Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

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Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 276

by Robert Browning


  TRESHAM.

  I welcome you, Lord Mertoun, yet once more,

  To this ancestral roof of mine. Your name

  — Noble among the noblest in itself,

  Yet taking in your person, fame avers,

  New price and lustre, — (as that gem you wear,

  Transmitted from a hundred knightly breasts,

  Fresh chased and set and fixed by its last lord,

  Seems to re-kindle at the core) — your name

  Would win you welcome! —

  MERTOUN.

  Thanks!

  TRESHAM.

  — But add to that,

  The worthiness and grace and dignity

  Of your proposal for uniting both

  Our Houses even closer than respect

  Unites them now — add these, and you must grant

  One favour more, nor that the least, — to think

  The welcome I should give; — ’tis given! My lord,

  My only brother, Austin: he’s the king’s.

  Our cousin, Lady Guendolen — betrothed

  To Austin: all are yours.

  MERTOUN.

  I thank you — less

  For the expressed commendings which your seal,

  And only that, authenticates — forbids

  My putting from me . . . to my heart I take

  Your praise . . . but praise less claims my gratitude,

  Than the indulgent insight it implies

  Of what must needs be uppermost with one

  Who comes, like me, with the bare leave to ask,

  In weighed and measured unimpassioned words,

  A gift, which, if as calmly ‘tis denied,

  He must withdraw, content upon his cheek,

  Despair within his soul. That I dare ask

  Firmly, near boldly, near with confidence

  That gift, I have to thank you. Yes, Lord Tresham,

  I love your sister — as you’d have one love

  That lady . . . oh more, more I love her! Wealth,

  Rank, all the world thinks me, they’re yours, you know,

  To hold or part with, at your choice — but grant

  My true self, me without a rood of land,

  A piece of gold, a name of yesterday,

  Grant me that lady, and you . . . Death or life?

  GUENDOLEN. [apart to AUSTIN].

  Why, this is loving, Austin!

  AUSTIN.

  He’s so young!

  GUENDOLEN.

  Young? Old enough, I think, to half surmise

  He never had obtained an entrance here,

  Were all this fear and trembling needed.

  AUSTIN.

  Hush!

  He reddens.

  GUENDOLEN.

  Mark him, Austin; that’s true love!

  Ours must begin again.

  TRESHAM.

  We’ll sit, my lord.

  Ever with best desert goes diffidence.

  I may speak plainly nor be misconceived

  That I am wholly satisfied with you

  On this occasion, when a falcon’s eye

  Were dull compared with mine to search out faults,

  Is somewhat. Mildred’s hand is hers to give

  Or to refuse.

  MERTOUN.

  But you, you grant my suit?

  I have your word if hers?

  TRESHAM.

  My best of words

  If hers encourage you. I trust it will.

  Have you seen Lady Mildred, by the way?

  MERTOUN.

  I . . . I . . . our two demesnes, remember, touch,

  I have been used to wander carelessly

  After my stricken game: the heron roused

  Deep in my woods, has trailed its broken wing

  Thro’ thicks and glades a mile in yours, — or else

  Some eyass ill-reclaimed has taken flight

  And lured me after her from tree to tree,

  I marked not whither. I have come upon

  The lady’s wondrous beauty unaware,

  And — and then . . . I have seen her.

  GUENDOLEN [aside to AUSTIN].

  Note that mode

  Of faltering out that, when a lady passed,

  He, having eyes, did see her! You had said —

  “On such a day I scanned her, head to foot;

  Observed a red, where red should not have been,

  Outside her elbow; but was pleased enough

  Upon the whole.” Let such irreverent talk

  Be lessoned for the future!

  TRESHAM.

  What’s to say

  May be said briefly. She has never known

  A mother’s care; I stand for father too.

  Her beauty is not strange to you, it seems —

  You cannot know the good and tender heart,

  Its girl’s trust and its woman’s constancy,

  How pure yet passionate, how calm yet kind,

  How grave yet joyous, how reserved yet free

  As light where friends are — how imbued with lore

  The world most prizes, yet the simplest, yet

  The . . . one might know I talked of Mildred — thus

  We brothers talk!

  MERTOUN.

  I thank you.

  TRESHAM.

  In a word,

  Control’s not for this lady; but her wish

  To please me outstrips in its subtlety

  My power of being pleased: herself creates

  The want she means to satisfy. My heart

  Prefers your suit to her as ‘twere its own.

  Can I say more?

  MERTOUN.

  No more — thanks, thanks — no more!

  TRESHAM.

  This matter then discussed . . .

  MERTOUN.

  — We’ll waste no breath

  On aught less precious. I’m beneath the roof

  Which holds her: while I thought of that, my speech

  To you would wander — as it must not do,

  Since as you favour me I stand or fall.

  I pray you suffer that I take my leave!

  TRESHAM.

  With less regret ‘tis suffered, that again

  We meet, I hope, so shortly.

  MERTOUN.

  We? again? —

  Ah yes, forgive me — when shall . . . you will crown

  Your goodness by forthwith apprising me

  When . . . if . . . the lady will appoint a day

  For me to wait on you — and her.

