My falcon!
LADY GIOVANNA.
Yes, your falcon, Federigo!
COUNT.
Alas, I cannot!
LADY GIOVANNA.
Cannot? Even so!
I fear’d as much. O this unhappy world!
How shall I break it to him? how shall I tell him?
The boy may die: more blessed were the rags
Of some pale beggar-woman seeking alms
For her sick son, if he were like to live,
Than all my childless wealth, if mine must die.
I was to blame — the love you said you bore me —
My lord, we thank you for your entertainment,
[With a stately curtsey.
And so return — Heaven help him! — to our son.
[Turns —
COUNT (rushes forward).
Stay, stay, I am most unlucky, most unhappy.
You never had look’d in on me before,
And when you came and dipt your sovereign head
Thro’ these low doors, you ask’d to eat with me.
I had but emptiness to set before you,
No not a draught of milk, no not an egg,
Nothing but my brave bird, my noble falcon,
My comrade of the house, and of the field.
She had to die for it — she died for you.
Perhaps I thought with those of old, the nobler
The victim was, the more acceptable
Might be the sacrifice. I fear you scarce
Will thank me for your entertainment now.
LADY GIOVANNA (returning).
I bear with him no longer.
COUNT.
No, Madonna!
And he will have to bear with it as he may.
LADY GIOVANNA.
I break with him for ever!
COUNT.
Yes, Giovanna,
But he will keep his love to you for ever!
LADY GIOVANNA.
You? you? not you! My brother! my hard brother!
O Federigo, Federigo, I love you!
Spite of ten thousand brothers, Federigo.
[Falls at his feet.
COUNT (impetuously).
Why then the dying of my noble bird
Hath served me better than her living — then
[Takes diamonds from table.
These diamonds are both yours and mine — have won
Their value again — beyond all markets — there
I lay them for the first time round your neck.
[Lays necklace round her neck.
And then this chaplet — No more feuds, but peace,
Peace and conciliation! I will make
Your brother love me. See, I tear away
The leaves were darken’d by the battle —
[Pulls leaves off and throws them down.
— crown you
Again with the same crown my Queen of Beauty.
[Places wreath on her head.
Rise — I could almost think that the dead garland
Will break once more into the living blossom.
Nay, nay, I pray you rise.
[Raises her with both hands.
We two together
Will help to heal your son — your son and mine —
We shall do it — we shall do it.
[Embraces her.
The purpose of my being is accomplish’d,
And I am happy!
LADY GIOVANNA.
And I too, Federigo.
THE PROMISE OF MAY
CONTENTS
Dramatis Personæ
Act I
Act II
Act III
Dramatis Personæ
FARMER DOBSON.
Mr. PHILIP EDGAR (afterwards Mr. HAROLD).
FARMER STEER (DORA and EVA’S Father).
Mr. WILSON (a Schoolmaster).
HIGGINS Farm Labourer
JAMES Farm Labourer
DAN SMITH Farm Labourer.
JACKSON Farm Labourer
ALLEN Farm Labourer
DORA STEER.
EVA STEER.
SALLY ALLEN Farm Servant.
MILLY Farm Servant.
Farm Servants, Labourers, etc.
Act I
SCENE. — Before Farmhouse.
Farming Men and Women. Farming Men carrying forms, &c., Women carrying baskets of knives and forks, &c.
1ST FARMING MAN.
Be thou a-gawin’ to the long barn?
2ND FARMING MAN.
Ay, to be sewer! Be thou?
1ST FARMING MAN.
Why, o’ coorse, fur it be the owd man’s birthdaäy. He be heighty this very daäy, and ‘e telled all on us to be i’ the long barn by one o’clock, fur he’ll gie us a big dinner, and haäfe th’ parish’ll be theer, an’ Miss Dora, an’ Miss Eva, an’ all!
2ND FARMING MAN.
Miss Dora be coomed back, then?
1ST FARMING MAN.
Ay, haäfe an hour ago. She be in theer, now. (Pointing to house.) Owd Steer wur afeärd she wouldn’t be back i’ time to keep his birthdaäy, and he wur in a tew about it all the murnin’; and he sent me wi’ the gig to Littlechester to fetch ‘er; and ‘er an’ the owd man they fell a kissin’ o’ one another like two sweet-’arts i’ the poorch as soon as he clapt eyes of ‘er.
