 | An Unhistorical Pastoral |  |
ACT IV
SCENE I.
—The Garden of Martha's House.Enter Eulalie. While she is speaking,
Rupert enters behind.
Eulalie.
My tongue must heave my bosom's suffering forth,
Or else into my mouth my prisoned heart
Will leap, and pant its desperate passion there.
Wild love has burst upon me like a storm:
The gathered clouds I knew; not their full freight.
O me! my desperate, foolish, high-pitched love!
Is this my fortitude, my deep-sworn muteness?
Now, blabbing tongue, be silent; for, behold,
How many bright-eyed, heavenly beings peer
From countless windows on my blush, self-called,
And, listening, smile the welkin wide across
At me, plaining anew love's endless tale,
So risible, so old, so stale to them:
Poor, weary stars, no wonder 'tis you wink!
But I have dared to tell myself I love,
And madly to confess to him 'tis he.
O daring, swift such madness to conceive!
O madness, with untimeous haste brought forth!
The birds are all asleep; so are the winds;
The trees?—Ah, they have tongues and must have ears
Dear trees, beseech you, tell no tales on me;
And never, when the wind would have you sing
Chant this sweet name which I will utter now,
Hereafter dreaming nevermore of Rupert.
Nay, gentle trees, you may sigh low his name,
And make all winds in love with that sole word,
Till northern pine-trees rustle it, and know,
As well as southern palmy groves, to teach
Their feathered choirs the syllables I love:
Ye streams and rivers, thou deep-swelling sea,
Confine your far-ranged voices to that theme:
Ye crystal ringing spheres the echo catch.
Rupert
[aside].
Now will I kiss her. No, her melting heart
Exhales in words still. Hush, my heart; she speaks.
Eulalie.
These are sweet thoughts; as sweet as foolish they.
Though all the myriad voices of the world
Should thunder Rupert far up into space
Until the moon swerved from her circling path
Distracted by the noise, I, bidding now,
'Twould only waste breath and the spheres endanger,
For it could not avail to make him love me.
I wish that it were ever night, and I
Could hold converse with it concerning Rupert.
Poor dreamer! have I not appointed this
For my fantastic, final love-discourse!
Rupert.
And of true love's lasting communion first.
O, let me go!—My lord, I did not mean
My treason to be heard by any one.
To princes people are all hypocrites;
And sovereigns all believe that they profess
Which from a true desire to please is said:
This is what should be truth—I love you not.
Rupert.
Treason most capital! Lov'st thou not me,
Thy prince, thy king? For this I rede thy doom:
Full twenty thousand kisses shalt thou pay,
And twenty thousand kisses after these,
As many more when these have been discharged,
To be due always, every hour of the day,
To him 'gainst whom thou hast conspired to cheat
Of what thou longest, burnest to bestow.
O, perjured felon, to thyself and me,
Begin fulfilment of this penalty.
Eulalie.
Are you so peremptory? Am I lost?
Think that you heard no syllable of mine,
For you did apprehend my thoughts, as they
Transgressed my own decrees, into night's ear,
And must not prosecute their wantonness,
Since I, their mistress, have forgot their crimes—
This, recent, and that past, done to your face—
Not knowing if I have forgiven them.
I pray you, sir, forget them too—I pray you.
Rupert.
Ah, thou dost fear the honour of my love!
I will forget. Therefore, fair Eulalie,
Most worshipful and low-adorëd goddess,
I love thee more than any tongue can tell,
And more than all the world beside can love;
More lovingly, more truly, I love thee
Dost thou love me, and wilt thou marry me?
Eulalie.
I love thee with a love not to be shouted:
It is as huge and glowing as the sun,
And it will burn when that clear lamp is out:
Thou art its infinite vitality:
It is as spacious as the element,
And thou art heaven and earth, and all between.
Marry thee, Rupert, Prince of Belmarie?
I know I dream. Ah me, when I shall wake!
Rupert.
I know I dream not: lips so sensible,
So warm as thine, no dreamy spectre bears.
Eulalie.
In sleep love's ecstacy's omnipotent.
So sweet a dream as this were best soon done,
That lasting memories may less deplore.
Good-night, fair vision: heaven languishes for thee;
Thine absence has bedimmed its radiance.
Rupert.
I am thy true love, and thou dost not dream:
'Tis not thy wraith, but thee thyself I clasp.
Eulalie.
