University of Virginia Library

ACT I

The Election

Scene.—The outskirts of Pavia. A grassy knoll rises near the centre of the stage, and is crowned by a moss-grown rock which has been rudely squared. At the back and left and right are clumps of old chestnut trees in flower. The walled city is behind.

It is towards noon in the beginning of summer.

Lord, ladies, citizens, etc., pass and repass among the trees. It is evident that a crowd is gathering.

Philadelphus and Junipert enter right and left.

Philadelphus is bearded; his hair, unkempt. He is stout, ruddy, and cheerful-looking; dressed in a ragged brown robe and wearing sandals; he carries a stout stick.

Junipert is slender, with long dark hair. He is dressed in rusty black, and carries tablets in which he is writing.

Phil.
(intercepting Junipert).
Have I imagined it, or did we meet?
You prey on faded wardrobes; and the rust
Of ancient armour is your condiment:
A vamper of archaic vocables,
Extinct mythologies, illicit lore,
And general obsolescence: poet still,
Courageously, and in contempt of time.

Juni.
And I know you, sir: a philosopher;
One that has given in to fate; that bows
The knee to the inevitable; ass
Of the world's old burden, thought; and turnspit, wheeled
To reason in a circle endlessly.

Phil.
Believe it, since you must. I deem myself
Intelligence essential.—What is that?

Juni.
The coronation-stone of Lombardy,
As every crow can tell.

Phil.
And do you know
That here, within the hour, the Lombards meet
To choose their king?

Juni.
Of course I know!

Phil.
And waste
Your brain on longs and shorts? You cannot know!
Think: to be king!—At some time in his life
The aim of every mother's son.

Juni.
Not so!
The poet ranks above the highest king.

Phil.
Believe it, if you can. But I profess
Philosophy—the cult of good and ill.
Being, as I am, a representative,
A packed compendium, of humanity,
My pulses, nerves—my whole assembly aches
With antepastoral jealousy of him
Who shall be crowned to-day; and I am come
To breed, in the locality and air
Of this event, a project I have hatched,
Whereby to seize a notoriety
That shall eclipse the firmament of fame
About to open on a royal head
Unknown as yet.

Juni.
Foolish philosopher!
Look: I indite a poem as I walk.
Behold erasure and a threshing-floor;
A strife, a granary, a monument!

Phil.
But yours is the appeal to aftertimes.
Who ever heard posterity applaud!
No; I must have my name dance on the tongues
Of all men in my hearing.
[compels Junipert to sit on the coronation-stone.]
Aribert,
King of the Lombards, died a week ago,
And sepulchred in royal state he lies.
On the same day died Martin Rustyblade,
The headsman, and was shovelled into earth—
A furtive burial. Now, you are king—
But think so!—crowned, enthroned. I, with my staff
And sandals—

Juni.
Look who comes!

[rises and is about to go out.]
Phil.
Old Thrasimund!
No room for us where he perambulates!
This way—with me. I must rehearse the part
I'll act at the election of the king.

[They go out together.]

Enter from the right Thrasimund, Almeric, Adalbert, Ludolf, and Ulric. Thrasimund is an old man with grey beard and scanty locks well trimmed. He enters quickly in advance of the others, looking about on all sides.

Adalbert and Ludolf are between fifty and sixty years of age: officials.

Almeric and Ulric are young and handsome.

Thra.
Where is my wife?

[goes out testily.]
Adal.
He should, indeed, be told.
His dotage undermines his old renown:
Our party suffers. Shall we bluntly say,
“Now, Thrasimund, your wife the world knows well
Is deep in love with Urban. She has sent
Apparent missives; she has flung him looks.
True, Urban's passion for Saturnia
Absorbs him wholly; but at twenty-five
Love is a rambler. Heed it, Thrasimund.”

Lud.
Explicit. And commend his own repute
To his best care; for when an oldster weds
A lusty girl he pawns his character,
And seldom is the shabby pledge redeemed
Even by the most heroic wariness.

Alm.
And be derided for your wittolhood!
Best leave December and the fateful May
To thaw and freeze and make a season out
With weather of their own.

Ulr.
The climate there
Is treacherous, I've heard, for come-betweens.—
Have you seen Lucian yet?—Ah, Hildebrand!

Enter Hildebrand from the left. He is about sixty years old, but looks younger. His face is powerful and eager, its original frankness obscured by craft, long thwarted but still alive and hopeful.
Hild.
(indignantly as he enters).
Men are more obstinate, more volatile,
More rash, more pusillanimous than flies!

Alm.
Some men, my lord.

