Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series
Page 280
Content or not, at every little thing
That touches you. I may with a wrung heart
Even reprove you, Mildred; I did more:
Will you forgive me?
MILDRED.
Thorold? do you mock?
Oh no . . . and yet you bid me . . . say that word!
TRESHAM.
Forgive me, Mildred! — are you silent, Sweet?
MILDRED [starting up].
Why does not Henry Mertoun come to-night?
Are you, too, silent?
[Dashing his mantle aside, and pointing to his scabbard, which is empty.]
Ah, this speaks for you!
You’ve murdered Henry Mertoun! Now proceed!
What is it I must pardon? This and all?
Well, I do pardon you — I think I do.
Thorold, how very wretched you must be!
TRESHAM.
He bade me tell you . . .
MILDRED.
What I do forbid
Your utterance of! So much that you may tell
And will not — how you murdered him . . . but, no!
You’ll tell me that he loved me, never more
Than bleeding out his life there: must I say
“Indeed,” to that? Enough! I pardon you.
TRESHAM.
You cannot, Mildred! for the harsh words, yes:
Of this last deed Another’s judge: whose doom
I wait in doubt, despondency and fear.
MILDRED.
Oh, true! There’s nought for me to pardon! True!
You loose my soul of all its cares at once.
Death makes me sure of him for ever! You
Tell me his last words? He shall tell me them,
And take my answer — not in words, but reading
Himself the heart I had to read him late,
Which death . . .
TRESHAM.
Death? You are dying too? Well said
Of Guendolen! I dared not hope you’d die:
But she was sure of it.
MILDRED.
Tell Guendolen
I loved her, and tell Austin . . .
TRESHAM.
Him you loved:
And me?
MILDRED.
Ah, Thorold! Was’t not rashly done
To quench that blood, on fire with youth and hope
And love of me — whom you loved too, and yet
Suffered to sit here waiting his approach
While you were slaying him? Oh, doubtlessly
You let him speak his poor confused boy’s-speech
— Do his poor utmost to disarm your wrath
And respite me! — you let him try to give
The story of our love and ignorance,
And the brief madness and the long despair —
You let him plead all this, because your code
Of honour bids you hear before you strike:
But at the end, as he looked up for life
Into your eyes — you struck him down!
TRESHAM.
No! No!
Had I but heard him — had I let him speak
Half the truth — less — had I looked long on him
I had desisted! Why, as he lay there,
The moon on his flushed cheek, I gathered all
The story ere he told it: I saw through
The troubled surface of his crime and yours
A depth of purity immovable,
Had I but glanced, where all seemed turbidest
Had gleamed some inlet to the calm beneath;
I would not glance: my punishment’s at hand.
There, Mildred, is the truth! and you — say on —
You curse me?
MILDRED.
As I dare approach that Heaven
Which has not bade a living thing despair,
Which needs no code to keep its grace from stain,
But bids the vilest worm that turns on it
Desist and be forgiven, — I — forgive not,
But bless you, Thorold, from my soul of souls!
[Falls on his neck.]
There! Do not think too much upon the past!
The cloud that’s broke was all the same a cloud
While it stood up between my friend and you;
You hurt him ‘neath its shadow: but is that
So past retrieve? I have his heart, you know;
I may dispose of it: I give it you!
It loves you as mine loves! Confirm me, Henry!
[Dies.]
TRESHAM.
I wish thee joy, Beloved! I am glad
In thy full gladness!
GUENDOLEN [without].
Mildred! Tresham!
[Entering with AUSTIN.]
Thorold,
I could desist no longer. Ah, she swoons!
That’s well.
TRESHAM.
Oh, better far than that!
GUENDOLEN.
She’s dead!
Let me unlock her arms!
TRESHAM.
She threw them thus
About my neck, and blessed me, and then died:
You’ll let them stay now, Guendolen!
AUSTIN.
Leave her
And look to him! What ails you, Thorold?
GUENDOLEN.
White
As she, and whiter! Austin! quick — this side!
AUSTIN.
A froth is oozing through his clenched teeth;
Both lips, where they’re not bitten through, are black:
Speak, dearest Thorold!
TRESHAM.
Something does weigh down
My neck beside her weight: thanks: I should fall
But for you, Austin, I believe! — there, there,
‘Twill pass away soon! — ah, — I had forgotten:
I am dying.
GUENDOLEN.
Thorold — Thorold — why was this?
TRESHAM.
I said, just as I drank the poison off,
The earth would be no longer earth to me,
The life out of all life was gone from me.
There are blind ways provided, the fore-done
Heart-weary player in this pageant-world
Drops out by, letting the main masque defile
By the conspicuous portal: I am through —
Just through!
GUENDOLEN.
Don’t leave him, Austin! Death is close.
TRESHAM.
