University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—The Country. On one side a Ruin, on the other a clump of lofty Trees.
Enter Prince Frederick and Ulrick.
Fred.
Now thou hast seen her, tell me what thou think'st.
Has she a heart?

Ulrick.
I think her flesh and blood.

Fred.
Ay, most sweet flesh, and blood most rich!

Ulrick.
Then sure
She has a heart.

Fred.
But where is it? None yet
Have found it out.

Ulrick.
You mean a heart to love?

Fred.
Not such a heart, as well no heart at all!

Ulrick.
Men tell a mine a hundred fathoms deep,
By certain signs that near the surface lie.
Are flesh and blood more fallible than clay?
Take but her face—There's not a feature on't,
But vouches for the mood. Require you more?
Her limbs and body give you proof on proof.
If these convince you not, essay her voice;
'Tis of the stop befits the melting vein.
There's nought without but with her sex consists,
Pronouncing her its pattern, passing rich!
And can she lack the heart, the want of which
Would turn such affluence to poverty?
Prove nature but a niggard, after all,
Where she should seem to be most bountiful?
She has a heart, sir; and a heart to love!

Fred.
How comes it, then, I plead a bootless suit,
And not a boy at wooing? Had I chance,
And were the heart, I sought, unoccupied,
I never fail'd to gain some footing in it,
If not instate myself;—with dames, I own,
Of less degree, ay, and on lighter terms
Than gift of hand for life. Why fail I here?

Ulrick.
Hast thou no rival?

Fred.
None.

Ulrick.
Thou art sure?

Fred.
I am.
Dishearten'd at a race that hath no goal,
Or one that seems to fly them, on approach,
My rivals leave the field to me alone.

Ulrick.
Thou mayst have rivals whom thou know'st not of.

Fred.
No! I have press'd her father oft, thereon,
And learn'd the history, beginning, close
Of every siege of wooing; ending each
In mortified retreat!

Ulrick.
You may have rivals
Unknown to him. Love joys in mystery;
And when you think it countless miles away,
Is lurking close at hand.

Fred.
You are still at fault.
She has no favour'd lover—cannot have.
The thing is out of chance, impossible!

Ulrick.
Call nought impossible, till thou hast proved
That passion hath essay'd it, and been foil'd;
And set this down—nature is nature still,
And, thought to swerve, is, at the bottom, true.
Thy mistress is not stone, but flesh and blood,
Wherein resides the juice of sympathy;
Which, more refined in woman than in man,
In woman sways measurably stronger!
The essence of the sex is that, wherein
They make a gift of their sweet forms and souls—
The tenderness for some especial one,
Who then, 'midst millions, they affect alone.
High natures—and, of such, the highest, hers
Rarely encounter their affinities,
And, till they meet them, all approach repel.
This holds with woman, most, if not alone.
So, many live unwed, however woo'd;
Hers has she found already; so you fail,
Or it is yet to find, and lacks in you.

Fred.
She cannot love. As many streams will go
To make one river up, one passion oft
Predominant, all others will absorb.

Ulrick.
What passion, swoln in her, drinks up the rest?

Fred.
Pride.

Ulrick.
Of her beauty, or her rank, or what?

Fred.
Pride of herself! intolerant of all
Equality—nor that its bounds alone—
Oppressive to the thing that is beneath her.
Say that she waives me off, when I advance,
She spurns the serf that bows to her, at distance.
Suitor and secretary fare alike!
I woo for scorn, he for no better serves—
Nay, rather worse comes off.

Ulrick.
Her secretary?

Fred.
The only one of all his wretched class
Her presence brooks; for he is useful to her;
Reads with a music, as a lute discoursed;
Writes, as a graver the fair letters traced;
Translates dark languages—for learning which
She has a strange conceit; is wise in rare
Philosophy; has mastery, besides,
Of all sweet instruments that men essay—
The hautboy, viol, lute.

Ulrick.
A useful man
Your highness draws! What kind of thing is he
To look upon?

Fred.
'Faith, proper, sir, in trunk,
Feature, and limb; to envy, though a serf.
But, err I not, a most unhappy man,
And for his service, weary of his life!

Ulrick.
O love, a wilful, wayward thing thou art!
'Twere strange! 'twere very strange!

Fred.
What?—What were strange?
What saidst thou now, apostrophizing love?