Hild.
Six that I know of, sir!
But where is Lucian?

Alm.
None of us can tell.

Hild.
He left his house before the dawn, they say.
Where can he be? And Thrasimund?
[Almeric points out Thrasimund.]
Antique
Afflictive amorist, with honeyed wine
That only youth can carry, love I mean,
Unnerved and sodden!
[Re-enter Thrasimund with Violante. Violante is about twenty-five years old; a harebrained, voluptuous woman.]
All our skill that joined
Inveterate enmities—I greet you, madam—
Our drudgery in herding fools, our high
Elaborate hopes are squandered and engulfed
As in a quicksand, never to be found.

Viol.
How! Have the waverers abandoned you?

Hild.
Not one! Not one! But six false lords we deemed
Securely rooted in our interests.

Viol.
Six!
You lose the election, then. What are their names?

Hild.
Perish their names!

Viol.
How were the traitors bribed?

Hild.
By Urban's subtle charm, by that alone.

Viol.
He has I know not what of careless grace;
A look, a tone—

Thra.
Effeminate, I say!
Unstable, wanton, glib, and arrogant.
He jests at worth and age; and—

Hild.
What you say
Is certain. Lucian is the nobler man;
But our emergency could overlook
In him his rival's fortune that converts
Six enemies at supper with a word.

Lud.
Is there no scheme to countervail this blow?

Enter from the left a Messenger running at a measured pace.
Thra.
One never knows.

Hild.
What messenger is that?
Quick, bring him here! He may have news for us.

[Almeric and Ulric follow the Messenger and return with him.]
Viol.
Or for your enemies.

Thra.
For us then still;
And more significantly too.

Hild.
(to the Messenger).
The letter.

Mess.
(affecting stupidity).
O sir, my lord, your excellency—pray,
Which is the way to Pavia, here or there?

Hild.
The letter that you carry!

Mess.
Thanks, my lord!

[tries to escape.]
Hild.
Search him!

[The Messenger is searched, and a letter taken from the breast of his tunic.]
Thra.
(seizing the letter).
For Urban!

Hild.
Who commissioned you?

Mess.
What have they found? Who says I stole it? Shame!

Hild.
A rogue that serves his master as he can!

Thra.

From the Duke of Garda! [reading.]

“It is rumoured here”—he writes from
Ravenna—“It is rumoured here that the
more potent voice of the nobility will support
Lucian. I and my company are at your disposal.
The Exarch of Ravenna offers aid.
Be king by right of conquest. Lombardy
remains a mere scaffold, an untied faggot
until the monarchy becomes absolute.”

Hild.
This to Urban from the Duke of Garda, known
A base self-seeker, who would set the world
At war, so he might gather odds and ends
Dropped in the scuffle!

Thra.
If we publish now
That Urban is in league with one endured
Only by those who need him; if we taint
His name with treason!

Viol.
But we know not that;
Because had Lucian stood in Urban's shoes
He might have had this letter.

Thra.
Gently urged!
You have the grace so to suppose; but men
Will think the worst—and very vilely too,
As I intend. This letter, closed again,
Must be delivered in the public sight,
While I harangue the assembly. Bitterly
I shall accuse him: “Let the letter speak!”
Shall be my cry. When this is read aloud
The six recalcitrants are ours once more!

Hild.
If he decline to have his letter read?

Thra.
He stands confessed a traitor obvious!
Better for us if he decline to read!
I shall so press it home that either way
He loses the election. I am deft
At these contrivances. A little heat
Will mend this seal, and shiver Urban's luck.—
Ludolf, your house is scarce a stone's throw hence.

[Thrasimund, Violante, Adalbert, Ludolf, and the Messenger go out]
Alm.
(looking to the right).
They have left the city. The Bishop brings the crown.

Hild.
Lucian is with the Bishop, I suppose.

Alm.
He should have been with us.

Hild.
Where is my daughter?
I see her, now. Ask her to come to me.

Alm.
She comes unbidden.—Let us meet them, Ulric.

[Almeric and Ulric go out together.]
Enter Osmunda. She is in her twentieth year, but looks younger; is tall and fair. Her face, in repose almost expressionless, becomes exceedingly mobile when her attention is aroused.
Osm.
I felt you wished me.

Hild.
You have understood—
I think, Osmunda, you have understood
My purposes.
[Osmunda shrinks from her father.]
You would be spared. I, too,
Have spared myself and weakly left unsaid,
When every omen beckoned me to speak,
This that I stammer now, though time and place
Are most unapt. Not less than sacrilege
It seems to pry into my daughter's heart.
Now most I wish your mother were alive!—
Has Lucian spoken yet?

