The heavens and earth stay as they were; my heart
Beats as it beat: the truth remains the truth.
What falls away, then, if not faith in her?
Was it my faith, that she could estimate
Love’s value, and, such faith still guiding me,
Dare I now test her? Or grew faith so strong
Solely because no power of test was mine?
Enter the DUCHESS.
THE DUCHESS.
My fate, sir! Ah, you turn away.
All’s over.
But you are sorry for me? Be not so!
What I might have become, and never was,
Regret with me! What I have merely been,
Rejoice I am no longer! What I seem
Beginning now, in my new state, to be,
Hope that I am! — for, once my rights proved void,
This heavy roof seems easy to exchange
For the blue sky outside — my lot henceforth.
VALENCE.
And what a lot is Berthold’s!
THE DUCHESS.
How of him?
VALENCE.
He gathers earth’s whole good into his arms;
Standing, as man now, stately, strong and wise,
Marching to fortune, not surprised by her.
One great aim, like a guiding-star, above —
Which tasks strength, wisdom, stateliness, to lift
His manhood to the height that takes the prize;
A prize not near — lest overlooking earth
He rashly spring to seize it — nor remote,
So that he rest upon his path content:
But day by day, while shimmering grows shine,
And the faint circlet prophesies the orb,
He sees so much as, just evolving these,
The stateliness, the wisdom and the strength,
To due completion, will suffice this life,
And lead him at his grandest to the grave.
After this star, out of a night he springs;
A beggar’s cradle for the throne of thrones
He quits; so, mounting, feels each step he mounts,
Nor, as from each to each exultingly
He passes, overleaps one grade of joy.
This, for his own good: — with the world, each gift
Of God and man, — reality, tradition,
Fancy and fact — so well environ him,
That as a mystic panoply they serve —
Of force, untenanted, to awe mankind,
And work his purpose out with half the world,
While he, their master, dexterously slipt
From such encumbrance, is meantime employed
With his own prowess on the other half.
Thus shall he prosper, every day’s success
Adding, to what is he, a solid strength
An aëry might to what encircles him,
Till at the last, so life’s routine lends help,
That as the Emperor only breathes and moves,
His shadow shall be watched, his step or stalk
Become a comfort or a portent, how
He trails his ermine take significance, —
Till even his power shall cease to be most power,
And men shall dread his weakness more, nor dare
Peril their earth its bravest, first and best,
Its typified invincibility.
Thus shall he go on, greatening, till he ends —
The man of men, the spirit of all flesh,
The fiery centre of an earthly world!
THE DUCHESS.
Some such a fortune I had dreamed should rise
Out of my own — that is, above my power
Seemed other, greater potencies to stretch —
VALENCE.
For you?
THE DUCHESS.
It was not I moved there, I think:
But one I could, — though constantly beside,
And aye approaching, — still keep distant from,
And so adore. ‘T was a man moved there.
VALENCE.
Who?
THE DUCHESS.
I felt the spirit, never saw the face.
VALENCE.
See it! ‘Tis Berthold’s! He enables you
To realize your vision.
THE DUCHESS.
Berthold?
VALENCE.
Duke —
Emperor to be: he proffers you his hand.
THE DUCHESS.
Generous and princely!
VALENCE.
He is all of this.
THE DUCHESS.
Thanks, Berthold, for my father’s sake! No hand
Degrades me.
VALENCE.
You accept the proffered hand?
THE DUCHESS.
That he should love me!
VALENCE.
”Loved “ I did not say.
Had that been — love might so incline the Prince
To the world’s good, the world that’s at his foot, —
I do not know, this moment, I should dare
Desire that you refused the world — and Cleves —
The sacrifice he asks.
THE DUCHESS.
Not love me, sir?
VALENCE.
He scarce affirmed it.
THE DUCHESS.
May not deeds affirm?
VALENCE.
What does he? . . . Yes, yes, very much he does!
All the shame saved, he thinks, and sorrow saved —
Immitigable sorrow, so he thinks, —
Sorrow that’s deeper than we dream, perchance.
THE DUCHESS.
Is not this love?
VALENCE.
So very much he does!
For look, you can descend now gracefully:
All doubts are banished, that the world might have,
Or worst, the doubts yourself, in after-time,
May call up of your heart’s sincereness now,
To such, reply, “I could have kept my rule —
Increased it to the utmost of my dreams —
Yet I abjured it.” This, he does for you:
It is munificently much.
THE DUCHESS.
Still “much “!
But why is it not love, sir? Answer me!
VALENCE.
