University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

Scene I.

—The working-room of a Painter. The Bastard of Montargis and the Painter.
Montargis.
Well, Sir, these foolish women, as I said,
Beset me for my picture—no escape;
And if a hundred crowns may answer it,
There is the gold; and being thus besieged,
I hold my ransom cheap.

Painter.
The sum, my Lord,
Has more relation to your quality
Than my deserts. A side-face shall it be?
Or no—a full face; for 'tis but in that
The story of the face is told at large.
The full face portraiture should much divulge,
Aud yet much more adumbrate .... Turn to me ....
It may be of one look alone delivered,
And yet with many pregnant .... All but straight—
Your pardon—so—A little more this way ...
There, there, I have it. For the scar, my Lord,
Shall it be painted?

Montargis.
As you please.

Painter.
The scar
Is portion of the story; it shall stand.
So now to work.

Montargis.
Excuse me; not to-day;
My leisure serves not; but some fortnight hence
I'll come again. Whose face is that, I pray,
That gleams from yonder panel?

Painter.
That, my Lord?
It is her Grace of Burgundy's.

Montargis.
True—true;
You told me so before—stolen as she sat
Over the lists at Nêsle.

Painter.
Tis but a sketch,
Yet of great price to me; for this, wrought out,
Builds up the fortune of my piece in hand,
Salomé in the hall of Herod.

Montargis.
Hah!
That face befits the argument. The mole
Upon the neck,—is that, as some aver,
An added charm, or is it not a blemish?

Painter.
There is a power in beauty which subdues
All accidents of Nature to itself.
Aurora comes in clouds, and yet the cloud
Dims not, but decks her beauty. Furthermore
Whate'er shall single out a personal self
Takes with a subtler magic. So of shape;
Perfect proportion, like unclouded light,
Is but a faultless model; small defect
Conjoint with excellence, more moves and wins,
Making the heavenly human.

Montargis.
For myself,
Unto things heavenly am I devote,
And not to moles and weals or humps and bumps.
Yet I consent, her Grace of Burgundy
Has charms, as you have painted them, that vie
With any France can boast.

Painter.
'Tis kind, my Lord,
In you to say so; but I spared no pains.
Look closer; mark the hyacinthine blue
Of mazy veins irriguous, swelling here,
There branching and so softening out of sight.
Nor is it ill conceited. You may mark
The timbrel drooping from her hand denotes
The dance foregone; a fire is in her eye
Which tells of triumph; and voluptuous grace
Of motion is exchanged for rapturous rest.

Montargis.
'Tis all exceeding good. I take my leave;
And, you forbidding not, some fortnight hence
I come again.

Painter.
At your command.

Montargis.
Good day.
[Goes out, but returns.
I have bethought me of a friend whose soul
Lies in the hollow of her Grace's hand,
Soft fluttering like a captured butterfly,
To whom this picture were the very leaf
That it would feast on. In his amorous eyes
This portrait would be worth a thousand crowns.
Trust it to me, I prithee, for one day,
That I may show it to my friend.

Painter.
My Lord,
So soon as it has stamp'd its effigy
Upon that altar-piece I told you of,
'Tis yours to sell; and for a forward step
So please you in the mean time, take and show it.
Permit me to attend you. By your leave.

Scene II.

—The Chapel in the King's Palace. Iolande and Robert the Hermit.
Robert
(kneeling at the altar).
Father, that throned in glory and in light
O'erseest all things, and this Earth thy work
In its first newness fresh from Thee survey'dst
And saw'st that it was good, behold it now
Old and adulterate with pain and sin
And cursed with strife, whilst anguish and despair
Cry piercingly, but not to Thee, for pity,—
Behold it now a world of blood and tears:
And as by power Thou mad'st it fair at first,
So by Thy mercy, so by Thine infinite love,
So by Thy heavenly washing, cleanse it now:
Almighty Father, spare this realm of France:
Father, this region, fairest of the earth
Whilst Thou wast with us, wanting Thee is foul;
And from its filth and rank corruption teem
All loathsome, all unutterable crimes.
Oh may the few that serve Thee serve Thee so
That many may be saved! Visit this vine
Which Thou didst plant and erewhile mad'st so strong;
Visit thy royal husbandman King Charles,
That, charged to tend it, he have Thee to aid,
And fainting not, have power to chase and smite
The wild boar breaking in. And if this Maid
Be chosen of Thee, a vessel of Thy grace,
Shower Thou Thy blessing on her high endeavour.
[He rises.
Maid, I adjure thee for the last time now
If any breath of earthly passion dim
Heaven's mirror in thy mind, renounce this rite;
For as the blessing were beyond all price
If thou and thine attempt indeed were bless'd,
So deep were thy damnation if, through sin
Of self-deceit, or frailty of the flesh,
Or wavering faith, or human loves at war
With heavenly, thou mad'st havock of this hope.

