COUNT.
Pray, pardon me!
[LADY GIOVANNA crosses, and passes behind chair and takes down wreath; then goes to chair by table.
COUNT (to Filippo).
What is it, Filippo?
FILIPPO.
Spoons, your lordship.
COUNT.
Spoons!
FILIPPO.
Yes, my lord, for wasn’t my lady born with a golden spoon in her ladyship’s mouth, and we haven’t never so much as a silver one for the golden lips of her ladyship.
COUNT.
Have we not half a score of silver spoons?
FILIPPO.
Half o’ one, my lord!
COUNT.
How half of one?
FILIPPO.
I trod upon him even now, my lord, in my hurry, and broke him.
COUNT.
And the other nine?
FILIPPO.
Sold! but shall I not mount with your lordship’s leave to her ladyship’s castle, in your lordship’s and her ladyship’s name, and confer with her ladyship’s seneschal, and so descend again with some of her ladyship’s own appurtenances?
COUNT.
Why — no, man. Only see your cloth be clean.
[Exit Filippo.
LADY GIOVANNA.
Ay, ay, this faded ribbon was the mode
In Florence ten years back. What’s here? a scroll
Pinned to the wreath.
My lord, you have said so much
Of this poor wreath that I was bold enough
To take it down, if but to guess what flowers
Had made it; and I find a written scroll
That seems to run in rhymings. Might I read?
COUNT.
Ay, if you will.
LADY GIOVANNA.
It should be if you can.
(Reads.) ‘Dead mountain.’ Nay, for who could trace a hand
So wild and staggering?
COUNT.
This was penn’d, Madonna,
Close to the grating on a winter morn
In the perpetual twilight of a prison,
When he that made it, having his right hand
Lamed in the battle, wrote it with his left.
LADY GIOVANNA.
O heavens! the very letters seem to shake
With cold, with pain perhaps, poor prisoner! Well,
Tell me the words — or better — for I see
There goes a musical score along with them,
Repeat them to their music.
COUNT.
You can touch
No chord in me that would not answer you
In music.
LADY GIOVANNA.
That is musically said.
[COUNT takes guitar. LADY GIOVANNA sits listening with wreath in her hand, and quietly removes scroll and places it on table at the end of the song.
COUNT (sings, playing guitar).
‘Dead mountain flowers, dead mountain-meadow flowers,
Dearer than when you made your mountain gay,
Sweeter than any violet of to-day,
Richer than all the wide world-wealth of May,
To me, tho’ all your bloom has died away,
You bloom again, dead mountain-meadow flowers.’
Enter ELISABETTA with cloth.
ELISABETTA.
A word with you, my lord!
COUNT (singing).
‘O mountain flowers!’
ELISABETTA.
A word, my lord! (Louder).
COUNT (sings).
‘Dead flowers!’
ELISABETTA.
A word, my lord! (Louder).
COUNT.
I pray you pardon me again!
[LADY GIOVANNA looking at wreath.
COUNT (to Elisabetta.)
What is it?
ELISABETTA.
My lord, we have but one piece of earthenware to serve the salad in to my lady, and that cracked!
COUNT.
Why then, that flower’d bowl my ancestor
Fetch’d from the farthest east — we never use it
For fear of breakage — but this day has brought
A great occasion. You can take it, nurse!
ELISABETTA.
I did take it, my lord, but what with my lady’s coming that had so flurried me, and what with the fear of breaking it, I did break it, my lord: it is broken!
COUNT.
My one thing left of value in the world!
No matter! see your cloth be white as snow!
LISABETTA (pointing thro’ window).
White? I warrant thee, my son, as the snow yonder on the very tip-top o’ the mountain.
COUNT.
And yet to speak white truth, my good old mother,
I have seen it like the snow on the moraine.
ELISABETTA.
How can your lordship say so? There my lord!
[Lays cloth.
O my dear son, be not unkind to me.
And one word more. [Going — returns.
COUNT (touching guitar).
Good! let it be but one.
ELISABETTA.
Hath she return’d thy love?
COUNT.
Not yet!
ELISABETTA.
And will she?
COUNT (looking at Lady Giovanna).
I scarce believe it!
ELISABETTA.
Shame upon her then!
[Exit.
COUNT (sings).
‘Dead mountain flowers’ ——
Ah well, my nurse has broken
The thread of my dead flowers, as she has broken
My china bowl. My memory is as dead.
[Goes and replaces guitar.
Strange that the words at home with me so long
Should fly like bosom friends when needed most.
So by your leave if you would hear the rest,
The writing.
LADY GIOVANNA (holding wreath toward him).
There! my lord, you are a poet,
And can you not imagine that the wreath,
Set, as you say, so lightly on her head,
Fell with her motion as she rose, and she,
A girl, a child, then but fifteen, however
Flutter’d or flatter’d by your notice of her,
Was yet too bashful to return for it?