Osm.
Of love, sir? No.

Hild.
He loves you?

Osm.
Sir, I cannot truly tell.

Hild.
But you love him?

Osm.
I love you and this land
The Lombards won from the false Roman.

Hild.
Yes;
The Lombards first! I taught you that; and great
It is to throne the nation we are of
Above ourselves, our lovers, kindred, friends.
But Lucian after Lombardy?—My thought
Is stamped upon the realm. King Aribert,
A brave and loyal nature, was to me
A sceptre and a sword wherewith I ruled
The Lombards, carved the figure of the state,
And lopped its enemies. The name of King
I cannot compass: I am hated, feared,
As all just rulers are. Wherefore, because
I deem myself the man most competent
To guide the destinies of Lombardy,
I would make Lucian king, a youth I love,
And sometimes have instructed in my craft,
My government and scheme of policy.
Although to neither have I told my hope,
(with hesitation)
Still, he and you—

Osm.
He has not spoken yet!

Hild.
That may not be amiss. I will believe
He loves you; and you him: but Lombardy
O'ermasters every passion in your heart.
Were Urban to be chosen—
[Osmunda shrinks further away from her father.]
If chance, that trips
The heels of purposes no skill can throw,
Should make this Urban king, could you—
The thing being possible—give him your hand?

Osm.
Give him my hand! Urban my hand!—He asked
Me once to marry him—

Hild.
(eagerly).
Did he, indeed!
He loves you, then?

Osm.
Oh no! I was, he said,
The sweetest lady in the land; and so
He must have me to wife. Insolent fop!
(impulsively)
Oh, father, Lucian, since by heart awoke,
Is king of me!

Hild.
(in a tone of menace, but quietly).
If the great future
I have prepared for Lombardy requires
My daughter to be queen—and should the lot
Be cast for Urban, chief of those that thwart
My policy, who else can save the state?—
She would not stand upon a girlish plea
Of personal affection.

Osm.
Save the state
By marrying Urban!

Hild.
Just by marrying Urban.

Osm.
(in a low voice).
The lover of Saturnia!

Hild.
As Urban's wife
My daughter could impart my influence,
Turn enmity to friendship, reinstall
The fulness of my power, should I be thrown
From my high office.
(pleasantly)
But this is to forecast
A most unlikely order of events.
Our Lucian—let us meet him—shall be king;
Osmunda, queen; and I, old drudge of state,
Shall bear the blame of all their tyranny.

Osm.
I pray you let me stay here by myself,
Until they come. I would consider this.

Hild.
Consider most the weal of Lombardy.

[goes out.]
Osm.
The weal of Lombardy!—To be the wife
Of Urban; him, whose presence, whose approach
Fills me with dark misgiving; whom I hate—
If I hate any one. For Lombardy,
And for my father, could I bear such woe?

Enter Lucian. He is about thirty years old; handsome and in free moments graceful; but bashful and awkward as a rule. He is in deep thought on his entrance.
Osm.
Lucian!

Luc.
Osmunda!

Osm.
Why alone, my lord?

Luc.
To think! to think! I have been abroad since morn.
Am I the man who should be king? The doubt
That hampers me admonishes my soul
Of most unkingly weakness. In myself
Unchosen and uncrowned, am I the king?

Osm.
(with a certain degree of abandonment, rebelling at her father's harsh control.)
You are the king; and all your shifting doubts
Are jewels in your native diadem
Of perfect truth.

Luc.
That is your inmost thought?

Osm.
The deep conviction of my very soul.

Luc.
It helps! it helps! And yet I need some sign,
Else at the fateful moment when the lords
Acclaim my coronation, I may cry,
“I am unworthy, for I doubt myself,”
And fling the crown away.

Osm.
A sign, my lord?

Luc.
From you. I have another torturing doubt
Deeper than my vocation to the throne.

Osm.
And I, my lord, can set that doubt at rest?

Luc.
You only.

Osm.
It is dead and buried, then!

Luc.
Buried and festering here! If you can find
This wound, probe it, and draw the ragged shaft
That rankles in my heart; it shall denote
That my unkingly doubt is fantasy.

Osm.
You ask a miracle.

Luc.
Can love perform
No wonders now?

Osm.
(faintly).
Love!

Luc.
Speak! Uproot my doubt!

Osm.
Oh, my lord Lucian! but I love you well.

Luc.
(triumphantly).
Then am I king! For since you love me well
It cannot be—it cannot surely be
That I am all unworthy of your love;
And having that shall I demur and dread
To wear the lesser glory of the crown?