Already Mildred’s face is peacefuller,
I see you, Austin — feel you; here’s my hand,
Put yours in it — you, Guendolen, yours too!
You’re lord and lady now — you’re Treshams; name
And fame are yours: you hold our ‘scutcheon up.
Austin, no blot on it! You see how blood
Must wash one blot away: the first blot came
And the first blood came. To the vain world’s eye
All’s gules again: no care to the vain world,
From whence the red was drawn!
AUSTIN.
No blot shall come!
TRESHAM.
I said that: yet it did come. Should it come,
Vengeance is God’s, not man’s. Remember me!
[Dies.
GUENDOLEN [letting fall the pulseless arm].
Ah, Thorold, we can but — remember you!
THE END
BELLS AND POMEGRANATES NO. VI: COLOMBE’S BIRTHDAY
CONTENTS
Persons
Act I
Act II
Act III
Act IV
Act V
Persons
COLOMBE OF RAVESTEIN, Duchess of Juliers and Cleves.
SABYNE, ADOLF, her attendants.
GUIBERT, GAUCELME, MAUFROY, CLUGNET, courtiers.
VALENCE, advocate of Cleves.
PRINCE BERTHOLD, claimant of the Duchy.
MELCHIOR, his confidant.
PLACE. The Palace at Juliers.
TIME, 16 — .
Act I
Morning.
SCENE — A corridor leading to tbe Audience-chamber.
GAUCELME, CLUGNET, MAUFROY and other COURTIERS, round GUIBERT, who is silently reading a paper: as be drops it at tbe end —
GUIBERT.
That this should be her birthday; and the day
We all invested her, twelve months ago,
As the late Duke’s true heiress and our liege;
And that this also must become the day . . .
Oh, miserable lady!
1st COURTIER.
Ay, indeed?
2nd COURTIER.
Well, Guibert?
3rd COURTIER.
But your news, my friend, your news!
The sooner, friend, one learns Prince Berthold’s pleasure,
The better for us all: how writes the Prince?
Give me! I’ll read it for the common good.
GUIBERT.
In time, sir, — but till time comes, pardon me!
Our old Duke just disclosed his child’s retreat,
Declared her true succession to his rule,
And died: this birthday was the day, last year,
We convoyed her from Castle Ravestein —
That sleeps out trustfully its extreme age
On the Meuse’ quiet bank, where she lived queen
Over the water-buds, — to Juliers’ court
With joy and bustle. Here again we stand;
Sir Gaucelme’s buckle’s constant to his cap:
To-day ‘s much such another sunny day!
GAUCELME.
Come, Guibert, this outgrows a jest, I think!
You’re hardly such a novice as to need
The lesson, you pretend.
GUIBERT.
What lesson, sir?
That everybody, if he ‘d thrive at court,
Should, first and last of all, look to himself?
Why, no: and therefore with your good examplej
( — Ho, Master Adolf!) — to myself I’ll look.
Enter ADOLF.
GUIBERT.
The Prince’ s letter; why, of all men else,
Comes it to me?
ADOLF.
By virtue of your place,
Sir Guibert! ‘T was the Prince’s express charge,
His envoy told us, that the missive there
Should only reach our lady by the hand
Of whosoever held your place.
GUIBERT.
Enough!
[Adolf retires.
Then, gentles, who’ll accept a certain poor
Indifferently honorable place,
My friends, I make no doubt, have gnashed their teeth
At leisure minutes these half-dozen years,
To find me never in the mood to quit?
Who asks may have it, with my blessing, and —
This to present our lady. Who’ll accept?
You, — you, — you? There it lies, and may, for me!
MAUFROY. [a youth, picking up the paper, reads aloud.]
“Prince Berthold, proved by titles following
Undoubted Lord of Juliers, comes this day
To claim his own, with license from the Pope,
The Emperor, the Kings of Spain and France” . . .
GAUCELME.
Sufficient “titles following,” I judge!
Don’t read another! Well, — ”to claim his own”?
MAUFROY.
“ — And take possession of the Duchy held
Since twelve months, to the true heir’s prejudice,
By” . . . Colombe, Juliers’ mistress, so she thinks,
And Ravestein’s mere lady, as we find.
Who wants the place and paper? Guibert’s right.
I hope to climb a little in the world, —
I’d push my fortunes, — but, no more than he,
Could tell her on this happy day of days,
That, save the nosegay in her hand, perhaps,
There’s nothing left to call her own. Sir Clugnet,
You famish for promotion; what say you?
CLUGNET. [an old man].
To give this letter were a sort, I take it,
Of service: services ask recompense:
What kind of corner may be Ravestein?
GUIBERT.
The castle? Oh, you’d share her fortunes? Good!
Three walls stand upright, full as good as four,
With no such bad remainder of a roof.
CLUGNET.
Oh, — but the town?
GUIBERT.