COUNT.
Was it so indeed? was it so? was it so?
[Leans forward to take wreath, and touches Lady Giovanna’s hand, which she withdraws hastily; he places wreath on corner of chair.
LADY GIOVANNA (with dignity).
I did not say, my lord, that it was so;
I said you might imagine it was so.
Enter FILIPPO with bowl of salad, which he places on table.
FILIPPO.
Here’s a fine salad for my lady, for tho’ we have been a soldier, and ridden by his lordship’s side, and seen the red of the battle-field, yet are we now drill-sergeant to his lordship’s lettuces, and profess to be great in green things and in garden-stuff.
LADY GIOVANNA.
I thank thee, good Filippo.
[Exit Filippo.
Enter ELISABETTA with bird on a dish which she places on table.
ELISABETTA (close to table).
Here’s a fine fowl for my lady; I had scant time to do him in. I hope he be not underdone, for we be undone in the doing of him.
LADY GIOVANNA.
I thank you, my good nurse.
FILIPPO (re-entering with plate of prunes).
And here are fine fruits for my lady — prunes, my lady, from the tree that my lord himself planted here in the blossom of his boyhood — and so I, Filippo, being, with your ladyship’s pardon, and as your ladyship knows, his lordship’s own foster-brother, would commend them to your ladyship’s most peculiar appreciation.
[Puts plate on table.
ELISABETTA.
Filippo!
LADY GIOVANNA (COUNT leads her to table)
.
Will you not eat with me, my lord?
COUNT.
I cannot,
Not a morsel, not one morsel. I have broken
My fast already. I will pledge you. Wine!
Filippo, wine!
[Sits near table; FILIPPO brings flask, fills the COUNT’S goblet, then LADY GIOVANNA’S; ELISABETTA stands at the back of LADY GIOVANNA’S chair.
COUNT.
It is but thin and cold,
Not like the vintage blowing round your castle.
We lie too deep down in the shadow here.
Your ladyship lives higher in the sun.
[They pledge each other and drink.
LADY GIOVANNA.
If I might send you down a flask or two
Of that same vintage? There is iron in it.
It has been much commended as a medicine.
I give it my sick son, and if you be
Not quite recover’d of your wound, the wine
Might help you. None has ever told me yet
The story of your battle and your wound.
FILIPPO (coming forward).
I can tell you, my lady, I can tell you.
ELISABETTA.
Filippo! will you take the word out of your master’s own mouth?
FILIPPO.
Was it there to take? Put it there, my lord.
COUNT.
Giovanna, my dear lady, in this same battle
We had been beaten — they were ten to one.
The trumpets of the fight had echo’d down,
I and Filippo here had done our best,
And, having passed unwounded from the field,
Were seated sadly at a fountain side,
Our horses grazing by us, when a troop,
Laden with booty and with a flag of ours
Ta’en in the fight ——
FILIPPO.
Ay, but we fought for it back,
And kill’d ——
ELISABETTA.
Filippo!
COUNT.
A troop of horse ——
FILIPPO.
Five hundred!
COUNT.
Say fifty!
FILIPPO.
And we kill’d ‘em by the score!
ELISABETTA.
Filippo!
FILIPPO.
Well, well, well!
I bite my tongue.
COUNT.
We may have left their fifty less by five.
However, staying not to count how many,
But anger’d at their flaunting of our flag,
We mounted, and we dash’d into the heart of ‘em.
I wore the lady’s chaplet round my neck;
It served me for a blessed rosary.
I am sure that more than one brave fellow owed
His death to the charm in it.
ELISABETTA.
Hear that, my lady!
COUNT.
I cannot tell how long we strove before
Our horses fell beneath us; down we went
Crush’d, hack’d at, trampled underfoot. The night,
As some cold-manner’d friend may strangely do us
The truest service, had a touch of frost
That help’d to check the flowing of the blood.
My last sight ere I swoon’d was one sweet face
Crown’d with the wreath. That seem’d to come and go.
They left us there for dead!
ELISABETTA.
Hear that, my lady!
FILIPPO.
Ay, and I left two fingers there for dead. See, my lady!
(Showing his hand.)
LADY GIOVANNA.
I see, Filippo!
FILIPPO.
And I have small hope of the gentleman gout in my great toe.
LADY GIOVANNA.
And why, Filippo? [Smiling absently.
FILIPPO.
I left him there for dead too!
ELISABETTA.
She smiles at him — how hard the woman is!
My lady, if your ladyship were not
Too proud to look upon the garland, you
Would find it stain’d ——
COUNT (rising).
Silence, Elisabetta!
ELISABETTA.
Stain’d with the blood of the best heart that ever
Beat for one woman. [Points to wreath on chair.
LADY GIOVANNA (rising slowly).
I can eat no more!
COUNT.
You have but trifled with our homely salad,
But dallied with a single lettuce-leaf;
Not eaten anything.