Osm.
Fear not the highest destiny!

Luc.
For you!
It is for you! How could I offer her
Who gives me love less than the name of queen?

Osm.
(suddenly recollecting her father's suggestion).
If you should not be chosen king!

Luc.
Not king?
But it is sure! They never can elect
The ruffling Urban, petulant and vain,
The minion of his pleasures. Hildebrand,
Your father, knows that I am to be king.

Osm.
If Urban should be chosen!

Luc.
Never at all
Have I imagined that! It must not be!
I could not marry you, I could not live
Were Urban—Urban!—to be chosen king!

Osm.
Behold I have revealed you to yourself!
Before your proud ideal you are in doubt;
Against your rival, strong and resolute.

Luc.
Against a thousand rivals!

[takes Osmunda's hand.]
Osm.
But, my lord,
My father and your friends are seeking you.

Luc.
I had to be alone. And it was well
Because of this encounter.

Osm.
Well—and ill.
[Lucian releases her hand and stares at her blankly. Osmunda offers him a pomander that hangs at her girdle.]
What is that—do you know?

Luc.
(handling the pomander.)
Why, what it seems,
An exquisite pomander.

Osm.
It is besides
A desperate comfort; poison, smelling sweet
As violets rooted by a sepulchre.
[Lucian takes her hand with great solicitude.]
Ask nothing of me—nothing.

[goes out quickly.]
Luc.
Still the doubt!

[goes out after Osmunda.]
Re-enter Thrasimund, Adalbert, Ludolf, Violante, and the Messenger.
Thra.
Yes; but it must be opportunely done.
[to the Messenger.]
Your post is near my lady. On the spur
Of her mute prompting this deliver straight.

[gives the letter to the Messenger.]
Mess.
To whom shall I deliver it?

Thra.
To one
That least expects it.

Lud.
Do you leave him here?
Alone?

Viol.
The man is human at the best.
His patience and obedience need some help.
Let me remain while you rejoin your friends.

Thra.
Sweetheart, it shall be so.—Footman, attend!
[Violante sits on the coronation-stone, and the Messenger stands by her side.]
Is she not infinitely adorable,
Immaculately beautiful and chaste?

[Thrasimund, Adalbert, and Ludolf go out.
Viol.
Your mask of dulness fits you badly. Quick,
Your hand! It's broad, but scarcely deep enough.
Join them and make a chalice. Pocket that.
[fills his hands with money.]
Give me the letter.
[The Messenger gives her the letter, which she tears into small pieces and scatters in a clump of chestnuts.]
Now indeed, you look
A genuine fool!
[takes a letter from her bosom and hands it to the Messenger.]
When the election's over
Give Urban this.

Mess.
Is it not hazardous?

Viol.
Most hazardous; we trip the shifting sand
Between the devil and the deep sea. Hang
About my skirts. Be docile and you're made.

Enter the Rabble, crying “Lucian! Lucian!” After them Citizens, including Philadelphus and Junipert. Then Lords and Ladies, preceding Lucian, Osmunda, Hildebrand, Thrasimund, Violante, Ludolf, Adalbert, Almeric, and Ulric, who stand on the left. These are followed by a body of Soldiers, who march the Citizens and the Rabble to the back of

the stage and guard a passage from the right to the coronation-stone.

Violante and the Messenger have come down to the front on the right.

Hild.
(whispering).
The matter of the letter, Thrasimund?

Thra.
(whispering).
Placed in the safest hands in Lombardy.
My wife shall at a passage in my speech,
Discharge the courier with his tell-tale news
At Urban's head.

Hild.
(to himself).
Old fool! His wife?
His bosom-enemy! I'll set a watch.

[whispers to Ludolf, who crosses and stands beside Messenger.]

Enter the Bishop of Pavia, attended by Acolytes swinging censers, a Priest carrying the Iron Crown on a cushion, and

Servants with a cloth of gold which they fling over the coronation-stone.

The Bishop stands on the right of the knoll, Acolytes on one hand, and the Priest on the other.

Adal.
(looking out right).
He loiters, talking idly with his friends.

Lud.
His fate is on the anvil and he laughs.

Thra.
Begin, my lord, the business of the hour.

Bish.
Although this Urban be unmannerly,
Our conduct must become us.

Enter Urban, with Pasqual on his right; a little behind him five other Lords and a Falconer with hawks.

Urban is about twenty-five, with yellow curls hanging to his shoulders. His moustache is trimmed to give him a juvenile

appearance. He has a hooded hawk on his gauntletted left hand, and carries a hawking-pole in his right. He is dressed in a richly ornamented hawking-costume. His presence makes the air electric; all are wondering what he will do, what he will say.

