When I thought proper. Of the tribe, not one
( . . Or wait, did Pianezze? . . ah, just the same!)
Not one of them, ere his remonstrance reached
The length of yours, but has assured me (commonly,
Standing much as you stand, — or nearer, say,
The door to make his exit on his speech)
— I should repent of what I did: now, D’Ormea,
(Be candid — you approached it when I bade you
Prepare the schedules! But you stopped in time)
— You have not so assured me: how should I
Despise you, then?
[Enter Charles.]
Victor.
[changing his tone] Are you instructed? Do
My order, point by point! About it, sir!
D’Ormea.
You so despise me? [Aside.] One last stay remains —
The boy’s discretion there, [to Charles.] For your sake, Prince,
I pleaded — wholly in your interest —
To save you from this fate!
Charles.
[Aside.] Must I be told
The Prince was supplicated for — by him?
Victor.
[to D’Ormea.] Apprise Del Borgo, Spava, and the rest,
Our son attends them; then return.
D’Ormea.
One word.
Charles.
[Aside.] A moment’s pause and they would drive me hence, I do believe!
D’Ormea.
[Aside.] Let but the boy be firm!
Victor.
You disobey?
Charles.
[to D’Ormeo.] You do not disobey
Me, D’Ormea? Did you promise that or no?
D’Ormea.
Sir, I am yours — what would you? Yours am I!
Charles.
When I have said what I shall say, ‘tis like
Your face will ne’er again disgust me. Go!
Through you, as through a breast of glass, I see.
And for your conduct, from my youth till now,
Take my contempt! You might have spared me much,
Secured me somewhat, nor so harmed yourself —
That’s over now. Go — ne’er to come again!
D’Ormea.
As son, the father — father as, the son!
My wits! My wits! [Goes.]
Victor.
[Seated.] And you, what meant you, pray,
By speaking thus to D’Ormea?
Charles.
Let us not
Weary ourselves with D’Ormea! Those few words
Have half unsettled what I came to say.
His presence vexes to my very soul.
Victor.
One called to manage kingdoms, Charles, needs heart
To bear up under worse annoyances
Than D’Ormea seems — to me, at least.
Charles.
[Aside.] Ah, good!
He keeps me to the point! Then be it so.
[Aloud.] Last night, Sire, brought me certain papers — these —
To be reported on, — your way of late.
Is it last night’s result that you demand?
Victor.
For God’s sake, what has night brought forth? Pronounce
The . . what’s your word? — result!
Charles.
Sire, that had proved,
Quite worthy of your sneers, no doubt: — a few
Lame thoughts, regard for you alone could wring,
Lame as they are, from brains, like mine, believe!
As ‘tis, sire, I am spared both toil and sneer.
There are the papers.
Victor.
Well, sir? I suppose
You hardly burned them. Now for your result!
Charles.
I never should have done great things of course,
But . . oh, my father, had you loved me more . . .
Victor.
Loved you? [Aside.] Has D’Ormea played me false, I wonder?
[Aloud.] Why, Charles, a king’s love is diffused — yourself
May overlook, perchance, your part in it.
Our monarchy is absolutest now
In Europe, or my trouble’s thrown away:
I love, my mode, that subjects each and all
May have the power of loving, all and each,
Their mode: I doubt not, many have their sons
To trifle with, talk soft to, all day long —
I have that crown, this chair, and D’Ormea, Charles!
Charles.
‘Tis well I am a subject then, not you.
Victor.
[Aside.] D’Ormea has told him every thing. [Aloud.] Aha
I apprehend you: when all’s said, you take
Your private station to be prized beyond
My own, for instance?
Charles.
— Do and ever did
So take it: ‘tis the method you pursue
That grieves . . .
Victor.
These words! Let me express, my friend,
Your thought. You penetrate what I supposed
A secret. D’Ormea plies his trade betimes!
I purpose to resign my crown to you.
Charles.
To me?
Victor.
Now — in that chamber.
Victor.
You resign
The crown to me?
Victor.
And time enough, Charles, sure?
Confess with me, at four-and-sixty years
A crown’s a load. I covet quiet once
Before I die, and summoned you for that.
Charles.
‘Tis I will speak: you ever hated me,
I bore it, — have insulted me, borne too —
Now you insult yourself, and I remember
What I believed you, what you really are,
And cannot bear it. What! My life has passed
Under your eye, tormented as you know, —
Your whole sagacities, one after one,
At leisure brought to play on me — to prove me
A fool, I thought, and I submitted; now
You’d prove . . . what would you prove me?
Victor.
This to me?
I hardly know you!
Charles.
