Monsignor. I see through the trick, caitiff! I would you spoke truth for once. All shall be sifted, however-seven times sifted.
Intendant. And how my absurd riches encumbered me! I dared not lay claim to above half my possesions. Let me but once unbosom myself, glorify Heaven, and die!
Sir, you are no brutal, dastardly idiot like your brother I frightened to death: let us understand one another. Sir, I will make away with her for you — the girl — here close at hand; not the stupid obvious kind of killing; do not speak — know nothing of her or me! I see her every day — saw her this morning: of course there is to be no killing; but at Rome the courtesans perish off every three years, and I can entice her thither — have, indeed, begun operations already. There’s a certain lusty, blue-eyed, florid-complexioned English knave, I and the Police employ occasionally. You assent, I perceive — no, that’s not it — assent I do not say — but you will let me convert my present havings and holdings into cash, and give me time to cross the Alps? ‘Tis but a little black-eyed, pretty singing Felippa, gay silk-winding girl. I have kept her out of harm’s way up to this present; for I always intended to make your life a plague to you with her! ‘Tis as well settled once and for ever: some women I have procured will pass Bluphocks, my handsome scoundrel, off for somebody; and once Pippa entangled! — you conceive? Through her singing? Is it a bargain?
From without is heard the voice of PIPPA, singing —
Overhead the tree-tops meet,
Flowers and grass spring ‘neath one’s feet;
There was nought above me, and nought below,
My childhood had not learned to know:
For, what are the voices of birds
— Ay, and of beasts, — but words — our words,
Only so much more sweet?
The knowledge of that with my life begun!
But I had so near made out the sun,
And counted your stars, the Seven and One,
Like the fingers of my hand:
Nay, I could all but understand
Wherefore through heaven the white moon ranges;
And just when out of her soft fifty changes
No unfamiliar face might overlook me —
Suddenly God took me!
[PIPPA passes.
Monsignor. [Springing up.] My people — one and all — all — within there! Gag this villain — tie him hand and foot! He dares . . . I know not half he dares — but remove him — quick! Miserere mei, Domine! quick, I say!
PIPPA’S Chamber again. She enters it.
The bee with his comb,
The mouse at her dray,
The grub in its tomb,
Wile winter away;
But the fire-fly and hedge-shrew and lob-worm, I pray,
How fare they?
Ha, ha, best thanks for your counsel, my Zanze —
‘Feast upon lampreys, quaff the Breganze’ —
The summer of life’s so easy to spend,
And care for to-morrow so soon put away!
But winter hastens at summer’s end,
And fire-fly, hedge-shrew, lob-worm, pray,
How fare they?
No bidding me then to . . . what did she say?
‘Pare your nails pearlwise, get your small feet shoes
More like . . . (what said she?) — and less like canoes’ —
How pert that girl was! — would I be those pert
Impudent staring women! it had done me,
However, surely no such mighty hurt
To learn his name who passed that jest upon me:
No foreigner, that I can recollect,
Came, as she says, a month since, to inspect
Our silk-mills — none with blue eyes and thick rings
Of English-coloured hair, at all events.
Well, if old Luca keeps his good intents,
We shall do better: see what next year brings!
I may buy shoes, my Zanze, not appear
More destitute than you, perhaps, next year!
Bluph. . . . something! I had caught the uncouth name
But for Monsignor’s people’s sudden clatter
Above us — bound to spoil such idle chatter
As ours; it were, indeed, a serious matter
If silly talk like ours should put to shame
The pious man, the man devoid of blame,
The . . . ah, but — ah, but, all the same,
No mere mortal has a right
To carry that exalted air;
Best people are not angels quite:
While — not the worst of people’s doings scare
The devil; so there’s that proud look to spare!
Which is mere counsel to myself, mind! for
I have just been the holy Monsignor!
And I was you too, Luigi’s gentle mother,
And you too, Luigi! — how that Luigi started
Out of the Turret — doubtlessly departed
On some good errand or another,
For he pass’d just now in a traveller’s trim
And the sullen company that prowled
About his path, I noticed, scowled
As if they had lost a prey in him.
And I was Jules the sculptor’s bride,
And I was Ottima beside,
And now what am I? — tired of fooling!
Day for folly, night for schooling!
New year’s day is over and spent,
Ill or well, I must be content!
Even my lily’s asleep, I vow:
Wake up — here’s a friend I’ve pluckt you!
See — call this flower a heart’s-ease now!
And something rare, let me instruct you,
Is this — with petals triply swollen,
Three times spotted, thrice the pollen,
While the leaves and parts that witness,
The old proportions and their fitness,
Here remain, unchanged, unmoved now —
So, call this pampered thing improved now
Suppose there’s a king of the flowers
And a girl-show held in his bowers —
‘Look ye, buds, this growth of ours,’
Says he, ‘Zanze from the Brenta,
I have made her gorge polenta
Till both cheeks are near as bouncing
As her . . . name there’s no pronouncing!