Pasqual is about Urban's age; dark-haired; devoted to Urban.

On the entrance of Urban, Lucian shrinks behind Osmunda.

Urb.
Lucian! Where—
Where is my princely rival?
[Osmunda pushes Lucian forward. Urban throws his hawking-pole to Pasqual, and crossing quickly to Lucian takes his hand.]
Good-day, my lord!
(radiantly)
Whether I win or lose, my pride is throned
As high as my desire because of this:—
I was found worthy to contest with you
The iron crown of Lombardy.

Luc.
(stiffly).
My lord,
I thank you.

Urb.
I have often thought it strange
We meet so seldom.

Luc.
I frequent the past
More than the dazzling tumult of the hour.

Urb.
Where silence reigns and thought may wander free!
I love the past; but there no deeds are done;
And I would act. Deeds, deeds, my lord!

Luc.
And thoughts.

Urb.
It is a deed to think as I intend.
To dream, to mope in cloisters with a book;
To argue with one's self—an easy fight,
The practised dexter brandishing a sword
Against the awkward dagger of the left . . .
[interrupting himself, as his gesture brings his hawk to mind.]
My merlin with the russet-velvet wing,
The birds of heaven shall fall beneath your feet! . . .
I say, to think in solitude at home
Is not to think but to be lunatic.
Pale-hearted is the thought that dare not be
As kindred to its deed as sound and light
When heaven is masked and wields the thunderbolt.

Luc.
One must command the world to think that way.

Urb.
Assuredly; scarce one man in an age
Can think his meaning out.

Luc.
You force the word.

Urb.
Words are my toys. I swear all other thought
Than that which works in things, not signs; and moves
Abreast with action to the happy close
Is like a headless spear, a wooden sword.

Bish.
My lord Urban, you have delayed the act
For which we are met; further, it fits you ill
Upon this solemn business to appear
With hawk on fist.

Thra.
A merlin too, we note—
The imperial bird.

Urb.
(to Thrasimund).
It is your rightful wish
That I should lose the election; if I do,
Would you withhold such pure oblivion
Of my defeat as may immediately
Befriend me, when I watch my merlin, belled
With Milan silver, climb the tingling air?

[gives his hawk to the Falconer.]
Hild.
My lord, your gaiety would gild the world
Were daylight done. Our Lucian here is set
To graver music; not a wink of sleep
Had he all night, revolving desperately
The issue of to-day.

Urb.
And did I rest?
A watch devout of sleepless nightingales
Attended in my garden where I paced
Till morn; above the meadows now the larks
Enwreath the sky with sound; but neither night
Nor day, nor nature's timely melody
Could tune my mind to any constant mood.
Here only, at the moment of my fate,
My soul at last reposes, and I know,
Howe'er it ends, I shall be satisfied.—
Come, my lord bishop, let the vote be cast.

Thra.
One word. You see, and many, I believe,
Proscribe in silence Urban's arrogance;
Though some, corrupted by the spell, so-called,
Of his reputed charm, excuse, nay praise,
That wanton style, which in another, all
Would censure and chastise. Beneath this trick,
This brilliant ambush of indifferent pride,
There lurks, believe me, a tyrannic soul.

Lud.
(whispering).
Now is your time.

Mess.
Not yet!

Viol.
(whispering).
Leave him alone!

Voices.
Silence there; silence!

Thra.
It is known, at last,
That Urban is in league with traitors.

Lud.
Back!
[thrusting the Messenger forward while seeming to restrain him.]
Come back! He will not be withheld. He bears,
He says, post-haste, a letter from Ravenna.

Thra.
A letter from Ravenna, that forcing-house
Of enmity to Lombard rule! For whom?

Lud.
For Urban.

Adal.
In the very nick of time!

Urb.
The devil's children have the devil's luck.
Give me this letter that arrives so pat.
[takes the letter.]
I know the writing.

[fans himself with the letter.—Violante looks imploringly at Urban, but his glance never turns her way.]
Thra.
It is hot, my lord;
And will be warmer, presently, for you.—
Nobles and men of Lombardy, our king
Has ever been the servant of his people,
Obedient to the laws. If you elect
This traitorous lord, you choose a malcontent
Whose aim will be to overturn the state,
To rule as despot and enslave us all.

Bish.
Your accusation would be weightier
Did you advance some proof.

Thra.
What further proof
Is needed than the message now received?

Urb.
This is a private letter—from a friend.