LADY GIOVANNA.
Nay, nay, I cannot.
You know, my lord, I told you I was troubled.
My one child Florio lying still so sick,
I bound myself, and by a solemn vow,
That I would touch no flesh till he were well
Here, or else well in Heaven, where all is well.
[ELISABETTA clears table of bird and salad; FILIPPO snatches up the plate of prunes and holds them to LADY GIOVANNA.
FILIPPO.
But the prunes, my lady, from the tree that his lordship ——
LADY GIOVANNA.
Not now, Filippo. My lord Federigo,
Can I not speak with you once more alone?
COUNT.
You hear, Filippo? My good fellow, go!
FILIPPO.
But the prunes that your lordship ——
ELISABETTA.
Filippo!
COUNT.
Ay, prune our company of thine own and go!
ELISABETTA.
Filippo!
FILIPPO (turning).
Well, well! the women!
[Exit.
COUNT.
And thou too leave us, my dear nurse, alone.
ELISABETTA (folding up cloth and going).
And me too! Ay, the dear nurse will leave you alone; but, for all that, she that has eaten the yolk is scarce like to swallow the shell.
[Turns and curtseys stiffly to LADY GIOVANNA, then exit. LADY GIOVANNA takes out diamond necklace from casket.
LADY GIOVANNA.
I have anger’d your good nurse; these old-world servants
Are all but flesh and blood with those they serve.
My lord, I have a present to return you,
And afterwards a boon to crave of you.
COUNT.
No, my most honour’d and long-worshipt lady,
Poor Federigo degli Alberighi
Takes nothing in return from you except
Return of his affection — can deny
Nothing to you that you require of him.
LADY GIOVANNA.
Then I require you to take back your diamonds —
[Offering necklace.
I doubt not they are yours. No other heart
Of such magnificence in courtesy
Beats — out of heaven. They seem’d too rich a prize
To trust with any messenger. I came
In person to return them.
[Count draws back.
If the phrase
‘Return’ displease you, we will say — exchange them
For your — for your ——
COUNT (takes a step toward her and then back).
For mine — and what of mine?
LADY GIOVANNA.
Well, shall we say this wreath and your sweet rhymes?
COUNT.
But have you ever worn my diamonds?
LADY GIOVANNA. No!
For that would seem accepting of your love.
I cannot brave my brother — but be sure
That I shall never marry again, my lord!
COUNT.
Sure?
LADY GIOVANNA.
Yes!
COUNT.
Is this your brother’s order?
LADY GIOVANNA. No!
For he would marry me to the richest man
In Florenc
e; but I think you know the saying —
‘Better a man without riches, than riches without a man.’
COUNT.
A noble saying — and acted on would yield
A nobler breed of men and women. Lady,
I find you a shrewd bargainer. The wreath
That once you wore outvalues twentyfold
The diamonds that you never deign’d to wear.
But lay them there for a moment!
[Points to table. LADY GIOVANNA places necklace on table.
And be you
Gracious enough to let me know the boon
By granting which, if aught be mine to grant,
I should be made more happy than I hoped
Ever to be again.
LADY GIOVANNA.
Then keep your wreath,
But you will find me a shrewd bargainer still.
I cannot keep your diamonds, for the gift
I ask for, to my mind and at this present
Outvalues all the jewels upon earth.
COUNT.
It should be love that thus outvalues all.
You speak like love, and yet you love me not.
I have nothing in this world but love for you.
LADY GIOVANNA.
Love? it is love, love for my dying boy,
Moves me to ask it of you.
COUNT.
What? my time?
Is it my time? Well, I can give my time
To him that is a part of you, your son.
Shall I return to the castle with you? Shall I
Sit by him, read to him, tell him my tales,
Sing him my songs? You know that I can touch
The ghittern to some purpose.
LADY GIOVANNA.
No, not that!
I thank you heartily for that — and you,
I doubt not from your nobleness of nature,
Will pardon me for asking what I ask.
COUNT.
Giovanna, dear Giovanna, I that once
The wildest of the random youth of Florence
Before I saw you — all my nobleness
Of nature, as you deign to call it, draws
From you, and from my constancy to you.
No more, but speak.
LADY GIOVANNA.
I will. You know sick people,
More specially sick children, have strange fancies,
Strange longings; and to thwart them in their mood
May work them grievous harm at times, may even
Hasten their end. I would you had a son!
It might be easier then for you to make
Allowance for a mother — her — who comes
To rob you of your one delight on earth.
How often has my sick boy yearn’d for this!
I have put him off as often; but to-day
I dared not — so much weaker, so much worse
For last day’s journey. I was weeping for him:
He gave me his hand: ‘I should be well again
If the good Count would give me ——
COUNT.
Give me.
LADY GIOVANNA.
His falcon.
COUNT (starts back).
Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series Page 171
