University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—A Room in Catherine's House.
Enter Christina and Nicholas.
Chris.

As thou lov'st thine ease, Nicholas, restrain curiosity.
It is a steed that runs away with a man, without his knowing
it, until it has thrown him. The danger is never found out
until the mischief is done. Besides, it is a woman's palfrey,
which it befits not a man to ride. What signifies it to thee,
who comes into the house, whatsoever be the hour, so it is I
that let him in?

Nic.

Doubtless, Mistress Christina; yet a knock at the
door at two o'clock in the morning—and the door opening at
that hour, to let a man into the house—and that man a gay
young spark—may make a body wonder, though he have no
more than the ordinary stock of curiosity.

Chris.

Propriety, Nicholas, belongs to no one hour out of
the twenty-four, more than to any other hour. It was fit that
the young spark should come into the house, or I should not
have let him in. And now mark what I say to you. Play not
the house-dog any more. Do you mind? Let not your watchfulness
interfere with your sleep; else, besides your sleep, it
may peril your bed and board; but, if thou hearest a knock
when thou liest on the weary side of thee, and wakest, draw
thy nightcap over thine ears, and turn on the other side; and,
so, to sleep again—yea, though it be four o'clock in the morning,
good Nicholas!

Nic.

I shall mind.

Chris.

Do so, and be wise. Duty, that becomes a busybody,
ever turns itself at last out of doors. Hast thou a good
place, friend Nicholas?

Nic.

Not a better in all Germany!

Chris.

Then take my advice, and keep it.

Nic.

I will.

Chris.

Do! [Nicholas goes out.]
My mistress will be discovered
at last, well as she disguises herself, and plays the man.
I wish she had not taken this fancy into her head; it may bring
her into trouble. Ha! here she is; returned to her proper
self. Who would believe that this was the spark I let into the
house at two o'clock in the morning!

Enter Catherine.
Cath.
[Speaking as she enters.]

Christina!

Chris.

Madam!

Cath.

O, here you are! Was not Nicholas with you just
now?

Chris.

Yes; he is only this moment gone. I have just been
giving him a lesson. He saw you when you came home last
night.

Cath.
Hush! Secrets should be dumb to very walls!
A chink may change a nation's destinies,
And where are walls without one—that have doors?
Voice hath a giant's might, not a dwarf's bulk;
It passeth where a tiny fly must stop;
Conspiracy, that does not lock it out,
Fastens the door in vain. Let's talk in whispers,
And then with mouth to ear. 'Tis strange, Christina,
So long I practise this deceit, and still
Pass for the thing I am not—ne'er suspected
The thing I am—'mongst those who know me best, too.
Yet would that all dissemblers meant as fair!
I play the cheat for very honesty,
To find a worthy heart out and reward it.
Far as the poles asunder are two things,
Self-interest and undesigning love;
Yet no two things more like, to see them smile.
He is a conjurer, Christina, then,
Can tell you which is which! Shall I be won
Because I'm valued as a money-bag,
For that I bring to him who winneth me?
No!—Sooner matins, in a cloister, than
Marriage, like that, in open church! 'Tis hard
To find men out! They are such simple things!
Heaven help you! they are mostly bird-catchers,
That hold aloof until you're in their nets,
And then they are down upon you and you're caged,
Nor more your wings your own. I have scarcely slept!

Chris.
You run great risk, methinks, for doubtful gain.
I wonder oft, when thus you play the man,
You should escape offence; for men there are,
By nature brawlers, and of stalwart limb,
Who of their fellows take advantage, when
Of slight and stinted frame; and, at the best,
You make, in sooth, but a green and osier man!

Cath.
And there's a little airy, fairy thing,
Call'd spirit, which makes equal statures, thews,
Ay, between dwarfs and giants, my Christina;
Whereof, although a woman, I have a share
Which ekes out my dimensions, and defies
Those to o'erbear me that o'ertower me.
Besides, I have full pockets! That's enough!
They call me “The young stranger,” and forbear
All question, since I warn'd them 'twas my mood
To see the world incognito; which I vouch'd
With a free purse, that made the table ring
As I cast it down; and startled some to see,
As Fortune's loaded horn had leap'd among them.