2ND FARMING MAN.
Foälks says he likes Miss Eva the best.
1ST FARMING MAN.
Naäy, I knaws nowt o’ what foälks says, an’ I caäres nowt neither. Foälks doesn’t hallus knaw thessens; but sewer I be, they be two o’ the purtiest gels ye can see of a summer murnin’.
2ND FARMING MAN.
Beänt Miss Eva gone off a bit of ‘er good looks o’ laäte?
1ST FARMING MAN.
Noä, not a bit.
2ND FARMING MAN.
Why cooem awaäy, then, to the long barn.
[Exeunt.
DORA looks out of window. Enter DOBSON.
DORA (singing).
The town lay still in the low sun-light,
The hen cluckt late by the white farm gate,
The maid to her dairy came in from the cow,
The stock-dove coo’d at the fall of night,
The blossom had open’d on every bough;
O joy for the promise of May, of May,
O joy for the promise of May.
(Nodding at DOBSON.) I’m coming down, Mr. Dobson. I haven’t seen Eva yet. Is she anywhere in the garden?
DOBSON.
Noä, Miss. I ha’n’t seed ‘er neither.
DORA (enters singing).
But a red fire woke in the heart of the town,
And a fox from the glen ran away with the hen,
And a cat to the cream, and a rat to the cheese;
And the stock-dove coo’d, till a kite dropt down,
And a salt wind burnt the blossoming trees;
O grief for the promise of May, of May,
O grief for the promise of May.
I don’t know why I sing that song; I don’t love it.
DOBSON.
Blessings on your pretty voice, Miss Dora. Wheer did they larn ye that?
DORA.
In Cumberland, Mr. Dobson.
DOBSON.
An’ how did ye leäve the owd uncle i’ Coomberland?
DORA.
Getting better, Mr. Dobson. But he’ll never be the same man again.
DOBSON.
An’ how d’ye find the owd man ‘ere?
DORA.
As well as ever. I came back to keep his birthday.
DOBSON.
Well, I be coomed to keep his birthdaäy an’ all. The owd man be heighty to-daäy, beänt he?
DORA.
Yes, Mr. Dobson. And the day’s bright like a friend, but the wind east like an enemy. Help me to move this bench for him into the sun. (They move bench.) No, not that way — here, under the apple tree. Thank you. Look how full of rosy blossom it is.
[Poin
ting to apple tree.
DOBSON.
Theer be redder blossoms nor them, Miss Dora.
DORA.
Where do they blow, Mr. Dobson?
DOBSON.
Under your eyes, Miss Dora.
DORA.
Do they?
DOBSON.
And your eyes be as blue as ——
DORA.
What, Mr. Dobson? A butcher’s frock?
DOBSON.
Noä, Miss Dora; as blue as ——
DORA.
Bluebell, harebell, speedwell, bluebottle, succory, forget-me-not?
DOBSON.
Noä, Miss Dora; as blue as ——
DORA.
The sky? or the sea on a blue day?
DOBSON.
Naäy then. I meän’d they be as blue as violets.
DORA.
Are they?
DOBSON.
Theer ye goäs ageän, Miss, niver believing owt I says to ye — hallus a-fobbing ma off, tho’ ye knaws I love ye. I warrants ye’ll think moor o’ this young Squire Edgar as ha’ coomed among us — the Lord knaws how — ye’ll think more on ‘is little finger than hall my hand at the haltar.
DORA.
Perhaps, Master Dobson. I can’t tell, for I have never seen him. But my sister wrote that he was mighty pleasant, and had no pride in him.
DOBSON.
He’ll be arter you now, Miss Dora.
DORA.
Will he? How can I tell?
DOBSON.
He’s been arter Miss Eva, haän’t he?
DORA.
Not that I know.
DOBSON.
Didn’t I spy ‘em a-sitting i’ the woodbine harbour togither?
DORA.
What of that? Eva told me that he was taking her likeness. He’s an artist.
DOBSON.