Know me? Oh, indeed
You do not! Wait till I complain next time
Of my simplicity! — for here’s a sage —
Knows the world well — is not to be deceived —
And his experience, and his Macchiavels,
His D’Ormeas, teach him — what? — that I, this while,
Have envied him his crown! He has not smiled,
I warrant, — has not eaten, drunk, nor slept,
For I was plotting with my Princess yonder!
Who knows what we might do, or might not do?
Go, now — be politic — astound the world! —
That sentry in the antechamber . . nay,
The varlet who disposed this precious trap [Pointing to the crown]
That was to take me — ask them if they think
Their own sons envy them their posts! — Know me!
Victor.
But you know me, it seems; so learn in brief
My pleasure. This assembly is convened . . .
Charles.
Tell me, that women put it in your head —
You were not sole contriver of the scheme,
My father!
Victor.
Now observe me, sir! I jest
Seldom — on these points, never. Here, I say,
The Knights assemble to see me concede,
And you accept, Sardinia’s crown.
Charles.
Farewell!
‘Twere vain to hope to change this — I can end it.
Not that I cease from being yours, when sunk
Into obscurity. I’ll die for you,
But not annoy you with my presence — Sire,
Farewell! Farewell!
[Enter D’Ormea.]
D’Ormea.
[Aside.] Ha, sure he’s changed again —
Means not to fall into the cunning trap —
Then, Victor, I shall yet escape you, Victor!
Victor.
[Suddenly placing the crown upon the head of Charles.]
D’Ormea, your King!
[To Charles.] My son, obey me. Charles,
Your father, clearer-sighted than yourself,
Decides it must be so. ‘Faith, this looks real!
My reasons after — reason upon reason
After — but now, obey me! Trust in me!
By this, you save Sardinia, you save me!
Why the boy swoons! [To D’Ormea.] Come this side!
D’Ormea.
[as Charles turns from him to Victor.] You persist?
Victor.
Yes — I conceive the gesture’s meaning. ‘Faith,
He almost seems to hate you — how is that?
Be reassured, my Charles! Is’t over now?
Then, Marquis, tell the new King what remains
To do! A moment’s work. Del Borgo reads
The Act of Abdication out, you sign it,
Then I sign; after that, come back to me.
D’Ormea.
Sire, for the last time, pause!
Victor.
Five minutes longer
I am your sovereign, Marquis. Hesitate —
And I’ll so turn those minutes to account
That . . . Ay, you recollect me! [Aside.] Could I bring
My foolish mind to undergo the reading
That Act of Abdication!
[As Charles motions D’ormea to precede him.]
Thanks, dear Charles!
[Charles and D’Ormea retire.]
Victor.
A novel feature in the boy, — indeed
Just what I feared he wanted most. Quite right,
This earnest tone — your truth, now, for effect!
It answers every purpose: with that look,
That voice, — I hear him: “I began no treaty,”
(He speaks to Spain,) “Nor ever dreamed of this
“You show me; this I from my soul regret;
“But if my father signed it, bid not me
“Dishonour him — who gave me all, beside.”
And, “truth,” says Spain, “‘twere harsh to visit that
“Upon the Prince.” Then come the nobles trooping:
“I grieve at these exactions — I had cut
“This hand off ere impose them; but shall I
“Undo my father’s deed?” — And they confer:
“Doubtless he was no party, after all;
“Give the Prince time!” —
Ay, give us time — but time!
Only, he must not, when the dark day comes,
Refer our friends to me and frustrate all.
We’ll have no child’s play, no desponding-fits,
No Charles at each cross turn entreating Victor
To take his crown again. Guard against that!
[Enter D’Ormea.]
Long live King Charles! —
No — Charles’s counsellor!
Well, is it over, Marquis? Did I jest?
D’Ormea.
“King Charles!” What then may you be?
Victor.
Any thing!
A country gentleman that’s cured of bustle,
And beats a quick retreat toward Chambery
To hunt and hawk, and leave you noisy folk
To drive your trade without him. I’m Count Remont —
Count Tende — any little place’s Count!
D’Ormea.
Then, Victor, Captain against Catinat,
At Staffarde, where the French beat you; and Duke
At Turin, where you beat the French; King, late,
Of Savoy, Piedmont, Montferrat, Sardinia,
— Now, “any little place’s Count” —
Victor.
Proceed!
D’Ormea.
Breaker of vows to God, who crowned you first;
Breaker of vows to Man, who kept you since;
Most profligate to me, who outraged God
And Man to serve you, and am made pay crimes
I was but privy to, by passing thus
To your imbecile son — who, well you know,
Must, (when the people here, and nations there,
Clamour for you, the main delinquent, slipt
From King to — Count of any little place)
— Surrender me, all left within his reach, —
I, sir, forgive you: for I see the end —
See you on your return (you will return)
To him you trust in for the moment. . .