Thra.
Will you permit the letter to be read?

Urb.
If I refuse?

Thra.
Your treason is confessed.

Voices.
The letter! Read the letter!

Urb.
Very well.
But first, be warned. A lifelong memory
Of what you now demand will gnaw your heart
With exquisite regret.

Thra.
My heart? For shame!
A paltry ruse to turn the tables! Read!
If that is not of treasonable mark,
Some outlaw's message, I'll unpack my brains
To feed a housewife's poultry. Me, regret!

Urb.
(with a glance of compassion).
The seal is yet unbroken.

Thra.
Break it now.

Bish.
Give me the letter. Should the charge be true,
Nothing were simpler than to read a note
Of invitation or a friendly wish,
And leave our doubt silenced but unresolved.

[Violante with a smothered exclamation hurries out.]
Thra.
A pregnant counsel!

Urb.
Read it then, my lord.
[gives the letter to the Bishop.]
A moment! Do you fear to find my name
Blighted for ever?

Bish.
No; some strange abuse
Is here at work.

Thra.
Some strange abuse, indeed!

Urb.
It may be so.

Bish.
(having opened the letter and glanced at the signature).
I am sorry, Thrasimund.
This comes from Violante.

[All look towards the place where Violante had been standing, and many nod their heads knowingly.]
Thra.
What!

Voices.
Read! Read!

Bish.
(reading.)

“May it please your
majesty. My hope had made you king already,
my most dear Urban, and if now you wear
the crown you owe it to me. This letter is
in place of one which, by my husband's arrangement,
should have lost you the kingship.
Oh, my lord, your constant scorn maddens
me! For this service, what reward?—Violante.”

Thra.
Give it me!
[The Bishop gives Thrasimund the letter.]
How is this? Where is she? Where!

Alm.
Gone home to hang herself!

Thra.
I can explain—

Ulr.
Explain a byeword old as time itself!
Upon your face the truth is wrinkled deep.

Thra.
I mean to say—

Hild.
Mean silence, and go home.

[Thrasimund, becoming more and more confused, half stumbles, and is half pushed from one to the other of several lords, who address him in turn.]
1st L.
Some men, if marriages be made in heaven,
Have few friends there.

2nd L.
This was a vulgar trick!

3rd L.
The fox that hastens forth to buy a knife
Lands often in the furrier's.

4th L.
You trudge home shorn.

5th L.
And stuck with proverbs like an archer's mark.

[Thrasimund is about to fall, when Urban supports him and leads him out, returning immediately.]
Voice
(from the rabble).
Hey! Keep your brains for your own poultry-yard!

6th L.
I vote for Urban now!

Other Lords.
And I, and I.

Bish.
The memory of this disgrace must fret
High hearts the longest; but the tongues of all
Who love the state will leave the thing untouched
Henceforth for ever, garbage for gossipers.—
By our old wont we are assembled here
To choose a king. Two names are offered you:
Urban and Lucian. I commend them both.
Who vote for Lucian?

Lucian's Party
(with drawn swords in air).
Lucian!

[Lucian half draws his sword and drives it back into the scabbard disdainfully.]
Bish.
Now, for Urban?

Urban's Party
(an evident majority, with drawn swords in air).
Urban!

[Urban, having no sword, takes one before he has time to resheath it from a supporter of Lucian's, and is the first to vote for himself.]
Lords, Ladies, Citizens.
Urban!

Rabble.
Urban, king of the Lombards!

Bish.
(to Lucian).
Do you demand a poll? It is your right.

Luc.
I thank you. It is needless now, my lord.
(stiffly, nerving himself to say it; to Urban.)
The crown is yours, I am your majesty's:
Command my loyalty.

Urb.
Oh, noble Lombard!
To-night, I hope to welcome you, my guest,
Most honoured, most illustrious.

Luc.
Pardon me;
I wish to be alone.

[moves towards Osmunda, then turns away and goes out hastily. Osmunda, deeply distressed, is about to follow Lucian, but Hildebrand withholds her.]
Phil.
(bursts through the guard and falls at Urban's feet).
A boon! a boon!

Urb.
What suitor have we here?

Phil.
Your majesty,
I am, so please you, a philosopher.

Urb.
And what is that?

Phil.
A thinker, who adopts
His proper attitude.

Urb.
Adopt another.
Rise and define yourself.

Phil.
(rises).
I do not ask
That men should see themselves as others do.
I am concerned that I myself should see
My fellow-creatures as they see themselves.

Urb.
A most magnanimous philosophy!
How do you like it, Pasqual?

