Ay, keep there.
La N.
But, gentlemen, what upshot hear you of?
Par.
The queen hath sent her under heavy guard
To bide some subtler edge of evidence
Here in her chamber.
Sou.
Why not in prison?
Look you, they’ll let her slip; I say they will.
Par.
But hear you, sir; I did not blame the queen —
Sou.
It doth outgrow the height and top of shame
That she should pass untaxed.
Par.
She will not pass.
Sou.
Take note, sir, there is composition in’t;
They would not put imprisonment on her;
Why this is rank: I tell you this is rank.
Par.
God’s pity! what a perfect wasp are you!
Why, say she scapes — as by my faith I see
No such keen reason why she should not scape,
The matter being so bare and thin in proof
As it appears by this —
La N.
Yea, so I say;
If she be manifest a murderess —
Sou.
If!
What “if” will serve? show me the room for “if;”
I read no reason on the face of “if.”
If she be not, what leans our faith upon?
If she be pure or only possible
For judgment to wash clear — if she be not
Evident in guilt beyond all evidence —
The perfect map where such red lines are drawn
As set down murder — if she be less one whit
I’ll take her sin upon myself and turn
Her warrant.
Par.
Take a woman’s sin on you?
O, while you live, lay no such weight on faith,
‘Twill break her back. Sir, as you love me, do not;
I would not have you take such charge upon you.
Sou.
I say I will not; for I can approve
Her very guiltiness.
Par.
Nay, that clears all.
But it is strange that one so well reputed,
So perfect in all gentle ways of time
That take men’s eyes — in whom the slips she had
Were her more grace and did increase report
To do her good — who might excuse all blame
That the tongued story of this time could lay
On her most sweet account — that such a lady
Should wreak herself so bloodily for words
Upon a shallow and sick-witted fool.
Why, what is she the better, he removed?
Or how doth he impair her, being alive?
There’s matter in’t we know not of.
Sou.
Yea, why?
For that you speak of her repute, my lord,
I am not perfect in a girl’s repute;
It may be other than I think of it;
But in this poor conjectural mind of mine
I cannot see how to live large and loose
Doth put a sounder nerve into repute
Than honest women have. What we did know of her,
You, I, and all men —
Par.
Nay, you tax her far.
Sou.
I mean, we know her commerce with the king;
Ha? did we not?
Par.
Yea, that was broad enough.
Sou.
Why, well then, how doth she make up repute,
Being patched so palpably? Here comes the queen.
Enter the King, the Queen-Mother, and La Rochefoucauld.
Ch.
It may be so.
Ca.
I would it had less face.
If likelihood could better speak of her,
I should be glad to help it.
Sou.
Marked you this?
Ca.
But shame can hide no shame so manifest;
It must all out.
Ch.
I do not say it must.
Ca.
Why, it was open, proof doth handle it;
The poor brain-bitten railer chid at her,
Scoffed in lewd words, made speech insufferable
Of any temperate ear; no colder cheek
But would have burnt at him; myself was angered,
Could not wear patience through; and she being quick,
Tendering her state as women do, too slight
To push her reason past her anger’s bound —
Sou.
Did you note that? she speaks my proper way.
Ca.
She being such doth with my hands resolve
To whip him out of life; and in this humour —
Ch.
Soft now; I must get proof; what makes your highness
In such a matter?
Ca.
I gave her glove to him.
Ch.
O, this is well; and yet she murdered him?
Par.
What says your judgment to’t? have you no quirk?
(Aside.)
Ca.
She gave it me; I had the glove of her.
Par.
Does the wind blow that side?
Sou.
Notice the king; he chafes.
[Exeunt Pardaillan, Soubise, and
La Noue.
Ch.
Our sister says she did outswear you all
She never saw the glove.
Ca.
Put her to proof;
Let her outbrag by evidence evidence,
And proof unseat by proof.
Ch.
Call her to me.
Ca.
That were unfit; you shall not see her.
Ch.
Shall not!
Who puts the “shall not” on me? is it you?
Ca.
