 | Basil |  |
SCENE IV.
An apartment in the palace. Victoria and Isabella are discovered playing at chess; the Countess Albini sitting by them reading to herself.Vict.
Away with it, I will not play again.
May men no more be foolish in my presence
If thou art not a cheat, an arrant cheat!
Isab.
To swear that I am false by such an oath,
Should prove me honest, since its forfeiture
Would bring your highness gain.
Vict.
Thou'rt wrong, my Isabella, simple maid;
For in the very forfeit of this oath,
There's death to all the dearest pride of women.
May man no more be foolish in my presence!
Isab.
And does your grace, hail'd by applauding crowds,
In all the graceful eloquence address'd
Of most accomplish'd, noble, courtly youths,
Prais'd in the songs of heav'n-inspired bards,
Those awkward proofs of admiration prize,
Which rustic swains their village fair ones pay?
Vict.
O, love will master all the power of art!
Ay, all! and she who never has beheld
The polish'd courtier, or the tuneful sage,
Before the glances of her conquering eye
A very native simple swain become,
Has only vulgar charms.
To make the cunning artless, tame the rude,
Subdue the haughty, shake th' undaunted soul;
Yea, put a bridle in the lion's mouth,
And lead him forth as a domestic cur,
These are the triumphs of all-powerful beauty!
Did nought but flatt'ring words and tuneful praise,
Sighs, tender glances, and obsequious service,
Attend her presence, it were nothing worth:
I'd put a white coif o'er my braided locks,
And be a plain, good, simple, fire-side dame.
Alb.
(raising her head from her book).
And is, indeed, a plain domestic dame,
Who fills the duties of an useful state,
A being of less dignity than she,
Who vainly on her transient beauty builds,
A little poor ideal tyranny?
Isab.
Ideal too!
Alb.
Yes, most unreal pow'r:
For she who only finds her self-esteem
In others' admiration, begs an alms;
Depends on others for her daily food,
And is the very servant of her slaves;
Though oftentimes, in a fantastic hour,
O'er men she may a childish pow'r exert,
Which not ennobles, but degrades her state.
Vict.
You are severe, Albini, most severe:
Were human passions plac'd within the breast
But to be curb'd, subdu'd, pluck'd by the roots?
All heaven's gifts to some good end were giv'n.
Alb.
Yes, for a noble, for a generous end.
Vict.
Am I ungen'rous then?
Alb.
Yes, most ungen'rous!
Who, for the pleasure of a little pow'r,
Would give most unavailing pain to those
Whose love you ne'er can recompense again.
E'en now, to-day, O! was it not ungen'rous
To fetter Basil with a foolish tie,
Against his will, perhaps against his duty?
Vict.
What, dost thou think against his will, my friend?
Alb.
Full sure I am against his reason's will.
Vict.
Ah! but indeed thou must excuse me here;
For duller than a shelled crab were she,
Who could suspect her pow'r in such a mind,
And calmly leave it doubtful and unprov'd.
But wherefore dost thou look so gravely on me?
Ah! well I read those looks! methinks they say,
“Your mother did not so.”
Alb.
Your highness reads them true, she did not so.
If foolish vanity e'er soil'd her thoughts,
She kept it low, withheld its aliment;
Not pamper'd it with ev'ry motley food,
From the fond tribute of a noble heart
To the lisp'd flattery of a cunning child.
28
Nay, speak not thus, Albini, speak not thus
Of little blue-eyed, sweet, fair-hair'd Mirando.
He is the orphan of a hapless pair,
A loving, beautiful, but hapless pair,
Whose story is so pleasing, and so sad,
The swains have turn'd it to a plaintive lay,
And sing it as they tend their mountain sheep.
Besides, (to Isab.
) I am the guardian of his choice.
When first I saw him — dost thou not remember?
Isab.
'Twas in the public garden.
Vict.
Even so;
Perch'd in his nurse's arms, a rustic quean,
Ill suited to the lovely charge she bore.