Ulrick.
I said it was a wilful, wayward thing,
And so it is—fantastic and perverse!
Which makes its sport of persons and of seasons,
Takes its own way, no matter right or wrong.
It is the bee that finds the honey out,
Where least you'd dream 'twould seek the nectarous store
And 'tis an arrant masquer—this same love—
That most outlandish, freakish faces wears,
To hide its own! Looks a proud Spaniard now;
Now a grave Turk; hot Ethiopian next;
And then phlegmatic Englishman; and then
Gay Frenchman; by-and-by, Italian, at
All things a song; and in another skip,
Gruff Dutchman;—still is love behind the masque!
It is a hypocrite!—looks every way
But that where lie its thoughts!—will openly
Frown at the thing it smiles in secret on;
Shows most like hate, e'en when it most is love;
Would fain convince you it is very rock
When it is water! ice when it is fire!
Is oft its own dupe, like a thorough cheat;
Persuades itself 'tis not the thing it is;
Holds up its head, purses its brows, and looks
Askant, with scornful lip, hugging itself,
Enacting high disdain—till suddenly
It falls on its knees, making most piteous suit
With hail of tears, and hurricane of sighs,
Calling on heaven and earth for witnesses
That it is love, true love, nothing but love!

Fred.
You would not say the lady loves the serf?

Ulrick.
I would say nothing in particular,
Save upon proof. Let me together note
The serf and lady; I shall speak to the point,
Or, baffled, hold my peace.

Fred.
To that intent
I sent for thee,—for thou art keen of sight
To pry into the inmost thoughts of men,
And find the proper ends towards which they aim,
Howe'er dissembled by assuméd purpose.

Ulrick.
Your pardon, sir; your father bade me come
To warn you, in these times of turbulence,
He means to stand aloof and take no part
Between the barons and the Empress,—so
Your course you know to shape. What company
Is this?

Fred.
The countess flies her hawk to-day,
And these are falconers in advance of her.
Those nearest us, observe. The lady first,
Is a rich serf, supposed love-daughter to
The former duke, who left her well endow'd.
Those with her are her suitors; but with none
She'll mate, believing that her wealth is prized
Beyond herself,—nor does she widely err
Though some might think her beauty dower enough!
There is one who follows her, indeed for love,
A man of heart; a gentleman, but poor,
Who his revenue spends upon his back;
I say he follows her. He woos her not,
Through pride, 'tis said, lest he be thought to hunt
The dross so much he needs;—whence I esteem
His chance the best. Mark! he is last of all.
Let us retire a space; there's company
Enough without us here. Some minutes yet
Before the countess will alight, and then
Remains the hill to climb. So bright a day,
Methinks, will scarce go by without a frown.

[They retire.
Enter Catherine, Sir Conrad, Sir Otto, and Sir Rupert.
Cath.
Spy you my hawk? 'Twas here he struck his bird,
And vanish'd from my sight.

Sir Otto.
Or I mistake,
Or from his stoop he rose again and skimm'd
The brow of yonder copse.

Sir Con.
I mark'd not if
He soar'd a second time.

Cath.
Were I a man,
And waited on a lady, used to hawk,
I'd keep her bird in sight! Sir Rupert, what
Say you? Where shall we go and seek my hawk,
Or lurks he hereabouts?

Sir Rup.
I saw him not
At all.

Cath.
Not see my hawk at all? You'll do
For a falconer! So! Had I that boy,
My hair-brain'd cousin, whom you say you know,
And fair Sir Rupert hath such fancy for,
He plays the wasp so well—a novel taste!
As I can vouch he is indeed no bee,
To pay you with his honey for his sting!—
Had I that scape-grace with me, he would find
My hawk, ere you began to look for it.—
How loth these friends are to part company!
Now will I scatter them. [Aside.]
Who finds my hawk,
Deserves to kiss my hand, and he shall do it.
[Sir Otto and Sir Conrad run off.
What! like you not my wages, sir, you stand
Nor make a proffer of your services!

Sir Rup.
To kiss your hand would be most rich reward,
If love's rich gift to him who sought your love;
But, if love's gift, to one alone 'twere made,
And not to any one!

Cath.
Love's gift!—What's that?
Most thankless proffer made by empty hand!
Give me bright diamonds, I shall have bright eyes.
When fetch'd desert its value and was poor?—
A hundred years ago?—but it was left
A legacy, and then they found it out!
The world they say is an old churl,—'Tis false.
Can you afford to feast, you shall be feasted;
You shall not dine at home one day out of three;
Nay, you may shut up house, for bed and board.

Sir Rup.
You are a young ascetic.

Cath.
Am I so?
Well, if I am, 'tis in the family—
Witness my cousin, whom you love so well.
A young ascetic say you? Sir, I am
A young Diogenes in petticoats.
I have strings of axioms. Here are more for you.
They say that beauty needs not ornament;
But sooth she fares the better having it,
Although she keeps it in her drawer.