What’s a hartist? I doänt believe he’s iver a ‘eart under his waistcoat. And I tells ye what, Miss Dora: he’s no respect for the Queen, or the parson, or the justice o’ peace, or owt. I ha’ heärd ‘im a-gawin’ on ‘ud make your ‘air — God bless it! — stan’ on end. And wuss nor that. When theer wur a meeting o’ farmers at Littlechester t’other daäy, and they was all a-crying out at the bad times, he cooms up, and he calls out among our oän men, ‘The land belongs to the people!’
DORA.
And what did you say to that?
DOBSON.
Well, I says, s’pose my pig’s the land, and you says it belongs to the parish, and theer be a thousand i’ the parish, taäkin’ in the women and childer; and s’pose I kills my pig, and gi’es it among ‘em, why there wudn’t be a dinner for nawbody, and I should ha’ lost the pig.
DORA.
And what did he say to that?
DOBSON.
Nowt — what could he saäy? But I taäkes ‘im fur a bad lot and a burn fool, and I haätes the very sight on him.
DORA. (Looking at DOBSON.)
Master Dobson, you are a comely man to look at.
DOBSON.
I thank you for that, Miss Dora, onyhow.
DORA.
Ay, but you turn right ugly when you’re in an ill temper; and I promise you that if you forget yourself in your behaviour to this gentleman, my father’s friend, I will never change word with you again.
Enter FARMING MAN from barn.
FARMING MAN.
Miss, the farming men ‘ull hev their dinner i’ the long barn, and the master ‘ud be straänge an’ pleased if you’d step in fust, and see that all be right and reg’lar fur ‘em afoor he coöm.
[Exit.
DORA.
I go. Master Dobson, did you hear what I said?
DOBSON.
Yeas, yeas! I’ll not meddle wi’ ‘im if he doänt meddle wi’ meä. (Exit Dora.) Coomly, says she. I niver thowt o’ mysen i’ that waäy; but if she’d taäke to ma i’ that waäy, or ony waäy, I’d slaäve out my life fur ‘er. ‘Coomly to look at,’ says she — but she said it spiteful-like. To look at — yeas, ‘coomly’; and she mayn’t be so fur out theer. But if that be nowt to she, then it be nowt to me. (Looking off stage.) Schoolmaster! Why if Steer han’t haxed schoolmaster to dinner, thaw ‘e knaws I was hallus ageän heving schoolmaster i’ the parish! fur him as be handy wi’ a book bean’t but haäfe a hand at a pitchfork.
Enter WILSON.
Well, Wilson. I seed that one cow o’ thine i’ the pinfold ageän as I wur a-coomin’ ‘ere.
WILSON.
Very likely, Mr. Dobson. She will break fence. I can’t keep her in order.
DOBSON.
An’ if tha can’t keep thy one cow i’ horder, how can tha keep all thy scholards i’ horder? But let that goä by. What dost a knaw o’ this Mr. Hedgar as be a-lodgin’ wi’ ye? I coom’d upon ‘im t’other daäy lookin’ at the coontry, then a-scrattin upon a bit o’ paäper, then a-lookin’ ageän; and I taäked ‘im fur soom sort of a land-surveyor — but a beänt.
WILSON.
He’s a Somersetshire man, and a very civil-spoken gentleman.
DOBSON.
Gentleman! What be he a-doing here ten mile an’ moor fro’ a raäil? We laäys out o’ the waäy fur gentlefoälk altogither — leastwaäys they niver cooms ‘ere but fur the trout i’ our beck, fur they be knaw’d as far as Littlechester. But ‘e doänt fish neither.
WILSON.
Well, it’s no sin in a gentleman not to fish.
DOBSON.
Noa, but I haätes ‘im.
WILSON.
Better step out of his road, then, for he’s walking to us, and with a book in his hand.
DOBSON.
An’ I haätes booöks an’ all, fur they puts foälk off the owd waäys.
Enter EDGAR, reading — not seeing DOBSON and WILSON.
EDGAR.
This author, with his charm of simple style
And close dialectic, all but proving man
An automatic series of sensations,
Has often numb’d me into apathy
Against the unpleasant jolts of this rough road
That breaks off short into the abysses — made me
A Quietist taking all things easily.
DOBSON. (Aside.)
There mun be summut wrong theer, Wilson, fur I doänt understan’ it.