Not I, but absolute need and present law;
She is not well; and till she be made whole
There shall no trial pass upon her proof;
She shall have justice; it may be she is clear,
And this large outward likelihood may lie;
Then she were sharply wronged; and in that fear
And also for dear love I bear to her
I have removed her with no care but mine
To a more quiet room; where till more surety
She doth abide in an unwounded peace,
Having most tender guard.
Ch.
I’ll write her comfort;
For I do know she has much wrong in this.
Ca.
I will commend you verbally to her;
The other were some scandal.
Ch.
Pray you, do;
Look you speak gently; I would not have you loud,
For she will weep all pity into you
To see her cheek so marred. Look you say well;
Say I do nothing fear but she is wronged,
And will do right; yea, though I loved her not
(As truly I am not so hard in love
But I can see her fault, which is much pity —
A very talking error in weak tongues)
I would not have her wronged. Look you say that.
Ca.
I will say anything.
Ch.
Now, my fair lord,
Have I done well?
La R.
Most justly and most well.
Ch.
You would not else, were you a king of mine?
La R.
I would do this, even merely as you do.
Ch.
What say you to this evidence?
La R.
That it doth
Amaze my sense of what is proven; for,
If there be witness in the touch and grasp
Of things so palpable, and
naked likelihood
Outpoises all thin guess and accident,
I must believe what makes belief rebel
And turn a proclaimed liar. For I am sure
That she whose mouth this proof doth dwell upon,
I mean the virtuous damozel Yolande,
Is past the tax of lying; she is as pure
As truth desires a man.
Ch.
It is most strange;
Let’s find some smoother talk. Have you not seen
My book of deer, what seasons and what ways
To take them in? I finished it last night.
La R.
I have not seen it.
Ch.
Only this throws me out;
(The verses, Peter Ronsard made them rhyme)
I’ll show you where; come, you shall get me through;
You are perfect at such points.
La R.
Your praise outruns me.
Ch.
No, not a whit; you are perfect in them; come.
[Exeunt King
and
La Rochefoucauld.
Ca.
This is the proper cooling of hot blood;
Now is she lost in him. Say, she doth live; to put
Earth in her lips and dusty obstacle
May not be worth my pains. She cannot thwart me either;
For say I did enfranchise her to-night,
Give air and breath to her loud’st speech, she could not
Wrench one man’s faith awry. Yet since I know
Security doth overlean itself
And bruise its proper side, I will not do’t.
Or say I win her back; and being so won,
I may find serviceable times for her
To spy upon king fool; this coolness thawed
Would make a heat indeed. There’s use for her
And room withal; if she leave tenderness
And this girl’s habit of a changing blood,
I can as well unload her of this weight
As I did lay it on; which being kept up
May make her life bend under it, and crack
The sensible springs of motion. I will put proof to it;
Favour of love, promise and sweet regard,
Large habit, and the royal use of time,
May her slight fear as potently outpoise
As wisdom doth, weighed in a steadier brain.
[Exit.
Scene II.
Denise’s Apartment in the same.
Enter Denise and Attendant.
Att.
How do you now?
Den.
Well; I do ever well;
It comes not new to me, this well-doing.
I sleep as women do that feed well, I feed
As those who wear the gold of doing well.
What pricks you so to ask? Why, this is quaint,
I cannot brace my body like a maid’s,
Cannot plait up my hair, gather a pin,
But you must catch me with “How do you it?”
Att.
I made but question of that mood you had
Some three hours back, when you fell pale and wept,
Saying fever clenched you fast and you would die;
That mood forgets you.
Den.
Not a whit; you slip
Strangely between conjectures of two sides,
The white and black side. I am very well.
They say “do well” if one does virtuously;
May I not say so?
Att.
Doubtless you may well.
Den.
Yea, the word “well” is tied upon your tongue.
Try now some new word, prithee some fair phrase,
Rounder i’ the mouth than “well;” I hate this “well;”
I pray you learn some lesson of a jay
To use new words. I will provide me one
That shall say nothing all day through but “ill,”
And “ill” again. I’ll have a clock tick “well”
And hang it by your bed to wake you mad
Because you chatter me half sick with “well.”
Att.
I will say nothing lest you carp at me,
Planting offence in most pure sentences;
Mistake falls easy.