Sir Rup.
Indeed?

Cath.
Indeed, and very deed! For I have known
Bracelets and rings do miracles, where nature
Play'd niggard, and did nothing, or next to it;
Beat lotions in improving of the skin,
And mend a curve, the surgeon had given up
As hopeless.

Sir Rup.
Nay, you speak in irony.

Cath.
I speak in truth, speaking in irony;
For irony is but a laughing truth,
Told of a worthless thing! Will you have more?
You shall then. Have you never heard it said,
Or never dream'd you such a thing as this—
That fortune's children never yet lack'd wit,
Virtue, grace, beauty—though it tax'd the owners
To find them out? Once an exception chanced,
I know not in what year or part of the world,
But, while men stared at the anomaly,
One parasite, less comet-struck than the rest,
Turn'd up a heap of rubbish of all things
Good men and wise and men of taste eschew,
And found them underneath! Take this along though,
The owner never knew their value, for
He ne'er had need to go to market with them.
Why, what a man you are, Sir Rupert! Fie!
What! not a word to say? Let's change the theme then:
The argument shall be, that you're in love;
The which shall I affirm while you deny.
I say you are in love. Come, prove me wrong!

Sir Rup.
I never argue only for the sake
Of argument.

Cath.
Come, come, you have a tongue!
You are in love—I'll prove it by fifty things.
And first and foremost, you deny it, sir;
A certain sign, with certain accidents—
As dulness, moodiness, moroseness, shyness.
I'd stake my credit on one single fact
Thou bearest out to admiration—
A lover is the dullest thing on earth!
Who but a lover—or his antipode,
A wise man—ever found out that the use
Of his tongue was to hold it? Thou must be in love,
And for one sovereign reason, after which
I'll give no other—thou dost follow me!

Sir Rup.
Madam, although I may not use my tongue,
I do my eyes and ears.

Cath.
But not your feet.
Will you not seek my hawk, and run a chance
To kiss my hand—or would it trouble you,
In case you found my hawk, to use your lips?
But I forget 'tis now your turn to speak,
And prove my oaks of arguments are reeds.
Have you no word?—or am not I worth one?
Or must I take your side, and beat myself?
I'll take your side, then. You are not in love,
Loving yourself too well!

Sir Rup.
You wrong me there.

Cath.
Why, see what pains you take with your person! How
You dress!

Sir Rup.
'Tis not my vanity, but pride.
I am far too poor to put mean habit on.
Whose garments wither, shall meet faded smiles
Even from the worthy, so example sways.
So the plague poverty is loath'd; and shunn'd
The luckless wight who wears her fatal spot!
Want, but look full; else you may chance to starve—
Unless you'll stoop to beg. You force me, lady,
To make you my severe confessional.
From such prostration never can I rise
The thing I was before. Farewell!

Cath.
[Looks out.]
Farewell!
What! go not to fetch my hawk, and there
He sits upon his quarry, new alit?
Or want you earnest of your wages? Well,
There, kiss my hand, and go and fetch my hawk,
And then be paid in full.

Sir Rup.
If I could speak—

Cath.
My hawk were off again, ere you had done;
So I would lose his service—thou my thanks!

Sir Rup.
Nay, I'll secure him straight.

[Goes out.
Cath.
I gave him pain,
Though he has borne it with a noble heart!
I hope he will not make me weep in turn.
Symptoms I feel of something like a shower—
A slight one—but it must not fall. They are gone.
A noble heart! a very noble heart!

Enter Sir Rupert.
Sir Rup.
I have miss'd the hawk—he has taken wing again.

Cath.
'Twas not your fault—you did the best you could.
I am not angry. There's my hand for you.
Mark'd you which course he took? Then, come along,
We'll hunt for him together.

Sir Rup.
Stop—it lowers!
There's shelter here.

[Sir Ruppert and Catherine approach the Ruins— Enter the Countess and Huon, with Attendants— Prince Frederick and Ulrick come forward a little, but so as not to be noticed.
Countess.
[To Sir Rup..]
Will there not be a storm?

Huon.
I am sure there will.

Countess.
I ask'd not you to speak! When you should speak,
It shall be shown—it shall be plain. Be sure
It is so, ere you give your counsel, sir.
[Huon retires to the group of trees, and leans against one of them.
Do you not think there's threatening of a storm?

Sir Rup.
Yes, lady. When the heavens look troubled thus,
Earth can't be long at peace.

