Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

Home > Fantasy > Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series > Page 280
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 280

by Robert Browning


  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,

 

‹ Prev