Shame that which they betoken. Quick, begone!
I'll tell thee more anon.—Stand not agape;
Be off, trudge, trot; away!
[Alardo and Conrad go out.
Good, gentle mayers,
Retire home for a little; lightly sup;
Lightly to bed; at midnight, lightly up,
To welcome May, to banish worldly jars,
And wanton it like twinkling earthly stars,
Outpeering those who then will deftly tread
In joyous, maiden mirth, and all the night
About the pure moon, from whose dark blue bed
Her bower-maids singing sweetly-low aloud
To wake their queen, will, with soft, quaint affright,
Charily cast her coverlet of cloud:
Stars must we all be when shall be displayed
Our May-moon, Eulalie, earth's loveliest maid.
[Mayers go out shouting. Felice, Bruno, and Torello follow.
Cinthio.
Was not this all too hurried, unripe, green?
Rupert.
No; inconsiderate I have not been.
Grant what they prophesied of us should hap,
It proves no science in the heaven's great map,
Nor any other of unearthly mean:
Their boasted foresight is of things past seen,
And their informing spirits, my good lords.
Now, do you scent the plot? In fewest words;
Some certain knowledge of my sire and thine,
Some hint that I would make Eulalia mine,
The haughty stomachs and the fatuous brains
Of my high cabinet, have feared with stains
Upon our line to spring from Eulalie,
To have my bent; and so, to change my mind,
Which by their own they fathom, and to bind
Alardo to their penetrating wit,
They taught these two, dismissed, to tempt this hit,
Which, like a boomerang, returns to maim
The flingers, who have made an evil aim.
Cinthio.
It seems to me this argument is lame.
Rupert.
Lame! Had you heard yon dotard tackle me
About the marring of our family tree;
Predicting sad disaster, ruin, death,
O'erhanging state and king, which loosed by breath
Of vows yet to be sworn to Eulalie
Must thunder on us from the cloudy sky;
No fear of wrong would linger in your head,
No doubt would cripple what I now have said.
Or if I blame too widely, sure am I
'Twas Guido sent these rusty prophets here.
This daughter whom he keeps in turret high,
Making by rarity her beauty dear,
In solitude her soul unsullied blows;
And he upon her lofty virtue builds
A loftier castle than his wisdom knows:
He rushes in, disdaining highest guilds
Of Belmarie's nobility, to mate
His daughter with its prince, himself to make
Most potent minister in all the state—
His prince's king, mayhap, for Faustine's sake.
For any thought save this, I have no mind—
My heavenly love is, like a goddess, kind.
Of these predicts we'll reason, or else rhyme.
[Goes out.
Cinthio.
False prophets, or soothsayers, what care I!
For me the thread is spun and cast the die;
The boat is waiting, and the wind is right.
March past, ye steady hours; lead on, midnight.
Enter Onesta.
Onesta! Hangs this gear where it did?
Onesta.
Alack, alack, it hangs together like a snow-shower
in the air.
Cinthio.
Then is it indeed alack. What has unbound
our plot?
Onesta.
O, we are all unbound! All undone! twelve
o'clock will never, never do.
Cinthio.
How has that hour become refractory which
yesterday was most corrigible?
Onesta.
O, she does not lack courage, but her father, he
is fractious.
Cinthio.
Her father! what of him?
Onesta.
O, it's all along of him! He goes to bed every
night at eleven, as sure as the clock! Upstairs, at every
chime creak goes a step, and his stick comes down between,
with his other hand on the baluster. And he talks about a
new lamp for the landing, as he has done for the last twenty
years—not that I remember; but Marjory, who will be
seventy to-morrow—that's May-day; and to hear her talking
about the May-days when she was young! This very forenoon
she began gabbling, with her toothless old gums, and
her beard going wag, wag—
Cinthio.
For God's sake cease thy gabbling and thy
of midnight.
Onesta.
La! what a temper you have! I'll tell Faustine
how wild a lover she has caught.
Cinthio.
Tell her how wild I am for her dear love,
While you stand dallying with our happiness.
Onesta.
Dallying, forsooth, dallying! I'll dally no more
between you!
Cinthio.
My fair Onesta, carry this kiss to thy mistress,
and keep this one to yourself. Twelve o'clock is not suitable,
because?
Onesta.
Because, as I was just beginning to tell you,
Guido goes to bed at eleven—I mean, he goes to his chamber
then; counts his keys, his money; gets undressed;
curses his valet; says his prayers; then a door slams, or a
chimney rumbles, or a rat scrapes behind the wainscot, or a
loose slate on Signor Guido's own head rattles a noise of its
own in his ears, and he yells, ‘Thieves! Fire!’ and the
bell's rung, and the whole household roused up; and every
room, every bed, and closet and hole, searched and shook,
and hacked and pierced; and out to the garden—
Cinthio.
And is this a nightly performance? But you
knew all this before. What prompted you to have us
determine our flight for midgnight? It must be then, or
sooner.
Onesta.
It can't be, it shan't be, either sooner, or later.
Cinthio.
Come, come, remember the crowns.
[Aside.]
I believe she's sold herself to the other side.
Onesta.
Perhaps it may be done, perhaps it may: though
it's not any more possible now than it was before.
Cinthio.
How are we to manage?
Well, it may be done; for when I remember,
there are two old travellers staying with us just now. They
take up all Guido's time. Everybody is so busy you would
think our house was a bazaar of all the trades; there could
not be more ado supposing it was for the interment of a king.
About eleven they will be drawing to the hinder end of supper,
and every guest busier than his neighbour eating and
drinking, and all the servants drudging like millers with a
good wind. Come then: my lady will be ready; and you
must put the dress in by the window, and wait till she gets
it on, for she will have nothing but her night-gown. Then
she will come down, and—O lord! I wish I knew nothing
of it.
Cinthio.
Can you by no means procure her own apparel?
Onesta.
It is not to be thought of; for her father would
know that she could not come at it but by me.
Cinthio.
She will have greater ease in man's attire,
And no disguise could better suit our flight.
The wood that lies between us and the shore
Will hide us till Sebastian's hour has come.
Eleven is our hour. Let Faustine know
If I come not that death has flown with me;
Or that old Time himself at length has gone,
And doomsday come to righten every wrong.
[Goes out.
Enter a Servant.
Onesta.
Where have you been?
Servant.
I was sent to invite the prince to sup at our
house to-night; and it is good words to ask a man to a good
supper. But the prince refused to come, and that is bad
words; for it is bad not to choose the good.
Belike the prince has chosen a better supper
somewhere else.
Servant.
Belike he has. Are you going home?
Onesta.
Yes. You go before.
[They go out.
| An Unhistorical Pastoral | |