Chris.
And think you none suspect your proper sex?

Cath.
Sure on't; for once suspected, 'twere found out.

Chris.
How do you hide the woman?

Cath.
With the man!
It was my girlhood's study. Bless thee, child,
Good shows beat, hollow, bad realities!
When I have dress'd my brows, my upper lip
And chin en cavalier, I make a vow,
From such a time to such, I'll play the man.
And so I am! One quarrell'd with me once—
'Twas when I first began this masquerade—
“Look you,” quoth I, “I never quarrel but
“To fight, nor fight except to kill; and so
“I make my mind up, sir, to die myself;
“So spare your carte and tierce.—Set points to hearts,
“And at the signal, in!” His fire I quench'd,
As water turneth iron cinder-black,
In a white heat duck'd sudden into it!

Chris.
But of your lovers?

Cath.
Tell me who they are?
Alas, to have a rival in one's gown!
For 'tis the same thing—'tis your property!
The fabric of the sempstress to outdo
Heaven's fashioning—your body and your face;
A piece of web, a needle and a thread,
Give worth to them that lies not in themselves!
Yet so it is with dames of noble birth,
And how much more, then, with a wretched serf!
For, though ten times enfranchised, such I am.
But what my betters stoop to, day by day
I spurn, Christina, spurn! nor deign to wed,
Except the man that loves me for myself!

Chris.
And such a man, methinks, Sir Rupert seems.

Cath.
Ah! he is poor!

Chris.
And what of that? He is proud,
And seems as jealous of his poverty
Almost as you are.

Cath.
Yes! He makes no suit.
He ever follows me, yet stands aloof;
While others lay close siege.

Chris.
And of his rivals,
Prefer you any?

Cath.
No. Have I not said,
When tax'd with paying court to me, the rest—
Yea one and all—instead of boasting me,
My person, or my mind, for their excuse—
Set forth my wealth; and ask if there's a man,
Who would not wed a serf, with such a mine?

Chris.
Sir Rupert sins not thus.

Cath.
Sir Rupert? No!
I bear him hard when I enact the man,
Which yet he suffers for the sake of Catherine,
My mad-cap cousin, as I call myself.
He is jealous of me; eyes me as he might
A spaniel like as soon to bite as fawn.
He never speaks of me—I mean myself—
Unless enforced; and then, to end the theme.
“Sir Rupert,” said I to him once, with more
Than wont civility—O, could you see
What a fire-imp I am when I'm a man—
“Sir Rupert,” said I to him once, “methinks
“Your friends are sorry judges of good fruit;
“And, for an apple, like to choose a crab.
“Deal frankly with me. Kin, you know, are kin,
“All the world over! now, a hug and kiss,
“And boxing faces next! It follows not,
“You know, since I am coz to Catherine,
“Because she has the toothache, I have one!
“So, tell me, fair Sir Rupert,—for, indeed,
“Although a spoil'd boy, as 'tis lawful for
“A mother's pet to be, I wish you well,—
“What think you of my cousin Catherine?”
And what was his reply? Beginning, middle,
And end, as much as this,—“She is a woman.”
But, sooth, the answer came in such a tone,
Each single word might pass for a whole book.

Chris.
I am sure Sir Rupert loves you. He has all
The signs of a lover.

Cath.
What are they?

Chris.
He sighs.

Cath.
Sighs! Listen to me! [Drawing a deep sigh.]
There, girl! what think you now
Of that, for a sigh! and say you I'm in love?
I will coin sighs for you, fast as the mint
Coins ducats. Shows are all uncertain things,
Unless the cheek indeed grows lank and pale—
Yet that may be with frequent lack of dinner.
So, 'tis 'twixt the heart and appetite it lies!
O for a sign that were infallible,
And he to show it, whom I would see it on!

Chris.
Sir Rupert?