Pasq.
I should hold
Such conscious magnanimity suspect.

Urb.
A thing put on? Good; magnanimity
Can never be acquired, and nothing shows
More feeble than its affectation.

Phil.
True;
Yet hear me out. Magnanimous I am;
But like the meanest and the greatest here,
Envy of your great fortune sears my soul.

Urb.
Envy of me!

Phil.
As long as life shall last!
Nothing to me is of significance
Between your station and nonentity.
And since I cannot be the king alone
Upon the apex of the pyramid,
Make me the headsman to frequent its base,
Expelled and banned, a being less than nought.

Urb.
The headsman?

Phil.
Yes. My predecessor died
Upon the same day as king Aribert.

Urb.
How does this chime with your professed good-will?

Phil.
In tune! A headsman there must always be—

Urb.
Must there indeed! I am the foe of “must”
In things that men control. If need arise
I will appoint a headsman, not before.

Phil.
Three men await the axe, your majesty.

Urb.
They shall be pardoned, then, to grace this day.
Begone, sir; you have dimmed a burnished hour,
And like a death's-head o'er my shoulder peered,
Forecasting woe.

[Philadelphus is thrust back among the Rabble.]
Phil.
I shall be headsmen yet!

Juni.
You feel that? In my ears a singing keeps,
“You, too, shall serve the great ones of the earth.”

Bish.
(laying his hand on the crown).
My lord, and king elect—

Urb.
Not yet.
(to Hildebrand.)
I wish,
Before the hallowed crown of Lombardy
Convinces me of kingship, to atone
The factions, that the state itself
And my dominion may be based and reared
On one united heart and will.

Hild.
I moved
The world against you, jealous of my right
As a free Lombard; but since fate decides
For you, I bury in the past all doubt,
Antipathy, and malice, there to die
And moulder into dust—if you prove true
To Lombardy, and the impartial rule
Of law-abiding kings.

Urb.
This for yourself,
And those who follow you of every rank?

Hild.
I undertake for all.

Lords and Citizens.
For all!

Rabble.
For all!

Urb.
And now, my lord, I beg your daughter's hand
As sign and seal of this new amity.

[All are well pleased.]
Pasq.
A perfect match! It would delight the world.

Hild.
Proudly I welcome it! But she is here,
A free maid, and must answer for herself.

[fixing his eyes on Osmunda, he leads her to Urban.]
Urb.
(loftily, but sweetly enough).
Will you be mine, most high, most beautiful?
In sight of men, beneath the eye of heaven,
As monarchs may, I woo; but for myself,
Lady, I woo you not; nor yet as king:
I woo you in the name of Lombardy,
Because you are most worthy to be queen.

Osm.
(looks to her father, whose eyes are fixed on her; then quickly to Urban).
Not worthy—oh, not worthy! but in the name
Of Lombardy, and to unite the state,
I think, my lord, I could bestow my hand.

[Urban kisses Osmunda's right hand; Hildebrand presses her left. Osmunda sighs heavily, and cannot conceal her distress.]
Voice
(high and clear at the back of the stage).
Saturnia!

Voice
(deep and strong at the back).
Ay, ay! Saturnia!

Urb.
(faintly).
Who speaks?

Voice
(like an echo).
Saturnia!

[Osmunda shrinks away. Hildebrand is much dismayed. Urban looks with menacing glance at various lords whom he seems to suspect.]
Bish.
These airy calls
Assail your conscience, king elect. The world
Has watched your amour with the Roman slave
Who rules your heart; the market-haunters jest
Of Urban and Saturnia; lovers brood
And hatch a legend for them. Pride of life,
Most rank, most salient, speak to me of power
And a great nature idling by the way.
Is it not so? The king will leave behind
The sins of manhood?

Urb.
Else were he no king!
Of manhood's sins and of its virtues too,
Outworn apparel, kings divest themselves.
Saturnia, I renounce.

Hild.
A high resolve!

Adal.
And sudden!

Pasq.
Not so sudden, as I know.
Three days ago, expecting to be king,
He left Saturnia.

Voice.
Saturnia!

[Urban having doffed his hat, has approached the Bishop for the coronation, but starts and turns at the word “Saturnia.” Many voices join in the cry; it is first taken up by the Rabble, then by the Lords and Citizens.]

Enter Saturnia. She is in her twenty-first year, but looks older. Her face is full; the features large, and in repose somewhat harsh; the eyes are dark grey, gentle in expression, and with the depth and significance of youth and passion. Her dark brown hair hangs to her waist. Her voice is deep and sweet.

She wears a white robe girt with a belt of gold.