  TRESHAM.

  So soon

  As I am made acquainted with her thoughts

  On your proposal — howsoe’er they lean —

  A messenger shall bring you the result.

  MERTOUN.

  You cannot bind me more to you, my lord.

  Farewell till we renew . . . I trust, renew

  A converse ne’er to disunite again.

  TRESHAM.

  So may it prove!

  MERTOUN.

  You, lady, you, sir, take

  My humble salutation!

  GUENDOLEN and AUSTIN.

  Thanks!

  TRESHAM.

  Within there!

  [Servants enter. Tresham conducts Mertoun to the door.

  Meantime AUSTIN remarks,]

  Well,

  Here I have an advantage of the Earl,

  Confess now! I’d not think that all was safe

  Because my lady’s brother stood my friend!

  Why, he makes sure of her — ”do you say yes —

  She’ll not say, no,” — what comes it to beside?

  I should have prayed the brother, “speak this speech,

  For Heaven’s sake urge this on her — put in this —

  Forget not, as you’d save me, t’other thing, —

  Then set down what she says, and how she looks,

  And if she smiles, and” (in an under breath)

  “Only let her accept me, and do you
>
  And all the world refuse me, if you dare!”

  GUENDOLEN.

  That way you’d take, friend Austin? What a shame

  I was your cousin, tamely from the first

  Your bride, and all this fervour’s run to waste!

  Do you know you speak sensibly to-day?

  The Earl’s a fool.

  AUSTIN.

  Here’s Thorold. Tell him so!

  TRESHAM [returning].

  Now, voices, voices! ‘St! the lady’s first!

  How seems he? — seems he not . . . come, faith give fraud

  The mercy-stroke whenever they engage!

  Down with fraud, up with faith! How seems the Earl?

  A name! a blazon! if you knew their worth,

  As you will never! come — the Earl?

  GUENDOLEN.

  He’s young.

  TRESHAM.

  What’s she? an infant save in heart and brain.

  Young! Mildred is fourteen, remark! And you . . .

  Austin, how old is she?

  GUENDOLEN.

  There’s tact for you!

  I meant that being young was good excuse

  If one should tax him . . .

  TRESHAM.

  Well?

  GUENDOLEN.

  — With lacking wit.

  TRESHAM.

  He lacked wit? Where might he lack wit, so please you?

  GUENDOLEN.

  In standing straighter than the steward’s rod

  And making you the tiresomest harangue,

  Instead of slipping over to my side

  And softly whispering in my ear, “Sweet lady,

  Your cousin there will do me detriment

  He little dreams of: he’s absorbed, I see,

  In my old name and fame — be sure he’ll leave

  My Mildred, when his best account of me

  Is ended, in full confidence I wear

  My grandsire’s periwig down either cheek.

  I’m lost unless your gentleness vouchsafes” . . .

  TRESHAM.

  . . . . ”To give a best of best accounts, yourself,

  Of me and my demerits.” You are right!

  He should have said what now I say for him.

  Yon golden creature, will you help us all?

  Here’s Austin means to vouch for much, but you

  — You are . . . what Austin only knows! Come up,

  All three of us: she’s in the library

  No doubt, for the day’s wearing fast. Precede!

  GUENDOLEN.

  Austin, how we must — !

  TRESHAM.

  Must what? Must speak truth,

  Malignant tongue! Detect one fault in him!

  I challenge you!

  GUENDOLEN.

  Witchcraft’s a fault in him,

  For you’re bewitched.

  TRESHAM.

  What’s urgent we obtain

  Is, that she soon receive him — say, to-morrow — ,

  Next day at furthest.

  GUENDOLEN.

  Ne’er instruct me!

  TRESHAM.

  Come!

  — He’s out of your good graces, since forsooth,

  He stood not as he’d carry us by storm

  With his perfections! You’re for the composed

  Manly assured becoming confidence!

  — Get her to say, “to-morrow,” and I’ll give you . . .

  I’ll give you black Urganda, to be spoiled

  With petting and snail-paces. Will you? Come!

  Scene III

  MILDRED’S Chamber. A Painted Window overlooks the Park

  MILDRED and GUENDOLEN

  GUENDOLEN.

  Now, Mildred, spare those pains. I have not left

  Our talkers in the library, and climbed

  The wearisome ascent to this your bower

  In company with you, — I have not dared . . .

  Nay, worked such prodigies as sparing you

  Lord Mertoun’s pedigree before the flood,

  Which Thorold seemed in very act to tell

  — Or bringing Austin to pluck up that most

  Firm-rooted heresy — your suitor’s eyes,

  He would maintain, were grey instead of blue —

  I think I brought him to contrition! — Well,

  I have not done such things, (all to deserve

  A minute’s quiet cousin’s talk with you,)

  To be dismissed so coolly.

  MILDRED.

  Guendolen!

  What have I done? what could suggest . . .

  GUENDOLEN.

  There, there!