Because not one of Berthold’s words and looks
Had gone with love’s presentment of a flower
To the beloved: because bold confidence,
Open superiority, free pride —
Love owns not, yet were all that Berthold owned:
Because where reason, even, finds no flaw,
Unerringly a lover’s instinct may.
THE DUCHESS.
You reason, then, and doubt?
VALENCE.
I love, and know.
THE DUCHESS.
You love? How strange! I never cast a thought
On that. Just see our selfishness! You seemed
So much my own . . . I had no ground — and yet,
I never dreamed another might divide
My power with you, much less exceed it.
VALENCE.
Lady,
I am yours wholly.
THE DUCHESS.
Oh, no, no, not mine!
‘Tis not the same now, nevermore can be.
— Your first love, doubtless. Well, what’s gone from me?
What have I lost in you?
VALENCE.
My heart replies —
No loss there! So, to Berthold back again:
This offer of his hand, he bids me make —
Its obvious magnitude is well to weigh.
THE DUCHESS.
She’s . . . yes, she must be very fair for you!
VALENCE.
I am a simple advocate of Cleves.
THE DUCHESS.
You! With the heart and brain that so helped me,
I fancied them e
xclusively my own,
Yet find are subject to a stronger sway!
She must be . . . tell me, is she very fair?
VALENCE.
Most fair, beyond conception or belief.
THE DUCHESS.
Black eyes? — no matter! Colombe, the world leads
Its life without you, whom your friends professed
The only woman: see how true they spoke!
One lived this while, who never saw your face,
Nor heard your voice — unless . . . Is she from Cleves?
VALENCE.
Cleves knows her well.
THE DUCHESS.
Ah — just a fancy, now!
When you poured forth the wrongs of Cleves, — I said,
— Thought, that is, afterward . . .
VALENCE.
You thought of me?
THE DUCHESS.
Of whom else? Only such great cause, I thought,
For such effect: see what true love can do!
Cleves is his love. I almost fear to ask
. . . And will not. This is idling: to our work!
Admit before the Prince, without reserve,
My claims misgrounded; then may follow better
. . . When you poured out Cleves’ wrongs impetuously,
Was she in your mind?
VALENCE.
All done was done for her
— To humble me!
THE DUCHESS.
She will be proud at least.
VALENCE.
She?
THE DUCHESS.
When you tell her.
VALENCE.
That will never be.
THE DUCHESS.
How — are there sweeter things you hope to tell?
No, sir! You counselled me, — I counsel you
In the one point I — any woman — can.
Your worth, the first thing; let her own come next —
Say what you did through her, and she through you —
The praises of her beauty afterward!
Will you?
VALENCE.
I dare not.
THE DUCHESS.
Dare not?
VALENCE.
She I love
Suspects not such a love in me.
THE DUCHESS. You jest.
VALENCE.
The lady is above me and away.
Not only the brave form, and the bright mind,
And the great heart, combine to press me low —
But all the world calls rank divides us.
THE DUCHESS.
Rank!
Now grant me patience! Here’s a man declares
Oracularly in another’s case —
Sees the true value and the false, for them —
Nay, bids them see it, and they straight do see.
You called my court’s love worthless — so it turned:
I threw away as dross my heap of wealth,
And here you stickle for a piece or two!
First — has she seen you?
VALENCE.
Yes.
THE DUCHESS.
She loves you, then.
VALENCE.
One flash of hope burst; then succeeded night:
And all’s at darkest now. Impossible!
THE DUCHESS.
We’ll try: you are — so to speak — my subject yet?
VALENCE.
As ever — to the death.
THE DUCHESS.
Obey me, then!
VALENCE.
I must.
THE DUCHESS.
Approach her, and . . . no! first of all
Get more assurance. “My instructress,” say,
“Was great, descended from a line of kings,
And even fair” — (wait why I say this folly) —
“She said, of all men, none for eloquence,
Courage, and (what cast even these to shade)
The heart they sprung from, — none deserved like him
Who saved her at her need: if she said this,
What should not one I love, say?”
VALENCE.
Heaven — this hope —
Oh, lady, you are filling me with fire!
THE DUCHESS.
Say this! — nor think I bid you cast aside
One touch of all the awe and reverence;
Nay, make her proud for once to heart’s content
That all this wealth of heart and soul’s her own!
Think you are all of this, — and, thinking it,
. . . (Obey!)
VALENCE.
I cannot choose.
THE DUCHESS.
Then, kneel to her!
[VALENCE sinks on his knee.
I dream!
VALENCE.
Have mercy! Yours, unto the death, —
I have obeyed. Despise, and let me die!
THE DUCHESS.
Alas, sir, is it to be ever thus?