O, art thou flesh and blood? Dear love, good night.
I'll not believe I have no filtre quaffed,
And am not wandering in some blissful land,
Where midnight and pale moonshine ever reign,
And lover's wishes are made true events,
Unless I light my lamp in my own room
And see my bed unruffled. Good-night, love.—
Pluck me a rose that I may surely know
It is no waking vision I have seen,
If I should find I have not been asleep.
Exquisite dream, come to the door with me.
[They go out.
[Re-entering.]
O, I am new-born, fit for highest deeds!
Now, could I, like old Atlas, bear the world
With all its cares upon my shoulders twain,
And say 'twas light, if but my finger-tips
Rested upon my sweetheart's lily hand.
I'll to the woods till Eulalie has found
Our love is true and sweeter than a dream.
[Goes out.
SCENE II.
—An Eminence in a Wood.Enter Felice, Bruno and Torello.
Torello.
May this sorceress be approached safely?
Felice.
O, she'll not bite.
Bruno.
She'll only give you a bit of her mind.
Torello.
I may chance to give her a bit of mine if she be
not civil.
Bruno.
A bit is good for a jade.
Torello.
By Jupiter, she'd best play me no jade's tricks.
Shall we on?
Felice.
Yes; over this knoll.
Enter Rupert. He does not observe the others.
Rupert.
I see thee, moon, in thy high heavenly garden;
Thou walkest like a maid among her flowers.
But thou art not more beautiful, I ween,
Than she who gave herself to me to-night
Within an earthly garden.—Perhaps she sleeps.
O elves unseen, and far away from me,
Who dance upon the shore; and fairies, who
Where merry balls are held; and all ye sylphs
Inhabiting dark shades and rustling bowers;
Ye naiads who make silver streams your haunts,
And ye aërial ones who chant high songs
Against the twinkling of the lyric stars:
From distant vales and hills of Greece o'erskip
The intervening countries at a bound
Ye ancient deities—if ye be dead,
Let your ghosts rise from flowery sepulchres,
Or coral tombs beneath the blue Ægean:
Ye little dwarfs and legendary people
In forest black, or by the oft-sung Rhine,
Or in the moonless caves of furthest Thule,
Desert your homes to-night: and all together,
Quaint, lovely, beauteous, delicate, and droll,
Troop to my lady's chamber: be her dream.
[Goes out.
Torello.
Dragons and scorpions, hippogriffs and asps,
Hobgoblins, and the ghosts of murderers,
And fiery devils in a fierce nightmare
Confound this fellow's folly!
Felice.
Are you mad?
Torello.
Tell not me! Eulalie loves him. It was her he
spoke of.
Felice.
Are you mad? What he and she?
[To Bruno.]
Follow this foolery with me. We'll persuade him he has not
seen Rupert.—What trance were you in for a minute's space,
and, being roused, why do you tear your beard? What
vision have you seen?
Torello.
Would you befool me? I'll after, and defy him.
Felice.
Defy whom?
The prince.
Felice.
Of the powers of the air?
Torello.
Prince Rupert.
Felice.
Ha! be careful what you do. But he is within
doors just now.
Torello.
Within doors! I hear his tread.
Felice.
What! Is he coming hither?
Torello.
No; he is going hence.
Felice.
Let me understand you.
Torello.
Understand that I am not deaf; and, having
heard Rupert, leaning against that tree, talk like a happy
lover, I perceive at once that he must have been accepted
by Eulalie: therefore I will challenge him.
Felice.
Love has turned his brain. Did you see Rupert,
Bruno?
Bruno.
Not since he left us.
Felice.
Nor I.
Torello.
Did you not see him put his shoulder against that
tree, fold his arms, gaze at the moon, and talk; then with a
skip and a hop caper away as merrily as a schoolboy from
school?
Felice.
By Luna's horns, but this is wonderful! It cannot
be—yet have you not a powerful imagination?
Torello.
I scarce know; I think so: I am strong.
Felice.
So strong you do not know your own strength?
Torello.
I have never found its match.
Felice.
That explains this rhapsody, then. Your imagination
has been slumbering. Love comes and rouses it, and,
like all newly awakened gifts, it attempts great things.
Being in keeping with your other qualities, of immeasurable
doubt, suddenly and potently summoned up this apparition
of Rupert, its spoken nonsense and ridiculous gait. It
must be so. Sir, your imagination is godlike.