Fred.
The only man
She brooketh speech from, with complacency.
Observe her, now, when I accost her. Madam,
Will't please you take my escort to your coach,
At the hill-foot I see attending on you?

Countess
[haughtily.]
The rain is on, sir; I am better here.

Sir Otto and Sir Conrad enter in haste.
Sir Otto.
A storm! a storm! Those pitch-black clouds that speed
In wild career to meet the sun, as though
In envy of his light to blot him out,
Come right against the wind—a token they
Bring thunder!

Sir Con.
Yes; I saw a forkéd flash,
And while I held my breath and listen'd, heard
The distant clap. [To Sir Otto.]
Avoid the trees; their tops
With boastful towering, dare the threat'ning bolt
To strike them!

[Sir Otto and Sir Conrad approach the ruins.
Ulrick.
Do you note? She does not move—
What keeps her there? Is that the scornéd serf,
Leans drooping 'gainst the trunk of yonder tree,
That lends him treacherous shelter?—Clear as day!

Fred.
'Tis dark as night!

Ulrick.
What?—O, the storm! My lord,
I meant not that—your doubts are clearing up.
Look at the serf and lady!

Cath.
[To Sir Rup.]
Pray you speak
To the Countess—tell her she's in danger, there,
Standing so near the trees.

Sir Rup.
Madam—

Cath.
Apace
The storm comes on! 'Twill soon be overhead—
Ay! there's the thunder now, and loud enough.
She heard not! Call to her again! She bears
That you accost her.

Sir Rup.
She is fond of you.

Cath.
Yes; but you mark'd her scorn of Huon, now!

Sir Rup.
Forgive me, madam! but—I pray you, madam!
Come from beneath the trees. It lightens fast—
A bold may strike you, madam!

Countess.
Sir, I hear you.

Ulrick.
The peril of the serf transfixes her!
Her life, be sure, is only part of his!
A common act of charity it were,
Command him thence; but, conscious of the cause,
Stronger than charity, that would prompt the act,
And fearing to betray it worse than death;
She perils her own life! It is not right
To leave her there—go to her—take her thence!

Fred.
Your pardon, lady, but you must not brave
The lightning. Come into the open space:
There's shelter, with less chance of penalty,
Beneath this time-worn ruin.
[Thunder and lightning.
Heavens, how near!
Almost together came the clap and flash!
The trees are all on fire—The serf is struck!

[Huon staggers from the tree—the Countess rushes to him, clasping him.
Countess.
No! no!—O Heaven, he's dead! why would he stand
Beneath the tree!—What, Huon!—Speak to me!
Show me thou hear'st me! Let me see some signs
Of life! Why, Huon! Huon! He is dead!

Ulrick.
Lady, he is not dead, but only stunn'd.
'Twas but a shock, although a powerful one.
His colour comes—You see his eyelids ope—
So please you, leave the charge of him to me.

Countess.
I thank you, sir—am sorry such a load
Should burden you. Would some of my attendants
Were here, to ease you on't. How dread a thing
Is death, when sight on't makes one not oneself!
Grows it not lighter, sirs?—Ay, there's the sky.
Almost as soon as come, the storm is gone.
Pray leave him to himself. 'Twas but a shock;
It shames me, such a load should burthen you!

Ulrick.
As yet, he cannot stand.

Countess.
Indeed?—O!—ay!—
It was a very heavy shock. I have a horror,
And always had, of lightning. Do you know
It takes away my wits? Did you not feel
As I did, Catherine, when they thought the lightning
Had kill'd the serf? A dreadful thing is death!
And most of all, by lightning! Where is my hawk?
O, they had charge to bring him after me,
And here they come! Let's meet them, Catherine.

[Going, stops and turns to look at Huon.
Ulrick.
He still grows better, madam.

Countess.
Who, sir?—O,
The serf?—Why, Catherine, where's your hawk?

Cath.
I have lost him.

Countess.
I hope the lightning has not struck him. Come:
We'll have fair weather yet.
Enter two or three Attendants.
Go, some of you,
Relieve his lordship from his load.

[Two of the Attendants take Huon, and lead him off, the Countess watching.
Ulrick.
You see
He is unhurt.

Countess.
My lord?—I see.—You take
Great interest in my serf. The sun is out;
My hawk against the field! Come, Catherine.

[All go out, except Frederick and Ulrick.
Ulrick.
You see, my lord; and seeing comprehend.
Straight will I to the Duke, and freely tell him
A kingdom to a hawk, she loves the serf!

[They go out, severally.