See this heightened colour too —
For she swilled Breganze wine
Till her nose turned deep carmine —
‘Twas but white when wild she grew
And only by this Zanze’s eyes
Of which we could not change the size,
The magnitude of what’s achieved
Otherwise, may be perceived!’
Oh what a drear, dark close to my poor day!
How could that red sun drop in that blackcloud!
Ah, Pippa, morning’s rule is moved away,
Dispensed with, never more to be allowed!
Day’s turn is over: now arrives the night’s.
Oh, Lark, be day’s apostle
To mavis, merle and throstle,
Bid them their betters jostle
From day and its delights!
But at night, brother Howlet, far over the woods,
Toll the world to thy chantry;
Sing to the bats’ sleek sisterhoods
Full complines with gallantry:
Then, owls and bats, cowls and twats,
Monks and nuns, in a cloister’s moods,
Adjourn to the oak-stump pantry!
[After she has begun to undress herself,
Now, one thing I should like to really know:
How near I ever might approach all these
I only fancied being, this long day!
— Approach, I mean, so as to touch them so
As to . . . in some way . . . move them — if you please,
Do good or evil to them some slight way.
For instance, if I wind
/>
Silk to-morrow, my silk may bind
[Sitting on the bedside
And broider Ottima’s cloak’s hem.
Ah, me and my important part with them
This morning’s hymn half promised when I rose!
True in some sense or other, I suppose,
Though I passed by them all, and felt no sign.
[As she lies down.
God bless me! I can pray no more to-night.
No doubt, some way or other, hymns say right.
All service is the same with God —
With God, whose puppets, best and worst,
Are we: there is no last nor first.
[She sleeps.
BELLS AND POMEGRANATES NO. II: KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES
CONTENTS
Persons
FIRST YEAR 1730. — KING VICTOR.
Part I.
Part II.
SECOND YEAR 1731. — KING CHARLES.
Part I.
Part II.
NOTE
So far as I know, this Tragedy is the first artistic consequence of what Voltaire termed “a terrible event without consequences;” and although it professes to be historical, I have taken more pains to arrive at the history than most readers would thank me for particularizing: since acquainted, as I will hope them to be, with the chief circumstances of Victor’s remarkable European career — nor quite ignorant of the sad and surprising facts I am about to reproduce (tolerable accounts of which are to be found, for instance, in Abbé Roman’s Récit, or even the fifth of Lord Orrery’s Letters from Italy) — I cannot expect them to be versed, nor desirous of becoming so, in all the details of the memoirs, correspondence, and relations of the time. From these only may be obtained a knowledge of the fiery and audacious temper, unscrupulous selfishness, profound dissimulation, and singular fertility in resources, of Victor — the extreme and painful sensibility, prolonged immaturity of powers, earnest good purpose and vacillating will, of Charles — the noble and right woman’s manliness of his wife — and the ill-considered rascality and subsequent better-advised rectitude of D’Ormea. When I say, therefore, that I cannot but believe my statement (combining as it does what appears correct in Voltaire and plausible in Condorcet) more true to person and thing than any it has hitherto been my fortune to meet with, no doubt my word will be taken, and my evidence spared as readily.
R.B. London, 1842
Persons
Victor Amadeus, first King of Sardinia.
Charles Emmanuel, his son, Prince of Piedmont.
Polyxena, wife of Charles.
D’Ormea, minister.
Scene: The Council Chambers of Rivoli Palace, near Turin, communicating with a Hall at the back, an Apartment to the left, and another to the right of the stage.
FIRST YEAR 1730. — KING VICTOR.
Part I.
Charles. Polyxena.
Charles.
You think so? Well, I do not.
Polyxena.
My beloved,
All must clear up — we shall be happy yet:
This cannot last forever . . oh, may change
To-day, or any day!
Charles.
— May change? Ah yes —
May change!
Polyxena.
Endure it, then.
Charles.
No doubt, a life
Like this drags on, now better and now worse;
My father may . . . may take to loving me;
And he may take, too, D’Ormea closer yet
To counsel him; — may even cast off her
— That bad Sebastian; but he also may
. . Or, no, Polyxena, my only friend,
He may not force you from me?
Polyxena.
Now, force me
From you! — me, close by you as if there gloomed
No D’Ormeas, no Sebastians on our path —
At Rivoli or Turin, still at hand,
Arch-counsellor, prime confidant . . . force me!
Charles.
Because I felt as sure, as I feel sure
We clasp hands now, of being happy once.