Five houses, fifteen huts;
A church whereto was once a spire, ‘tis judged;
And half a dyke, except in time of thaw.
CLUGNET.
Still, there’s some revenue?
GUIBERT.
Else Heaven forfend!
You hang a beacon out, should fogs increase;
So, when the Autumn floats of pine-wood steer
Safe ‘mid the white confusion, thanks to you,
Their grateful raftsman flings a guilder in;
— That’s if he mean to pass your way next time.
CLUGNET.
If not?
GUIBERT.
Hang guilders, then! He blesses you.
CLUGNET.
What man do you suppose me? Keep your paper!
And, let me say, it shows no handsome spirit
To dally with misfortune: keep your place!
GAUCELME.
Some one must tell her.
GUIBERT.
Some one may: you may!
GAUCELME.
Sir Guibert, ‘tis no trifle turns me sick
Of court-hypocrisy at years like mine,
But this goes near it. Where’s there news at all?
Who’ll have the face, for instance, to affirm
He never heard, e’en while we crowned the girl,
That Juliers’ tenure was by Salic law;
That one, confessed her father’s cousin’s child,
And, she away, indisputable heir,
Against our choice protesting and the Duke’s,
Claimed Juliers? — nor, as he preferred his claim,
That first this, then another potentate,
Inclined to its allowance? — I or you,
Or any one except the lady’s self?
Oh, it had been the direst cruelty
To break the business to her! Things might change:
At all events, we’d see next masque at end,
Next mummery over first: and so the edge
Was taken off sharp tidings as they came,
Till here’s the Prince upon us, and there’s she
— Wreathing her hair, a song between her lips,
With just the faintest notion possible
That some such claimant earns a livelihood
About the world, by feigning grievances —
Few pay the story of, but grudge its price,
And fewer listen to, a second time.
Your method proves a failure; now try mine!
And, since this must be carried . . .
GUIBERT. [snatching the paper from him.]
By your leave!
Your zeal transports you! ‘T will not serve the Prince
So much as you expect, this course you’d take.
If she leaves quietly her palace, — well;
But if she died upon its threshold, — no:
He’d have the trouble of removing her.
Come, gentles, we’re all — what the devil knows!
You, Gaucelme, won’t lose character, beside:
You broke your father’s heart superiorly
To gather his succession — never blush!
You’re from my province, and, be comforted,
They tell of it with wonder to this day.
You can afford to let your talent sleep.
We’ll take the very worst supposed, as true:
There, the old Duke knew, when he hid his child
Among the river-flowers at Ravestein,
With whom the right lay! Call the Prince our Duke!
There, she’s no Duchess, she’s no anything
More than a young maid with the bluest eyes:
And now, sirs, we’ll not break this young maid’s heart
Coolly as Gaucelme could and would! No haste!
His talent’s full-blown, ours but in the bud:
We’ll not advance to his perfection yet —
Will we, Sir Maufroy? See, I’ve ruined Maufroy
Forever as a courtier!
GAUCELME.
Here’s a coil!
And, count us, will you? Count its residue,
This boasted convoy, this day last year’s crowd!
A birthday, too, a gratulation day!
I’m dumb: bid that keep silence!
MAUFROY and others.
Eh, Sir Guibert?
He’s right: that does say something: that’s bare truth.
Ten — twelve, I make: a perilous dropping off!
GUIBERT.
Pooh — is it audience hour? The vestibule
Swarms too, I wager, with the common sort
That want our privilege of entry here.
GAUCELME.
Adolf! [Re-enter ADOLF.] Who’s outside?
GUIBERT.
Oh, your looks suffice!
Nobody waiting?
MAUFROY [looking through the door-folds].
Scarce our number!
GUIBERT.
‘Sdeath!
Nothing to beg for, to complain about?
It can’t be! Ill news spreads, but not so fast
As thus to frighten all the world!
GAUCELME.
The world
Lives out of doors, sir — not with you and me
By presence-chamber porches, state-room stairs,
Wherever warmth’s perpetual: outside’s free
To every wind from every compass-point,
And who may get nipped needs be weather-wise.
The Prince comes and the lady’s People go;
The snow-goose settles down, the swallows flee —
Why should they wait for winter-time? ‘T is instinct.
Don’t you feel somewhat chilly?
GUIBERT.
That’s their craft?
And last year’s crowders-round and criers-forth
That strewed the garlands, overarched the roads,
Lighted the bonfires, sang the loyal songs!
Well ‘t is my comfort, you could never call me
The People’s Friend! The People keep their word —
I keep my place: don’t doubt I’ll entertain
The People when the Prince comes, and the People
Are talked of! Then, — their speeches no one tongue
Found respite, not a pen had holiday
— For they wrote, too, as well as spoke, these knaves!
Now see: we tax and tithe them, pill and poll,