Bruno.
Torello, my imagination cannot form a metaphor
to express the admiration, the reverence, your genius inspires
in me. Many a poetical dreamer would thank God on his
knees for a tithe of your gift.
Torello.
Did you not see the prince?
Felice.
With that solemn face! Ha, ha! You carry the
jest; but you cannot create a vision for our eyes.
Bruno.
Come; deride us no longer. Confess you have
befooled us.
Torello.
We are all befooled, I think. This sorceress is
charming us.
Felice.
Love, I say, stirred your imagination to plant this
jealous fancy against that ash, and gave it language chiming
with your fear, and hath almost persuaded you of its reality.
To the witch, and be satisfied.
Torello.
Ay, let us to the witch. She may have sent this
vision to spur me on. What shall I say to her?—I would
swear I saw Rupert.
Felice.
We'll teach you what to say as we go.
They go out.
SCENE III.
—Another Part of the Wood.Enter on one side Green and Ivy, tipsy; on the other Celio and Sylvia, singing.
Song.
Every blush the sun discovers.
Loud and busy, bright and bold,
Day was never loved of lovers.
Many a blush night's mantle covers.
Night for kissing, night for loving,
Night for us, for we are lovers!
Ivy.
What singers be these?
Green.
A shepherd and his lass.
Ivy.
I know a better song than that. It goes this way:
And set not by the world a cherry;
For dry bread chokes—
That's not right. I forget it. I could make a better song
than either myself; by my soul, I could! None of your
sheepish love-songs, but a song to make the stars dance
quicker, and the moon multiply itself a score of times. You
have only made two moons.
Celio.
We did not aim at putting the moon beside herself.
Ivy.
I could make a song about the moon. Sir, I have
read about the moon. Her name—hic!—her name is—
hic!—
Hecate.
Ivy.
Give a man time to speak his mind. Her name is
Hecate, although you say it. I know about the moon:
Hecate is the moon—Hecate.
Sylvia.
O, come away!
Celio.
Make your song, my friend, and show it to me tomorrow.
Ivy.
I will, sir; I will.
Celio.
Good-night.
[Celio and Sylvia go out.
Ivy.
The song is coming, Green; it's coming. ‘By the
light of Hecate's lamp’—lamp, lamp—what rhymes with
lamp?—Come to some more delusive, poetic spot.—‘By the
light of Hecate's lamp’—lamp?—Come.—What the devil
rhymes with lamp!—Come.
[Ivy and Green go out.
Enter hurriedly Cinthio, and Faustine dressed as a shepherd-boy.
Faustine.
O Cinthio, hearken! We are lost. Alas!
Cinthio.
Fear not, my love: all danger we shall pass.
[They go out.
SCENE IV.
—A Room in Martha's House.Enter Martha.
Martha.
Gone with the Prince! I knew 'twould come at last.
Well, I shall be a lonely woman soon.
To think how many a mother envies me
My lovely daughter for her loveliness,
And that she has enchanted our good prince,
When I shall be a prince's mother-in-law.
[Knocking.
A visit at this time! Who's there?
Enter Onesta.
What now, my lady Faustine's maid?
Onesta.
The king has sent for you.
Martha.
The king!
Onesta.
King Alardo. By the deceit of providence he
has come back; and Guido has found out Faustine's escape.
He commanded me to go and bring you, because he has
heard about Eulalie; for Guido threatened me with flaying
and pickling, and buttering and roasting. You are to come
at once and meet the king and Guido and another lord at
the tree in the gushet where the three roads meet, to go with
them to the wood, where Eulalie and the prince, and Faustine
and Cinthio are. If I would not tell him all, he would have
minced me into collops, else he might have pulled my tongue
out before I would have told. The king is going to pack
you and Eulalie off this very night. ‘The mad, old heifer,’
says he, ‘to set her low-bred cow to my royal bull.’ And
Cinthio is to be made into a ram—no, it was a ewe,
Guido said: I think it was a ewe, though it struck me he
meant an ox; and Faustine is to mew in a nunnery all
her life.
Martha.
The king come back, and Eulalie and I to be
packed off to-night; Faustine, made a nun; you, to be
roasted—
Onesta.
Haste, haste. I'll tell you more as we go.
Martha.
More! Save us! You have said more than
enough.
[They go out.
| An Unhistorical Pastoral | |