Iolande.
Hermit, I saw her; she was robed in white,
With golden hair that glisten'd in the sun,
And eyes that look'd in turn from me to Heaven
And Heaven to me, compassionate and pure
And radiant with celestial love and joy.
“I am Saint Mary Magdalene,” she cried;
And then, as though she caught the word from Christ,—
“Forward to Zoar; faint not, look not back;
If doubt assail thee, for that o'er thy soul
The shadow of a sin hath fleeted, deem
That doubt to be but devilish, and know
That dear and sacred in the sight of God
As innocence itself is blest contrition;
Else why was I beloved, and whence this crown?”
With that, the glory round her head shone forth
With sevenfold lustre, and she vanish'd.

Robert.
See;
The Duke, the King.

Enter the King, the Duke of Orleans, The Abbot of the Bernardins, with the phial, and Passac.
The King.
Brother, I prithee bid the Sacristan
Leave jangling of those bells.

Orleans.
I hear no bells;
'Tis but your fancy, Brother. I have heard
The ear hath phantoms, like as hath the eye,
And men hear sounds that are not. It is common.

The King.
True; once I thought my body was a church,
My head the belfry; and you'd scarce believe
What clangour and what swinging to and fro
Went on, and how the belfry rock'd and reel'd,
Till Death, the knock-kneed laggard, came to church;
Then all was peace.

Orleans.
No more of that. Look, look,—
There by the altar is that spotless maid
On whom the sainted Magdalene drops anew
Her tears of tenderest love, which, turn'd to balm,
With potent touch shall heal and fortify
This shaken yet majestic soul of France.
Make no delay.

The King.
Oh Virgin fair and pure!
Thou hast a goodly presence, and thy face
Is like the face of one who longs for Christ
And sees Him coming in the clouds with power;
And now thou drawest near, thou'rt not of earth;
For there's a glory round thee, and thine eyes
Are as that Seraph's which I saw long since
When God was good and gracious to my soul
And sent me messages of love. Oh maid!
I see a Heavenly message in thy face,
And know thee more than human.

Iolande.
Royal Sir,
It is a vision you behold, not me;
I see it too; whichever way I look
Is light and glory; for it fills the place,
And angels' eyes meet mine.

Robert.
Let none gainsay
That angels' eyes behold this work. Oh thou
Redeem'd from sinful love by love divine,
Who, weeping in the darkness nigh the tomb,
Wast by the angels bidden not to mourn
For Christ was risen, which heard thou went'st thy way
With fear and with great joy,—teach us to weep
In such wise that great joy may come through tears,
Knowing Him risen: thou debtor unto whom
Love brought forgiveness and forgiveness love
Redounding each to other, ask for us
That love and pardon our great debt demands:
Thou who with tears didst wash the feet of Christ,
Wash them again with tears,—wash them again
With tears of intercession for the sins
Of God's afflicted servant, Charles of France.

The King.
I know him—'tis the Hermit—he does well
To clothe himself in skins. Brother, a word;
It is not meet I undergo this rite
In Royal robes; I should be humbly clad;
I and the Hermit will change clothes.

Orleans.
Nay, nay,
This is no time to linger; kneel as you are.
Lord Abbot, place the phial on the altar.
Now, sainted Iolande, beloved of God,
Perform your hallow'd function.

The King
(kneeling).
Be it so.

Iolande.
I, as divinely call'd, and by the grace
I trust is given me, sign thee with this Cross;
And by God's power, and by the Cross of Christ,
And by the virtue of these sacred tears
Wept by Saint Mary Magdalene, enjoin
All evil spirits that inhabit here,
If any now inhabit, to depart,
And I command that none henceforth shall dare
To vex the soul of this anointed King.

Robert.
Amen! amen! so be it!

The King.
There they go—
That's Astramon,—that's Cedon; get ye hence,
False traitors! My Lord Abbot, follow, follow;
And sprinkle holy water in their track,
Or they will turn again. Good Hermit, follow.

