University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—A Room in the House of Monsieur de l'Epée.
Enter, from an inner Room, Walsingham and Monsieur de l'Epee.
De l'Epée.
Your progress answers to your practice, sir;
Cause have you none for discontent. Confess,
You play the foil with twice the ease you did
A month ago. Might I be credited,
Not only each new week, but even day,
Puts to the blush the former one, so fast
You catch the mystery of the fair art.

Wal.
Yes; but my fellow-pupil heads me still.

De l'Epée.
His quickness is your master.

Wal.
Yet, 'tis strange!
With all my pains, I toil behind him still,
And he a very stripling!

De l'Epée.
'Tis not strength
That makes the odds, but art. To turn the foil
In practised hand, almost a wheaten straw
Hath stamina enough. The point deceived,
An infant's arm, in distance, lounges home.
The art is strength, and length, and everything.

Wal.
To say the truth, it is a noble art,
On which agility and grace attend,
With proper manhood keeping company,
As on none other;—making lightest ease
To champion force, and, as you say, bear off
The palm from it. In every act and state—
Salute, guard, parry, feint, or pass—it hath
A bearing worthy of the eyes of kings
And their high consorts, when a practised hand
Like yours takes up the foil.

De l'Epée.
You flatter, sir!

Wal.
By my proud honour, no! But, to your pupil—
Who is he?

De l'Epée.
I know not.

Wal.
He is very young.

De l'Epée.
Yes; by his looks he has a teen or twain
To count;—though never scholar study plied
With manlier resolve and constancy.
It often moves my wonder, that so slight
And delicate a frame should undergo
What, to robuster mould, a thousand times
I have mark'd was weariness. Scarce lays he down
The foil, before he takes it up again,
Some parry, feint, or lounge, unmaster'd yet,
To practise;—which he does with zest so keen,
I have thought, at times, that in his fancy's eye
There stood, before his foil, an enemy,
The actor of some unatonéd wrong,
Whose heart each thrust was meant for.—A good morning!
I am waited for.

Wal.
Good morning to you, sir.
[De l'Epee goes out.
A noble fellow that!—a soldier who
A mighty captain follow'd, for the strides
With which he led to glory—nay, for them
Deserted not, when fortune back'd a world,
Marshall'd against her off-cast favourite!
Talk you of scars?—That Frenchman bears on crown,
Body, and limb, his vouchers, palpable,
For many a thicket he has struggled through
Of briery danger—wondering that he
Came off with even life, when right and left
His mates dropp'd thick beside him. A true man!
His rations with his master gone—for he
Was honour's soldier, that ne'er changes sides—
He left his country for a foreign one,
To teach his gallant art, and earn a home.
I know him to be honest, generous,
High-soul'd, and modest; every way a grace
To the fine martial nation whence he sprang!
Eustace enters from Inner Room.
My fellow-pupil! [Aside.]
That was a shrewd guess
The Frenchman made. Are all these pains to pay
An enemy?—then is his case my own.
Would I could gain his confidence! but still,
Oft as I try, he foils me with reserve,
He shows to none beside! One more attempt.—
So, fellow-pupil! You have given o'er at last.
Right well you fenced to-day! You are weary?

Eust.
No.
Good morning, sir.—

Wal.
I' faith, you “sir” not me!
We have been mates too long, methinks, for term,
So niggard, fellow-pupil!—Walsingham
Is my name. I prithee, when thou next accost'st me,
Say Walsingham. Is't not enough, your foil
Keeps me at distance—will not let me in—
Rebukes me! shames me!—will you with your tongue
O'erbear me too? Call me not “sir,” I pray,
But Walsingham.

Eust.
It were to make too free
For mere acquaintanceship.

Wal.
Acquaintanceship!
You have known me for a year. Friendship has grown
In half that time!

Eust.
Friendship grows not by time.

Wal.
In sooth 'twould seem so. Daily have we met
For good a year—nor yet have shaken hands.
Give me thy hand, and let us hence be friends!
What! will you not? I'faith, you should—you shall!
I'll take it spite of you—yea, though you frown,
And call yourself my foe—which would be hard;
To make a foe, striving to make a friend.

Eust.
[After a pause.]
I'll shake hands with you.

Wal.
Ha!—a hearty grasp!
But take it not away so soon again,
Nor where you give your hand, refuse your eye.
Why don't you look at me?

Eust.
Let go my hand!

Wal.
Such haste to take away—so frank to give?

Eust.
Let go my hand!—Well, you may keep it, sir;
You cannot make it like its prison, nor,
When once 'tis free from't, enter it again.

Wal.
Well—call me Walsingham, I'll let it go.
Why must I force you thus to be my friend?

Eust.
Why should you? Force made never yet a friend!

Wal.
For kindness, then! why would you hold me off?
A man repell'd of fortune! See you not,
I am not of the vein of those on whom
She lavishes her smiles—nor do I think
With surfeit of such sweet you bought that cast
Of thoughtfulness, which when I look upon you,
Like to my glass, shows me, methinks, myself!—
I am a man of honour and of heart—
Ah, too much heart! Come, call me Walsingham,
And then I'll let you go.

Eust.
Well—Walsingham!

Wal.
I' faith, most kindly did you sound my name;
Tongue never fell it yet more sweetly from,
Save one!—Save one!

Eust.
Farewell!

Wal.
We'll walk together.

Eust.
Nay.

Wal.
Will you have it so, why have it so;
My love is not that sturdy beggar yet,
But spurning may suffice to stop its craving!
Yet ere you leave me, hear me—and, then, go.
Methinks our fates in something are alike;
To prove it so, or not, I'll tell thee mine.
Give thee my confidence—make thee indeed my friend!
Now, once for all, what say you?

Eust.
Be it so.

Wal.
Thy hand again, then!—Do we go together?

Eust.
We do!—Have with you!

Wal.
Now we are friends, for ever!

[They go out.