How stedfastly he fix'd his looks upon me,
His dark eyes shining through forgotten tears,
Then stretch'd his little arms and call'd me mother!
What could I do? I took the bantling home—
I could not tell the imp he had no mother.
Alb.
Ah! there, my child, thou hast indeed no blame.
Vict.
Now this is kindly said: thanks, sweet Albini!
Still call me child, and chide me as thou wilt.
O! would that I were such as thou couldst love!
Couldst dearly love, as thou didst love my mother!
Alb.
(pressing her to her breast).
And do I not? all-perfect as she was,
I know not that she went so near my heart
As thou with all thy faults.
Vict.
And sayst thou so? would I had sooner known!
I had done any thing to give thee pleasure.
Alb.
Then do so now, and put thy faults away.
Vict.
No, say not faults; the freaks of thoughtless youth.
Alb.
Nay, very faults they must indeed be call'd.
Vict.
O! say but foibles! youthful foibles only!
Alb.
Faults, faults, real faults you must confess they are.
Vict.
In truth I cannot do your sense the wrong
To think so poorly of the one you love.
Alb.
I must be gone: thou hast o'ercome me now:
Another time I will not yield it so.
[Exit.
Isab.
The countess is severe, she's too severe:
She once was young though now advanc'd in years.
Vict.
No, I deserve it all: she is most worthy.
Unlike those faded beauties of the court,
But now the wither'd stems of former flowers
With all their blossoms shed, her nobler mind
Procures to her the privilege of man,
Ne'er to be old till nature's strength decays.
Some few years hence, if I should live so long,
I'd be Albini rather than myself.
Isab.
Here comes your little fav'rite.
Vict.
I am not in the humour for him now.
Enter Mirando, running up to Victoria, and taking hold of her gown, whilst she takes no notice of him, as he holds up his mouth to be kissed.
Isab.
(to Mir.)
Thou seest the princess can't be troubled with thee.
Mir.
O but she will! I'll scramble up her robe,
As naughty boys do when they climb for apples.
Isab.
Come here, sweet child; I'll kiss thee in her stead.
Mir.
Nay, but I will not have a kiss of thee.
Would I were tall! O were I but so tall!
Isab.
And how tall wouldst thou be?
Mir.
Thou dost not know?
Just tall enough to reach Victoria's lips.
Vict.
(embracing him).
O! I must bend to this, thou little urchin!
Who taught thee all this wit, this childish wit?
Whom does Mirando love?
[Embraces him again.
Mir.
He loves Victoria.
Vict.
And wherefore loves he her?
Mir.
Because she's pretty.
Isab.
Hast thou no little prate to-day, Mirando?
No tale to earn a sugar-plum withal?
Mir.
Ay, that I have: I know who loves her grace.
Vict.
Who is it, pray? thou shalt have comfits for it.
Mir.
(looking slily at her).
It is — it is — it is the Count of Maldo.
Vict.
Away, thou little chit! that tale is old,
And was not worth a sugar-plum when new.
Mir.
Well then, I know who loves her highness well.
Vict.
Who is it then?
Isab.
Who is it, naughty boy?
Mir.
It is the handsome Marquis of Carlatzi.
Vict.
No, no, Mirando, thou art naughty still:
Twice have I paid thee for that tale already.
Mir.
Well then, indeed — I know who loves Victoria.
Vict.
And who is he?
Mir.
It is Mirando's self.
Vict.
Thou little imp! this story is not new,
But thou shalt have thy hire. Come, let us go.
Go, run before us, boy.
Mir.
Nay, but I'll show you how Count Wolvar look'd,
When he conducted Isabel from court.
Vict.
How did he look?
Mir.
Give me your hand: he held his body thus:
(putting himself in a ridiculous bowing posture).
And then he whisper'd softly; then look'd so;
(ogling with his eyes affectedly).
Then she look'd so, and smil'd to him again.
(throwing down his eyes affectedly).
Isab.
Thou art a little knave, and must be whipp'd.
[Exeunt, Mirando leading out Victoria affectedly.
| Basil | |