Den.
Truly it doth fall.
All matters fall out somehow in God’s work,
And round the squarèd edges of them flat.
But I fall wrong, slip someway short of heaven,
And earth fails too, and leaves me dismal hell,
Naked as brown feet of unburied men.
Think you they hold mere talk like ours in hell?
Go up and down with wretched shoulders stooped
And wried backs under the strong burdens bruised
And thwarted bodies without pleasant breath?
Att.
I do conceive it as clean fire that burns
And makes a grey speck of the gracious corn;
God keep us that we burn not in such wise.
Den.
That is a prayer, and prayers are sweet. But then
We’ll have no praying; only such as this —
I prithee set a finger to my load,
Help me from fainting; take my knife and smite
And put the blood to cool upon my mouth.
Such dull work too as carls get sickened with
And turn to die into the black rank straw,
We shall set hands to; all fair lords and knights,
Great kings with gold work wrought into their hair,
Strong men of price and such as play or sing,
Delicate ladies with well-shodden feet,
Tall queens in silk wear and all royal things,
Yea, priests of noble scarlet and chaste mark,
All shall God set awork. Peradventure too
When our arms loosen in the elbow-joints
With the strong rage and violent use of toil,
He may send patient breath to ease our lips
And heal us for a little weeping-space,
But then in talking each with each will grow
Worse shame and wholly fashioned wretchedness,
And either will go back to mere short moans
And the hard pulse of his outlaboured hour
Rather than talk. We shall lie down and curse
Stupidly under breath, like herdsmen; turn
And hide and cover from all witness up,
Each his own loathing and particular sore;
Sit with chins fallen and lank feet asquat,
Letting the dismal head work its own way,
Till the new stripe shall pluck us up to task,
Crossing with cruelties our own bad will,
Crowning our worst with some completed bad
Too ill to face. Ay, this should be their way;
For fire and all tormented things of earth
Are parcels of good life, have use and will,
Learn worthiest office and supply brave wants;
And not the things that burn up clean make hell,
Not pain, hate, evil, actual shame or sense,
But just the lewd obedience, the dead work,
The beaten service of a barren wage
That gets no reaping.
Att.
I cannot taste the purpose of your speech.
Pray you lie down.
Den.
I will not. Well it were
To set our upper lives on some such guise
And have a perfect record when one dies
How things shall be thereafter. A knowledge armed
Of the most sharp and outermost event
Is half a comfort. I do think for one
That God will set me into certain hell,
Pick me to burn forth of his yellow spears
Like any tare as rank. Also I doubt
There shall be some I had to do withal
/>
Packed in the same red sheaf. How will each look,
Tavannes, no leaner than the hound he was,
Or Guise beard-singed to the roots? the queen-mother
Tied by the hair to — I get idle now.
A grave thing is it to feel sure of hell,
But who should fear it if I slip the chance
And make some holy blunder in my end,
Translating sin by penitence? For none
Sinned ever yet my way; treason and lust
Sick apes, red murder a familiar fool,
To this new trick set by them, will be shamed
In me for ever; yea, contempt of men
Shall put them out of office. He that lusts,
Envies or stabs, shall merely virtuous be,
And the lank liar fingering at your throat
A friend right honest. That roadway villain’s knife
That feels for gold i’ the womb, shall be not hated;
And the cold thief who spills a popular breath
Find grace o’ the gallows; why do men hang poor knaves,
Cut throats while mine goes smooth? Now I think on’t,
I will put condemnation to their act
By mine own will and work. I pray you kill me,
I will not hurt you.
Att.
Alas, she is mad. Dear lady —
Den.
Yea, dear; I shall be dear some three days hence,
And paid full price. Dost thou not think I am mad?
I am not; they would fain have lied me mad,
Burnt up my brain and strung my sense awry,
In so vile space imprisoning my wants
I can help nothing. Here sit I now, beast-like,
Loathsomely silenced: who if I had the tongue
Wherewith hard winter warns the unblanched sea,
Would even outspeak the winds with large report,
Proclaiming peril. But being this I am
I get no help at all. One maimed and dumb
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 178