[Exit followed by Robert the Hermit, the Abbot, and Passac.
Iolande.
Hear me, Angelic Host! Seraphic Bands,
And Spirits that erst imprison'd here on earth
Have burst your bonds and mounted, list to me,
A child of earth, to whose weak hands were given
The spear and shield of Christ,—oh bear me up
Now that my task is done,—lift up my heart,
For it is trembling, tottering, fainting, sinking,
And teach it such a song of joy and praise
As, borne aloft toward the mercy-seat,
May mix with hallelujahs of your own!
And oh that I were worthier, and that now,
Upspringing from my consummated task,
I might but be released and join your choirs
In endless anthems! God of boundless love,
Take me, oh take me hence!

Re-enter Passac.
Passac.
My Lord, the King,
As hath been sometime heretofore his wont,
Hath bid us take away his sword.

Orleans.
Well, well;
No matter; say no more.

Passac.
He calls for you.

Orleans.
I come. Oh, Iolande, a hasty vow
Was that I vow'd, that when thy work was wrought
I never more would ask to see thy face.
Once, once again I must. Ere the sun set
I bring thee tidings of the King.

A cry within.
My Lord;

Orleans.
I come, I come.

Iolande.
I fear you now no more;
Christ hath me by the hand and I am safe.

Orleans.
Passac, attend her to the Celestines.
Who calls so loud? I come, I say, I come.

Scene III.

This scene has been altered since the first publication of the play; if, as I believe, improved, I am indebted for the improvement to the remarks of an anonymous writer in a literary journal,—made, I think, with a true critical insight, though, I am sorry to say, not in a friendly spirit.—(Note in the Second Edition.)

—The Secret Cabinet in the Palace of the Duke of Orleans, hung round with Pictures, each concealed by a curtain. The Duke of Burgundy, the Bastard of Montargis, and an Attendant.
Montargis
(to the Attendant).
Withdraw the curtains and retire.

Burgundy.
Too true;
Wild as the winds, they tell me, wild as the winds.
He knows not those about him nor himself;
Son of Perdition, Scape-goat, Man of Sin,
He calls himself, and foams at all who say
“Your Grace,” “Your Highness,” or “my Lord the King.”
No madman who believes himself a King
Is so enamour'd of his royalties
As this poor King envenom'd is against them.
To see the Fleur de Lys most angers him,
And when he can he tears it. One alone
Hath power upon him (whence derived we know),
The Milanese enchantress Valentine,
My worthy Cousin's wife; who reads such books
As when the hangman burns, he puts on gloves
For fear of what may happen. In his rage
He seized the old Archbishop by the throat,
Bidding him cease philandering and fiddling
And dig himself a grave beneath the gallows.
The Archbishop, in a mortal terror, cried,
“Oh let me go and I will do it;” then
He squatted on the floor, and laugh'd.

Montargis.
This day,
If ever, shall your Highness seize the reins.
The people are inflamed; in every street
They gather, hurling curses at his head
Whose practice once again hath crazed the King.
The death, too, they demand, of that young Witch
Whose art the Duke hath used.

Burgundy.
That was decreed
Beforehand.

Montargis.
Sir, a Council should be call'd
Ere this cools down.

Burgundy.
Already it is call'd;
It meets at six.—Ho! here's a galaxy
Of glowing dames! Well done, my amorous Cousin!
Whate'er his errors at the Council-board,
By Becket's bones I cannot but commend
His choice of paramours. Banners are these
Ta'en in Love's warfare, and hung up to tell
Of many a Noble, many a Knight despoil'd.
Ha! were it not a frolic that should shake
Grim Saturn's self with laughter, could we bring
The husbands hither,—each to look round and spy
The blazon of his dire disgrace.

Montargis.
'Twere sport
That were I following my father's hearse
Would make me roar with merriment.

Burgundy.
Who's this?
Tell me the name and quality of each
In order as they come.

Montargis.
This is Adele,
Wife of the Seneschal de Montenay.
Beautiful vixen! for three years and more
He caged her in his castle on the Yonne,
To teach her tameness; and she learnt revenge;
Whereof her present love is part and lot.
Yond Cupid painted in the vault above
Poison'd his arrow when he shot at her.
She mimics gracefully a fondling softness,
But there's less danger in a bear's embrace
Than her caressings.

Burgundy.
God ha' mercy! Pass;
Who is the next?