Even with you as with the world? I know
This morning’s service was no vulgar deed
Whose motive, once it dares avow itself,
Explains all done and infinitely more,
So, takes the shelter of a nobler cause.
Your service named its true source, — loyalty!
The rest’s unsaid again. The Duchess bids you,
Rise, sir! The Prince’s words were in debate.
VALENCE [rising.]
Rise? Truth, as ever, lady, comes from you!
I should rise — I who spoke for Cleves, can speak
For Man — yet tremble now, who stood firm then.
I laughed — or ‘twas past — tears that Cleves should starve
With all hearts beating loud the infamy,
And no tongue daring trust as much to air:
Yet here, where all hearts speak, shall I be mute?
Oh, lady, for your own sake look on me!
On all I am, and have, and do — heart, brain,
Body and soul, — this Valence and his gifts!
I was proud once: I saw you, and they sank,
So that each, magnified a thousand times,
Were nothing to you — but such nothingness,
Would a crown gild it, or a sceptre prop,
A treasure speed, a laurel-wreath enhance?
What is my own desert? But should your love
Have . . . there’s no language helps here . . . singled me, —
Then — oh, that wild word “then!” — be just to love,
In generosity its attribute!
Love, since you pleased to love! All’s cleared — a stage
For trial of the question kept so long:
Judge you — Is love or vanity the best?
You, solve it for the world’s sake — you, speak first
What all will shout one day — you, vindicate
Our earth and be its angel! All is said.
Lady, I offer nothing I am yours:
But, for the cause’ sake, look on me and him,
And speak!
THE DUCHESS.
I have received the Prince’s message:
Say, I prepare my answer!
VALENCE.
Take me, Cleves!
[He withdraws.
THE DUCHESS.
Mournful — that nothing’s what it calls itself!
Devotion, zeal, faith, loyalty mere love!
And, love in question, what may Berthold’s be?
I did ill to mistrust the world so soon:
Already was this Berthold at my side.
The valley-level has its hawks no doubt:
May not the rock-top have its eagles, too?
Yet Valence . . . let me see his rival then!
Act V
Night.
SCENE. The Hall.
Enter BERTHOLD and MELCHIOR.
MELCHIOR.
And here you wait the matter’s issue?
BERTHOLD.
Here.
ME
LCHIOR.
I don’t regret I shut Amelius, then.
But tell me, on this grand disclosure, — how
Behaved our spokesman with the forehead?
BERTHOLD.
Oh,
Turned out no better than the foreheadless —
Was dazzled not so very soon, that’s all!
For my part, this is scarce the hasty showy
Chivalrous measure you give me credit of.
Perhaps I had a fancy, — but ‘tis gone.
— Let her commence the unfriended innocent
And carry wrongs about from court to court?
No, truly! The least shake of fortune’s sand,
— My uncle-Pope chokes in a coughing fit,
King-cousin takes a fancy to blue eyes, —
And wondrously her claims would brighten up;
Forth comes a new gloss on the ancient law,
O’er-looked provisoes, o’er-past premises,
Follow in plenty. No: ‘t is the safe step.
The hour beneath the convent-wall is lost:
Juliers and she, once mine, are ever mine.
MELCHIOR.
Which is to say, you, losing heart already,
Elude the adventure.
BERTBOLD.
Not so — or, if so —
Why not confess at once that I advise
None of our kingly craft and guild just now
To lay, one moment, down their privilege
With the notion they can any time at pleasure
Retake it: that may turn out hazardous.
We seem, in Europe, pretty well at end
O’ the night, with our great masque: those favored few
Who keep the chamber’s top, and honor’s chance
Of the early evening, may retain their place
And figure as they list till out of breath.
But it is growing late: and I observe
A dim grim kind of tipstaves at the doorway
Not only bar new-comers entering now,
But caution those who left, for any cause,
And would return, that morning draws too near;
The ball must die off, shut itself up. We —
I think, may dance lights out and sunshine in,
And sleep off headache on our frippery:
But friend the other, who cunningly stole out,
And, after breathing the fresh air outside,
Means to re-enter with a new costume,
Will be advised go back to bed, I fear.
I stick to privilege, on second thoughts.
MELCHIOR.
Yes — you evade the adventure: and, beside,
Give yourself out for colder than you are.
King Philip, only, notes the lady’s eyes?
Don’t they come in for somewhat of the motive
With you too?
BERTHOLD.
Yes — no: I am past that now.
Gone ‘tis: I cannot shut my soul to fact.
Of course, I might by forethought and contrivance
Reason myself into a rapture. Gone:
And something better come instead, no doubt.
MELCHIOR.
So be it! Yet, all the same, proceed my way,
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 285