Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

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Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 286

by Robert Browning


  Though to your ends; so shall you prosper best!

  The lady, — to be won for selfish ends, —

  Will be won easier my unselfish . . . call it,

  Romantic way.

  BERTHOLD.

  Won easier?

  MELCHIOR.

  Will not she?

  BERTHOLD.

  There I profess humility without bound:

  Ill cannot speed — not I — the Emperor.

  MELCHIOR.

  And I should think the Emperor best waived,

  From your description of her mood and way.

  You could look, if it pleased you, into hearts;

  But are too indolent and fond of watching

  Your own — you know that, for you study it.

  BERTHOLD.

  Had you but seen the orator her friend,

  So bold and voluble an hour before,

  Abashed to earth at aspect of the change!

  Make her an Empress? Ah, that changed the case!

  Oh, I read hearts! ‘T is for my own behoof,

  I court her with my true worth: wait the event!

  I learned my final lesson on that head

  When years ago, — my first and last essay —

  Before the priest my uncle could by help

  Of his superior, raise me from the dirt —

  Priscilla left me for a Brabant lord

  Whose cheek was like the topaz on his thumb.

  I am past illusion on that score.

  MELCHIOR.

  Here comes

  The lady —

  BERTBOLD.

  — And there you go. But do not! Give me

  Another chance to please you! Hear me plead!

  MELCHIOR.

  You’ll keep, then, to the lover, to the man?

  Enter the DUCHESS followed by ADOLF and SABYNE and, after an interval, by the COURTIERS.

  BERTBOLD.

  Good auspice to our meeting!

  THE DUCHESS.

  May it prove!

  — And you, sir, will be Emperor one day?

  BERTBOLD.

  (Ay, that’s the point!) I may be Emperor.

  THE DUCHESS.

  ‘T is not for my sake only, I am proud

  Of this you offer: I am prouder far

  That from the highest state should duly spring

  The highest, since most generous, of deeds.

  BERTBOLD.

  (Generous — still that!) You underrate yourself.

  You are, what I, to be complete, must gain —

  Find now, and may not find, another time.

  While I career on all the world for stage,

  There needs at home my representative.

  THE DUCHESS.

  — Such, rather, would some warrior-woman be —

  One dowered with lands and gold, or rich in friends —

  One like yourself.

  BERTHOLD.

  Lady, I am myself,

  And have all these: I want what’s not myself,

  Nor has all these. Why give one hand two swords?

  Here’s one already: be a friend’s next gift

  A silk glove, if you will — I have a sword.

  THE DUCHESS.

  You love me, then?

  BERTHOLD.

  Your lineage I revere,

  Honor your virtue, in your truth believe,

  Do homage to your intellect, and bow

  Before your peerless beauty.

  THE DUCHESS.

  But, for love —

  BERTHOLD.

  A further love I do not understand.

  Our best course is to say these hideous truths,

  And see them, once said, grow endurable:

  Like waters shuddering from their central bed,

  Black with the midnight bowels of the earth,

  That, once up-spouted by an earthquake’s throe,

  A portent and a terror — soon subside,

  Freshen apace, take gold and rainbow hues

  In sunshine, sleep in shadow, and at last

  Grow common to the earth as hills or trees —

  Accepted by all things they came to scare.

  THE DUCHESS.

  You cannot love, then?

  BERTHOLD.

  — Charlemagne, perhaps!

  Are you not over-curious in love-lore?

  THE DUCHESS.

  I have become so, very recently.

  It seems, then, I shall best deserve esteem,

  Respect, and all your candor promises,

  By putting on a calculating mood —

  Asking the terms of my becoming yours?

  BERTHOLD.

  Let me not do myself injustice, neither.

  Because I will not condescend to fictions

  That promise what my soul can ne’er acquit,

  It does not follow that my guarded phrase

  May not include far more of what you seek,

  Than wide profession of less scrupulous men.

  You will be Empress, once for all: with me

  The Pope disputes supremacy — you stand,

  And none gainsays, the earth’s first woman.

  THE DUCHESS.

  That —

  Or simple Lady of Ravestein again?

  BERTHOLD.

  The matter’s not in my arbitrament:

  Now I have made my claims — which I regret —

  Cede one, cede all.

  THE DUCHESS.

  This claim then, you enforce?

  BERTHOLD.

  The world looks on.

  THE DUCHESS.

  And when must I decide?

  BERTHOLD.

  When, lady? Have I said thus much so promptly

  For nothing? — Poured out, with such pains, at once

  What I might else have suffered to ooze forth

  Droplet by droplet in a lifetime long —

  For aught less than as prompt an answer, too?

  All’s fairly told now: who can teach you more?

  THE DUCHESS.

  I do not see him.

  BERTHOLD.

  I shall ne’er deceive.

  This offer should be made befittingly

  Did time allow the better setting forth

  The good of it, with what is not so good,

  Advantage, and disparagement as well:

  But as it is, the sum of both must serve.

  I am already weary of this place;

  My thoughts are next stage on to Rome. Decide!

  The Empire — or, — not even Juliers now!