Montargis.
Evangeline St. Cler,
The lily of Bordeaux, Count Raymond's daughter;
An easy, lazy lady, freely fraught
By nature with a full complacency
And swelling opulence of inward joy
Sufficient to itself, that knows no want,
Too careless happy to have need of love.
And leave her unmolested, she were chaste
As Thekla in the cave; but urged and press'd,
Resistance is too troublesome; she's kind,
And if a lover wring his hands and weep,
She can refuse him nothing.

Burgundy.
Weep for a wench!
I'd have the fool well whipp'd. I know the next;
She, if I err not, is De Chauny's spouse.

Montargis.
Pressing a portrait to her pouting lips,
Which once were not so pale; and whence the change
Ask her successor smiling opposite,
The Jew Rispondi's daughter fresh from Rhodes.
A polish'd corner of the Temple she,
Dove's eyes within her locks; an innocent child,
Sold as a toy and senseless as a toy,
Who hardly knew what love or sin might mean.
Her reign was short.

Burgundy.
And then the next!

Montargis.
Which! This?

Burgundy.
She with the timbrel dangling from her hand.

Montargis.
I know not this; this was not here before.
The one beyond it ....

Burgundy.
Not so fast; this face
I surely must have seen, though not, it may be,
For some time past; it hath a princely grace
And lavish liberty of eye and limb,
With something of a soft seductiveness
Which very strangely to my mind recalls
The idle days of youth; that face I know,
Yet know not whose it is.

Montargis.
Nor I, my Lord;
Albeit the carriage of the neck and head
Is such as I have somewhere seen.

Burgundy.
But where?
Familiar seems it, though in foreign garb;
And whether it be Memory recalls
Or Fancy feigning Memory ... Death of my soul!
It is my wife.

Montargis.
Oh no, my Lord, no, no,
It cannot be her Highness.

Burgundy.
Cannot, cannot—
Why, no, it cannot; for my wife is chaste,
And never did a breath of slander dim
Her pure and spotless fame; no, no, it cannot;
By all the Angels that keep watch above
It cannot be my wife ... and yet it is.
I tell thee, Bastard of Montargis, this,
This picture is the picture of my wife.

Montargis.
And I, my Lord, make answer it is not.
I could as soon believe that Castaly
Had issued into Styx. Besides, look here,—
There is a mole upon the neck of this,
Which is not on your wife's.

Burgundy.
That mole is hers;
That mole convicts her.

Montargis.
What? a mole? Well,—yes,
Now that I think of it, some sort of smirch,—
A blot, a blur, I know not what ...

Burgundy.
That mole.
Oh see, Montargis, look at her; she smiles,
But not on me,—but never more on me!
Oh would to God that she had died the day
That first I saw that smile and trusted her;
Though knowing the whole world of women false,
Still trusted her,—and knowing that of the false
The fairest are the falsest, trusted still,
Still trusted her—Oh my besotted soul!
Trusted her only—oh my wife, my wife!—
Believing that of all the Devil's brood
That twist and spin and spawn upon this earth
She was the single Saint—the one unfallen
Of this accursed Creation—oh my wife!
Oh the Iscariot kiss of those false lips!
With him too—to be false with him—my bane,
My blight from boyhood.

Montargis.
Verily therein
Was foul-play worse befoul'd ; no arts but his,
And theirs who taught him, with their rings and rods,
Powders and potions, could have breach'd the wall
Of that fair citadel.

Burgundy.
I'll have his blood.

Montargis.
My Lord, I do beseech you, be not rash.
I own this is not at all points the place
Where I could wish to find, hung up to view,
A portrait of her Grace of Burgundy:
But patience is a virtue which the times
Demand of married men; to shout one's shame
Were but to add to injury disgrace;
Make not an open scandal; keep it close;
Nor give to every mocking mountebank
A theme for jest.

Burgundy.
No scandal; there's no need;
But ere yon sun shall set, that villain dies.

Montargis.
'Tis just he should; and, as the world wags now,
There will be twenty triumph in his death
For two that seem to mourn.

Burgundy.
He dies, by God!
This hand shall kill him if none other.

Montargis.
Nay,
Such handiwork should not become your Grace.
Give me your warrant and the deed is done.

Burgundy.
Ere the sun sets.

Montargis.
A later hour were better;
We want not daylight for a deed like this.

Burgundy.
I sleep not till he's dead. Come thou with me,
And take thy warrant.

Montargis.
Sir, at your command.

Burgundy.
Look here, Montargis:
[Drawing his sword.
Should a breath be breathed
That whispers of my shame, the end is this.

[Stabs the portrait in the heart.