Cath.
What is that to you? Dear girl,
Whoe'er it be, I pray that I may love him!
The countess flies her hawk to-day. I'll make
Essay of mine.

Chris.
A most strange lady, she!
A form of flesh, and heart of ice.

Cath.
Not so.
A heart, Christina, all possess'd of pride—
That hath no place for any passion, else.
Suitors pursue her, still she yields to none,
But, hard requital! pays their love with scorn;
That, out of troops, remains at last but one,
The Prince of Milan.

Chris.
Will she ever love?
Her heart is scarce the soil to root love's flower!

Cath.
No telling how love thrives! to what it comes!
Whence grows! 'Tis e'en of as mysterious root,
As the pine that makes its lodging of the rock:
Yet there it lives, a huge tree, flourishing,
Where you would think a blade of grass would die!
What is love's poison, if it be not hate?
Yet in that poison, oft is found love's food.
Frowns that are clouds to us, are sun to him!
He finds a music in a scornful tongue,
That melts him more, than softest melody—
Passion perverting all things to its mood,
And, spite of nature, matching opposites!
But, come, we must attire us for the field.
The field!—the field!—Christina, were't to take
The field in love!—a fair and honest fight!
I wonder, be there one true man on the earth?
But if there be, I one true woman know
To match him—were he true as native gold.

Chris.
I think Sir Rupert one.

Cath.
Sir Rupert!—Umph!
If he were rich, and I as poor as he,
I'd tell you “yes,” or “no,” within a week.
Heaven keep me from the proof!—I should not like
To find Sir Rupert out! Come. Let me wed
The man that loves me, or else die a maid!

[They go out.

SCENE II.

—An Apartment in the Duke's Castle.
The Countess—Huon reading to her.
Countess.
Give o'er! I hate the poet's argument!
'Tis falsehood—'Tis offence. A noble maid
Stoop to a peasant!—Ancestry, sire, dam,
Kindred and all, of perfect blood, despised
For love!

Huon.
The peasant, though of humble stock,
High nature had ennobled.

Countess.
What was that?
Mean you to justify it? But, go on!

Huon.
Not to offend.

Countess.
Offend! No fear of that,
I hope, 'twixt thee and me! I pray you, sir,
To recollect yourself, and be at ease,
And, as I bid you, do. Go on.

Huon.
Descent,
You'll grant, is not alone nobility,
Will you not? Never yet was line so long,
But it beginning had; and that was found
In rarity of nature, giving one
Advantage over many—aptitude
For arms, for counsel, so superlative
As baffled all competitors, and made
The many glad to follow him as guide
Or safeguard; and with title to endow him,
For his high honour or to gain some end
Supposed propitious to the general weal,
On those who should descend from him entail'd.
Not in descent alone, then, lies degree,
Which from descent to nature may be traced,
Its proper fount! And that, which nature did,
You'll grant she may be like to do, again;
And in a very peasant, yea, a slave,
Enlodge the worth that roots the noble tree.
I trust I seem not bold, to argue so.

Countess.
Sir, when to me it matters what you seem,
Make question on't. If you have more to say,
Proceed—yet mark you how the poet mocks,
Himself, your advocacy; in the sequel
His hero is a hind in masquerade!
He proves to be a lord!

Huon.
The poet sinn'd
Against himself, in that! He should have known
A better trick, who had at hand his own
Excelling nature to admonish him,
Than the low cunning of the common craft.
A hind, his hero, won the lady's love.
He had worth enough for that! Her heart was his.
Wedlock joins nothing, if it joins not hearts.
Marriage was never meant for coats of arms.
Heraldry flourishes on metal, silk,
Or wood. Examine as you will the blood,
No painting on't is there!—As red, as warm,
The peasant's as the noble's!

Countess.
Dost thou know
Thou speak'st to me?

Huon.
'Tis, therefore, so I speak.

Countess.
And know'st thy duty to me?

Huon.
Yes.

Countess.
And see'st
My station, and thine own?

Huon.
I see my own.

Countess.
Not mine?

Huon.
I cannot, for the fair
O'ertopping height before.

Countess.
What height?