Young was I, quite neglected, nor concerned
By the world’s business that engrossed so much
My father and my brother: if I peered
From out my privacy, — amid the crash
And blaze of nations, domineered those two;
‘Twas war, peace — France our foe, now — England, friend —
In love with Spain — at feud with Austria! — Well —
I wondered — laughed a moment’s laugh for pride
In the chivalrous couple — then let drop
My curtain — ”I am out of it,” I said —
When . . .
Polyxena.
You have told me, Charles.
Charles.
Polyxena —
When suddenly, — a warm March day, just that!
Just so much sunshine as the cottager’s child
Basks in delighted, while the cottager
Takes off his bonnet, as he ceases work,
To catch the more of it — and it must fall
Heavily on my brother . . . had you seen
Philip — the lion-featured! — not like me!
Polyxena.
I know —
Charles.
And Philip’s mouth yet fast to mine,
His dead cheek on my cheek, his arm still round
My neck, — they bade me rise, “for I was heir
To the Duke,” they said, “the right hand of the Duke;”
Till then he was my father, not the Duke!
So . . let me finish . . the whole intricate
World’s business their dead boy was born to, I
Must conquer, — ay, the brilliant thing he was,
I, of a sudden, must be: my faults, my follies,
— All bitter truths were told me, all at once
To end the sooner. What I simply styled
Their overlooking me, had been contempt:
How should the Duke employ himself, forsooth,
With such an one while lordly Philip rode
By him their Turin through? But he was punished,
And must put up with — me! ‘Twas sad enough
To learn my future portion and submit —
And then the wear and worry, blame on blame!
— For, spring-sounds in my ears, spring-smells about,
How could I but grow dizzy in their pent
Dim palace-rooms at first? My mother’s look
As they discussed my insignificance —
(She and my father, and I sitting by,) —
I bore: — I knew how brave a son they missed:
Philip had gayly passed state-papers o’er,
While Charles was spelling at them painfully!
But Victor was my father spite of that.
“Duke Victor’s entire life has been,” I said,
“Innumerable efforts to one end;
“And, on the point now of that end’s success,
“Our Ducal turning to a Kingly crown,
“Where’s time to be reminded ‘tis his child
“He spurns?” And so I suffered . . yet scarce suffered,
Since I had you at length!
Polyxena.
To serve in place
Of monarch, minister and mistress, Charles.
Charles.
But, once that crown obtained, then was’t not like
Our lot would alter? — ”When he rests, takes breath,
“Glances around, and sees who’s left to love —
“Now that my mother’s dead, sees I am left —
“Is it not like he’ll love me at the last?”
Well: Savoy turns Sardinia — the Duke’s King!
Could I — precisely then — could you expect
His harshness to redouble? These few months
Have been . . . have been . . Polyxe
na, do you
And God conduct me, or I lose myself!
What would he have? What is’t they want with me?
Him with this mistress and this minister,
— You see me and you hear me; judge us both!
Pronounce what I should do, Polyxena!
Polyxena.
Endure, endure, beloved! Say you not
That he’s your Father? All’s so incident
To novel sway! Beside, our life must change:
Or you’ll acquire his kingcraft, or he’ll find
Harshness a sorry way of teaching it.
I bear this — not that there’s so much to bear —
Charles.
You bear it? don’t I know that you, tho’ bound
To silence for my sake, are perishing
Piecemeal beside me? and how otherwise?
— When every creephole from the hideous Court
Is stopt; the Minister to dog me, here —
The Mistress posted to entrap you, there!
And thus shall we grow old in such a life —
Not careless, — never estranged, — but old: to alter
Our life, there is so much to alter!
Polyxena.
Come —
Is it agreed that we forego complaints
Even at Turin, yet complain we here
At Rivoli? ‘Twere wiser you announced
Our presence to the king. What’s now a-foot,
I wonder? — Not that any more’s to dread
Than every day’s embarrassment — but guess,
For me, why train so fast succeeded train
On the high-road, each gayer still than each;
I noticed your Archbishop’s pursuivant,
The sable cloak and silver cross; such pomp
Bodes . . what now, Charles? Can you conceive?
Charles.
Not I,
Polyxena.
A matter of some moment —
Charles.
There’s our life!
Which of the group of loiterers that stared
From the lime-avenue, divines that I —
About to figure presently, he thinks,
In face of all assembled — am the one
Who knows precisely least about it?
Polyxena.
Tush!
D’Ormea’s contrivance!
Charles.
Ay — how otherwise
Should the young Prince serve for the old King’s foil?
— So that the simplest courtier may remark,
‘Twere idle raising parties for a Prince
Content to linger D’Ormea’s laughing-stock!
Something, ‘tis like, about that weary business
[Pointing to papers he has laid down, and which Polyxena examines.]
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 263