Saturnia goes at once to Urban, heeding none of the bystanders, who are intensely interested.

Sat.
The terror of the night has driven me here.

Urb.
You should have stayed at home.

Sat.
At home!
Why did my home forsake me silently
For three long suns and moons?

Urb.
You shall be told;
But leave me now.

Sat.
I dare not leave you now,
Lest I should never see your face again.

Urb.
Some idle fancy has distressed you.

Sat.
No!
Three times I dreamt you were about to die.
A frightened woman clung to you, her arms
Entwined in such a lover's knot as this.
[clasps her arms about Urban's neck.]
She cried out, “Mercy! mercy!”
[withdraws her arms from Urban's neck.]
Desperately
I strained my sight, and watched for her to turn;
But still her countenance was hidden.

Urb.
Pooh!
A nursery tale of second-sight!

[turns from Saturnia to Pasqual.]
Sat.
(laying her hand on Urban's arm).
Attend!
[Urban faces Saturnia.]
Trailing his burnished axe that on the floor
Rasped as he strode, the headsman came behind,
And touched your shoulder. I could see his eyes
Like blood-stained jewels sparkling in his mask.
And there they stood, these three; more visible
Than all this company, and so assigned
To terror and the sundering of love,
That though the way had been inlaid with fire,
I should have trod a passage to my lord
To reassure my heart.

Urb.
(pointing to the crown).
A headsman waits
Behind me; but the iron which he wields
Augments the stature, sanctifies the life
Of him on whom it falls. You find me well,
And at the summit of my hopes.
(placing Saturnia's hand in Pasqual's).
Conduct
This lady home.

Sat.
No! No!—Then you are king!
[She withdraws her hand from Pasqual, and looks about her with bent brows, thinking it out.]
The meaning of my dream? Oh! It was I
That hung about your neck! The iron crown
Is the broad axe to cut you off from me!
But you will never leave me? Never? Never?

Hild.
Drag her away!

Bish.
Let not this evil thing
Disturb the sweetness of our new accord.

[Two Soldiers lay hands on Saturnia.]
Sat.
Oh!
[twists herself out of the Soldiers' hands.]
I will go alone—if he commands.

Urb.
Go!

Sat.
(starts; shudders; then mournfully).
Go! Once it was “come,” and always “come.”
(whispering in Urban's ear).
One word—one secret word; then I will go.
[Urban and Saturnia come down to the front.]
Dear love, I understand. Before the world
You must deny me; and chastise me too
With bitterness and anger, since I came
Uncalled, unwelcome, urged by foolish fears.
But afterwards; to-night—

Urb.
(withdraws from Saturnia. Aloud).
No; not to-night;
Nor any night. I dare not. Here we part.
The house you have, and half my private wealth,
I give you that a soul so exquisite
May live delightfully; thus I enshrine
My past, endow my youth, and bury love,
Even at its clustered prime and fragrant strength,
Illustrious in a living tomb, engraved
With happy memories for epitaph.

Sat.
The epitaph of love? Our love? No; no!
I cannot live without you!

Urb.
Jealousy
And every hatefulness would gnaw your life
After to-day's event. I honour love,
And the sweet spirit of the universe;
I honour you, myself, and the true hearts
That have exalted me to monarchy,
By ending our communion in its flower.

Sat.
But you will see me once alone, my lord!

Urb.
Not once! I am the king of Lombardy.
[turns his back on Saturnia.]
Above all love and hate, and good and ill,
The monarch, like the sun, on high designs
With perfect will intent, moves in his sphere
Dispensing light, alone. He cherishes
Nothing but his dominion. Saturnia,
Whom more than all the world I loved, I tear
For ever from my heart.

[A general murmur of admiration.]
Sat.
(seems about to fall; rejects the aid of a Soldier and goes out muttering).
He dare not come,
He said. I have his love. I hold him yet.
[Urban takes Osmunda's hand and leads her to the coronation-stone, on which he seats her. Then he lifts the crown from the cushion and crowns himself.]
Fate has bestowed it on me. Woe to him
That touches it! I, who shall rule, adore
This envied land, in purple vintages
And golden harvests clad; adorned and veiled
With braided rivers; thickly studded o'er
With hearths that glow; with famous cities zoned
From sea to sea, from Alp to Apennine.
I am become this land, this Lombardy;
Its azure waters seem to me my blood;
Its snowy crests my crown; and in my heart
The Lombards have their home—the quick, the dead,
The ancient story and the flying days
We'll fill with noble deeds.

All.
Long live the king!

A YEAR ELAPSES