WILSON. (Aside.)
Nor I either, Mr. Dobson.
DOBSON. (Scornfully.)
An’ thou doänt understan’ it neither — and thou schoolmaster an’ all.
EDGAR.
What can a man, then, live for but sensations,
Pleasant ones? men of old would undergo
Unpleasant for the sake of pleasant ones
Hereafter, like the Moslem beauties waiting
To clasp their lovers by the golden gates.
For me, whose cheerless Houris after death
Are Night and Silence, pleasant ones — the while —
If possible, here! to crop the flower and pass.
DOBSON.
Well, I never ‘eard the likes o’ that afoor.
WILSON. (Aside.)
But I have, Mr. Dobson. It’s the old Scripture text, ‘Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.’ I’m sorry for it, for, tho’ he never comes to church, I thought better of him.
EDGAR.
‘What are we,’ says the blind old man in Lear?
‘As flies to the Gods; they kill us for their sport.’
DOBSON. (Aside.)
Then the owd man i’ Lear should be shaämed of hissen, but noän o’ the parishes goä’s by that naäme ‘ereabouts.
EDGAR.
The Gods! but they, the shadows of ourselves,
Have past for ever. It is Nature kills,
And not for her sport either. She knows nothing.
Man only knows, the worse for him! for why
Cannot he take his pastime like the flies?
And if my pleasure breed another’s pain,
Well — is not that the course of Nature too,
&
nbsp; From the dim dawn of Being — her main law
Whereby she grows in beauty — that her flies
Must massacre each other? this poor Nature!
DOBSON.
Natur! Natur! Well, it be i’ my natur to knock ‘im o’ the ‘eäd now; but I weänt.
EDGAR.
A Quietist taking all things easily — why —
Have I been dipping into this again
To steel myself against the leaving her?
(Closes book, seeing WILSON.)
Good day!
WILSON.
Good day, sir.
(DOBSON looks hard at EDGAR.)
EDGAR. (To DOBSON.)
Have I the pleasure, friend, of knowing you?
DOBSON.
Dobson.
EDGAR.
Good day, then, Dobson.
[Exit.
DOBSON.
‘Good daäy then, Dobson!’ Civil-spoken i’deed! Why, Wilson, tha ‘eärd ‘im thysen — the feller couldn’t find a Mister in his mouth fur me, as farms five hoonderd haäcre.
WILSON.
You never find one for me, Mr. Dobson.
DOBSON.
Noä, fur thou be nobbut schoolmaster; but I taäkes ‘im fur a Lunnun swindler, and a burn fool.
WILSON.
He can hardly be both, and he pays me regular every Saturday.
DOBSON.
Yeas; but I haätes ‘im.
Enter STEER, FARM MEN and WOMEN.
STEER. (Goes and sits under apple tree.)
Hev’ ony o’ ye seen Eva?
DOBSON.
Noä, Mr. Steer.
STEER.
Well, I reckons they’ll hev’ a fine cider-crop to-year if the blossom ‘owds. Good murnin’, neighbours, and the saäme to you, my men. I taäkes it kindly of all o’ you that you be coomed — what’s the newspaäper word, Wilson? — celebrate — to celebrate my birthdaäy i’ this fashion. Niver man ‘ed better friends, and I will saäy niver master ‘ed better men: fur thaw I may ha’ fallen out wi’ ye sometimes, the fault, mebbe, wur as much mine as yours; and, thaw I says it mysen, niver men ‘ed a better master — and I knaws what men be, and what masters be, fur I wur nobbut a laäbourer, and now I be a landlord — burn a plowman, and now, as far as money goäs, I be a gentleman, thaw I beänt naw scholard, fur I ‘ednt naw time to maäke mysen a scholard while I wur maäkin’ mysen a gentleman, but I ha taäen good care to turn out boäth my darters right down fine laädies.
DOBSON.
An’ soä they be.
1ST FARMING MAN.
Soä they be! soä they be!
2ND FARMING MAN.
The Lord bless boäth on ‘em!
3RD FARMING MAN.
An’ the saäme to you, Master.
4TH FARMING MAN.
And long life to boäth on ‘em. An’ the saäme to you, Master Steer, likewise.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series Page 172