  Do I not comprehend you’d be alone

  To throw those testimonies in a heap,

  Thorold’s enlargings, Austin’s brevities,

  With that poor silly heartless Guendolen’s

  Ill-time misplaced attempted smartnesses —

  And sift their sense out? now, I come to spare you

  Nearly a whole night’s labour. Ask and have!

  Demand, be answered! Lack I ears and eyes?

  Am I perplexed which side of the rock-table

  The Conqueror dined on when he landed first,

  Lord Mertoun’s ancestor was bidden take —

  The bow-hand or the arrow-hand’s great meed?

  Mildred, the Earl has soft blue eyes!

  MILDRED.

  My brother —

  Did he . . . you said that he received him well?

  GUENDOLEN.

  If I said only “well” I said not much.

  Oh, stay — which brother?

  MILDRED.

  Thorold! who — Who else?

  GUENDOLEN.

  Thorold (a secret) is too proud by half, —

  Nay, hear me out — with us he’s even gentler

  Than we are with our birds. Of this great House

  The least retainer that e’er caught his glance

  Would die for him, real dying — no mere talk:

  And in the world, the court, if men would cite

  The perfect spirit of honour, Thorold’s name

  Rises of its clear nature to their lips.

  But he should take men’s homage, trust in it,

  And care no more about what drew it down.

  He has desert, and that, acknowledgment;

  Is he content?

  MILDRED.

  You wrong him, Guendolen.

  GUENDOLEN.

  He’s proud, confess; so proud with brooding o’er

  The light of his interminable line,

  An ancestry with men all paladins,

  And women all . . .

  MILDRED.

  Dear Guendolen, ‘tis late!

  When yonder purple pane the climbing moon

  Pierces, I know ‘tis midnight.

  GUENDOLEN.

  Well, that Thorold

  Should rise up from such musings, and receive

  One come audaciously to graft himself

  Into this peerless stock, yet find no flaw,

  No slightest spot in such an one . . .

  MILDRED.

  Who finds

  A spot in Mertoun?

  GUENDOLEN.

  Not your brother; therefore,

  Not the whole world.

  MILDRED.

  I am weary, Guendolen.

  Bear with me!

  GUENDOLEN.

  I am foolish.

  MILDRED.

  Oh no, kind!

  But I would rest.

  GUENDOLEN.

  Good night and rest to you!

  I said how gracefully his mantle lay

  Beneath the rings of his light hair?

  MILDRED.

  Brown hair.

  GUENDOLEN.

  Brown? why, it is brown: how could you know that?

  MILDRED.

  How? did not you — Oh, Austin ‘twas, declared

  His hair was light, not brown — my head! — and look,

&nbs
p; The moon-beam purpling the dark chamber! Sweet,

  Good night!

  GUENDOLEN.

  Forgive me — sleep the soundlier for me!

  [Going, she turns suddenly.]

  Mildred!

  Perdition! all’s discovered! Thorold finds

  — That the Earl’s greatest of all grandmothers

  Was grander daughter still — to that fair dame

  Whose garter slipped down at the famous dance!

  [Goes.

  MILDRED.

  Is she — can she be really gone at last?

  My heart! I shall not reach the window. Needs

  Must I have sinned much, so to suffer.

  [She lifts the small lamp which is suspended before the Virgin’s image in the window, and places it by the purple pane.]

  There!

  [She returns to the seat in front.]

  Mildred and Mertoun! Mildred, with consent

  Of all the world and Thorold, Mertoun’s bride!

  Too late! ‘Tis sweet to think of, sweeter still

  To hope for, that this blessed end soothes up

  The curse of the beginning; but I know

  It comes too late: ‘twill sweetest be of all

  To dream my soul away and die upon.

  [A noise without.]

  The voice! Oh why, why glided sin the snake

  Into the paradise Heaven meant us both?

  [The window opens softly. A low voice sings.]

  There’s a woman like a dew-drop, she’s so purer than the purest;

  And her noble heart’s the noblest, yes, and her sure faith’s the surest:

  And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre

  Hid i’ the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster,

  Gush in golden tinted plenty down her neck’s rose-misted marble:

  Then her voice’s music . . . call it the well’s bubbling, the bird’s warble!

  [A figure wrapped in a mantle appears at the window.]

  And this woman says, “My days were sunless and my nights were moonless,

  Parched the pleasant April herbage, and the lark’s heart’s outbreak tuneless,

  If you loved me not!” And I who — (ah, for words of flame!) adore her,

  Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her —

  [He enters, approaches her seat, and bends over her.]

  I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me,

  And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me!

  [The EARL throws off his slouched hat and long cloak.]

  My very heart sings, so I sing, Beloved!

  MILDRED.

  Sit, Henry — do not take my hand!

  MERTOUN.

  ’Tis mine.

  The meeting that appalled us both so much

  Is ended.

  MILDRED.

  What begins now?

  MERTOUN.

  Happiness

  Such as the world contains not.

  MILDRED.

  That is it.

  Our happiness would, as you say, exceed

  The whole world’s best of blisses: we — do we

 

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