Victor.
How?
Trust in him? (merely a prime-minister
This D’Ormea!) How trust in him?
D’Ormea.
In his fear —
His love, — but pray discover for yourself
What you are weakest, trusting in!
Victor.
Aha,
My D’Ormea, not a shrewder scheme than this
In your repertory? You know old Victor —
Vain, choleric, inconstant, rash — (I’ve heard
Talkers who little thought the King so close)
Felicitous, now, were’t not, to provoke him
To clean forget, one minute afterward,
His solemn act — to call the nobles back
And pray them give again the very power
He has abjured! — for the dear sake of — what?
Vengeance on you! No, D’Ormea: such am I,
Count Tende or Count any thing you please,
— Only, the same that did the things you say,
And, among other things you say not, used
Your finest fibre, meanest muscle, — you
I used, and now, since you will have it so,
Leave to your fate — mere lumber in the midst,
You and your works — Why, what on earth beside
Are you made for, you sort of ministers?
D’Ormea.
Not left, though, to my fate! Your witless son
Has more wit than to load himself with lumber:
He foils you that way, and I follow you.
Victor.
Stay with my son — protect the weaker side!
D’Ormea.
Ay, be tossed to the people like a rag,
And flung by them to Spain and Austria — so
Abolishing the record of your part
In all this perfidy!
Victor.
Prevent, beside,
My own return!
D’Ormea.
That’s half prevented now!
‘Twill go hard but you’ll find a wondrous charm
In exile to discredit me. The Alps —
Silk-mills to watch — vines asking vigilance —
Hounds open for the stag — your hawk’s a-wing —
Brave days that wait the Louis of the South,
Italy’s Janus!
Victor.
So, the lawyer’s clerk
Won’t tell me that I shall repent!
D’Ormea.
You give me
Full leave to ask if you repent?
Victor.
Whene’er,
Sufficient time’s elapsed for that, you judge!
[Shouts inside: “King Charles.”]
D’Ormea.
Do you repent?
Victor.
[After a slight pause.]
. . . I’ve kept them waiting? Yes!
Come in — complete the Abdication, sir!
[They go out. Enter Polyxena.]
Polyxena.
A shout? The sycophants are free of Charles!
Oh, is not thi
s like Italy? No fruit
Of his or my distempered fancy, this —
But just an ordinary fact! Beside,
Here they’ve set forms for such proceedings — Victor
Imprisoned his own mother — he should know,
If any, how a son’s to be deprived
Of a son’s right. Our duty’s palpable.
Ne’er was my husband for the wily king
And the unworthy subjects — be it so!
Come you safe out of them, my Charles! Our life
Grows not the broad and dazzling life, I dreamed
Might prove your lot — for strength was shut in you
None guessed but I — strength which, untrammelled once,
Had little shamed your vaunted ancestry —
Patience and self-devotion, fortitude,
Simplicity and utter truthfulness
— All which, they shout to lose!
So, now my work
Begins — to save him from regret. Save Charles
Regret? — the noble nature! He’s not made
Like the Italians: ‘tis a German soul.
[Charles enters crowned.]
Oh, where’s the King’s heir? Gone: — the Crown-prince? Gone —
Where’s Savoy? Gone: — Sardinia? Gone’! — But Charles
Is left! And when my Rhine-land bowers arrive,
If he looked almost handsome yester-twilight
As his gray eyes seemed widening into black
Because I praised him, then how will he look?
Farewell, you stripped and whited mulberry-trees
Bound each to each by lazy ropes of vine!
Now I’ll teach you my language — I’m not forced
To speak Italian now, Charles?
[She sees the crown.] What is this?
Answer me — who has done this? Answer!
Charles.
He!
I am King now.
Polyxena.
Oh worst, worst, worst of all!
Tell me — what, Victor? He has made you King?
What’s he then? What’s to follow this? You, King?
Charles.
Have I done wrong? Yes — for you were not by!
Polyxena.
Tell me from first to last.
Charles.
Hush — a new world
Brightens before me; he is moved away
— The dark form that eclipsed it, he subsides
Into a shape supporting me like you,
And I, alone, tend upward, more and more
Tend upward: I am grown Sardinia’s King.
Polyxena.
Now stop: was not this Victor, Duke of Savoy
At ten years old?
Charles.
He was.
Polyxena.
And the Duke spent
Since then, just four-and-fifty years in toil
To be — what?
Charles.
King.
Polyxena.
Then why unking himself?
Charles.
Those years are cause enough.
Polyxena.
The only cause?
Charles.
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 265