Huon.
Thyself!
That towerest 'bove thy station!—Pardon me!
O, wouldst thou set thy rank before thyself?
Wouldst thou be honour'd for thyself, or that?
Rank that excels its wearer, but degrades him.
Riches impoverish, that divide respect.
O, to be cherish'd for oneself alone!
To owe the love that cleaves to us to nought
Which fortune's summer—winter—gives or takes!
To know that, while we wear the heart and mind,
Feature and form, high Heaven endow'd us with,
Let the storm pelt us, or fair weather warm,
We still are loved! Kings, from their thrones cast down,
Have bless'd their fate, that they were valued for
Themselves, and not their stations; when some knee,
That hardly bow'd to them, before,
Has kiss'd the dust before them, stripp'd of all.

Countess
[confused].
I nothing see that's relative in this,
That bears upon the argument.

Huon.
O, much,
Durst but my heart explain.

Countess.
Hast thou a heart?
I thought thou wast a serf; and, as a serf,
Hadst thought and will none other than thy lord's;
And so no heart—that is, no heart of thine own.
But since thou say'st thou hast a heart, 'tis well!
Keep it a secret;—let me not suspect
What, were it e'en suspicion, were thy death.
Sir, did I name a banquet to thee now,
Thou lookedst so?

Huon.
To die, for thee, were such.

Countess.
Sir!

Huon.
For his master oft a serf has died,
And thought it sweet,—and may not, then, a serf
Say for his mistress, it were bliss to die?

Countess.
Thou art presumptuous—very—so no wonder
If I misunderstood thee. Thou'dst do well
To be thyself, and nothing more.

Huon.
Myself—

Countess.
Why, art thou not a serf? What right hast thou
To set thy person off with such a bearing?
And move with such a gait?—to give thy brow
The set of noble's, and thy tongue his phrase?
Thy betters' clothes sit fairer upon thee
Than on themselves, and they were made for them.
I have no patience with thee!—can't abide thee!
There are no bounds to thy ambition, none!
How durst thou e'er adventure to bestride
The war-horse—sitting him, that people say
Thou, not the knight, appear'st his proper load?
How durst thou touch the lance, the battle-axe,
And wheel the flaming falchion round thy head,
As thou wouldst blaze the sun of chivalry?—
I know—my father found thy aptitude,
And humour'd it, to boast thee off? He may chance
To rue it; and no wonder if he should;
If others' eyes see that they should not see,
Directed by his own.

Huon.
O, lady—

Countess.
What?

Huon.
Heard I aright?

Countess.
Aright—what heard'st thou, then?
I would not think thee so presumptuous,
As, through thy pride, to misinterpret me.
It were not for thy health!—Yea, for thy life!
Beware, sir. It would set my quiet blood,
On haste for mischief to thee, rushing through
My veins, did I believe—! Thou art not mad;
Knowing thy vanity, I aggravate it.
Thou know'st 'twere shame, the lowest free-woman
That follows in my train should think of thee?

Huon.
I know it, lady.

Countess.
That I meant to say,
No more. Don't read such books to me again.
I would you had not learn'd to read, so well,
I had been spared your annotations.
For the future, no reply, when I remark.
Hear, but don't speak—unless you're told—and then
No more than you're ask'd;—what makes the answer up,
No syllable beyond.
Enter Falconer with Hawk.
My falconer! So.
An hour I'll fly my hawk.

Fal.
A noble bird,
My lady, knows his bells—is proud of them.

Countess.
They are no portion of his excellence;
It is his own! 'Tis not by them he makes
His ample wheel; mounts up, and up, and up,
In spiry rings, piercing the firmament,
Till he o'ertops his prey; then gives his stoop
More fleet and sure than ever arrow sped!
How nature fashion'd him for his bold trade!
Gave him his stars of eyes to range abroad,
His wings of glorious spread to mow the air,
And breast of might to use them! I delight
To fly my hawk. The hawk's a glorious bird;
Obedient—yet a daring, dauntless bird!
You may be useful, sir; so wait upon me!

[They go out.