  Hail to the Empress — farewell to the Duchess!

  [THE COURTIERS, who have been drawing nearer and nearer, interpose.

  GAUCELME.

  — ”Farewell,” Prince? when we break in at our risk —

  CLUGNET.

  Almost upon court-license trespassing —

  GAUCELME.

  — To point out how your claims are valid yet!

  You know not, by the Duke her father’s will,

  The lady, if she weds beneath her rank, —

  Forfeits her Duchy in the next heir’s favor

  So ‘tis expressly stipulate. And if

  It can be shown ‘tis her intent to wed

  A subject, then yourself, next heir, by right

  Succeed to Juliers.

  BERTHOLD.

  What insanity? —

  GUIBERT.

  Sir, there’s one Valence, the pale fiery man

  You saw and heard this morning — thought, no doubt,

  Was of considerable standing here:

  I put it to your penetration, Prince,

  If aught save love, the truest love for her

  Could make him serve the lady as he did!

  He’s simply a poor advocate of Cleves

  — Creeps here with difficulty, finds a place

  With danger, gets in by a miracle,

  And for the first time meets the lady’s face —

  So runs the story: is
that credible?

  For, first — no sooner in, than he’s apprised

  Fortunes have changed; you are all-powerful here,

  The lady as powerless: he stands fast by her!

  THE DUCHESS [aside].

  And do such deeds spring up from love alone?

  GUIBERT.

  But here occurs the question, does the lady

  Love him again? I say, how else can she?

  Can she forget how he stood singly forth

  In her defence, dared outrage all of us,

  Insult yourself — for what, save love’s reward.

  THE DUCHESS [aside.]

  And is love then the sole reward of love?

  GUIBERT.

  But, love him as she may and must — you ask,

  Means she to wed him? “Yes,” both natures answer!

  Both, in their pride, point out the sole result;

  Naught less would he accept nor she propose.

  For each conjecture was she great enough

  — Will be, for this.

  CLUGNET.

  Though, now that this is known,

  Policy, doubtless, urges she deny . . .

  THE DUCHESS.

  — What, sir, and wherefore? — since I am not sure

  That all is any other than you say!

  You take this Valence, hold him close to me,

  Him with his actions: can I choose but look?

  I am not sure, love trulier shows itself

  Than in this man, you hate and would degrade,

  Yet, with your worst abatement, show me thus.

  Nor am I — (thus made look within myself,

  Ere I had dared) — now that the look is dared —

  Sure that I do not love him!

  GUIBERT.

  Hear you, Prince?

  BERTHOLD.

  And what, sirs, please you, may this prattle mean

  Unless to prove with what alacrity

  You give your lady’s secrets to the world?

  How much indebted, for discovering

  That quality, you make me, will be found

  When there’s a keeper for my own to seek.

  COURTIERS.

  “Our lady?”

  BERTHOLD.

  — She assuredly remains.

  THE DUCHESS.

  Ah, Prince — and you too can be generous?

  You could renounce your power, if this were so,

  And let me, as these phrase it, wed my love

  Yet keep my Duchy? You perhaps exceed

  Him, even, in disinterestedness!

  BERTHOLD.

  How, lady, should all this affect my purpose?

  Your will and choice are still as ever, free.

  Say, you have known a worthier than myself

  In mind and heart, of happier form and face —

  Others must have their birthright: I have gifts,

  To balance theirs, not blot them out of sight.

  Against a hundred alien qualities,

  I lay the prize I offer. I am nothing:

  Wed you the Empire?

  THE DUCHESS.

  And my heart away?

  BERTHOLD.

  When have I made pretension to your heart?

  I give none. I shall keep your honor safe;

  With mine I trust you, as the sculptor trusts

  Yon marble woman with the marble rose,

  Loose on her hand, she never will let fall,

  In graceful, slight, silent security.

  You will be proud of my world-wide career,

  And I content in you the fair and good.

  What were the use of planting a few seeds

  The thankless climate never would mature —

  Affections all repelled by circumstance?

  Enough: to these no credit I attach, —

  To what you own, find nothing to object.

  Write simply on my requisition’s face

  What shall content my friends — that you admit,

  As Colombe of Ravestein, the claims therein,

  Or never need admit them, as my wife —

  And either way, all’s ended!

  THE DUCHESS.

  Let all end!

  BERTBOLD.

  The requisition!

  GUIBERT.

  — Valence holds, of course!

  BERTBOLD.

  Desire his presence! [Adolf goes out.

  COURTIERS [to each otber].

  Out it all comes yet;

  He’ll have his word against the bargain yet;

  He’s not the man to tamely acquiesce.

  One passionate appeal — upbraiding even,

  May turn the tide again. Despair not yet!

  [They retire a little.

  BERTBOLD [to MELCHIOR].

  The Empire has its old success, my friend!

  MELCHIOR.

  You’ve had your way: before the spokesman speaks,

  Let me, but this once, work a problem out,

  And evermore be dumb! The Empire wins?

  To better purpose have I read my books!

  Enter VALENCE.

  MELCHIOR [to the COURTIERS].

  Apart, my masters!

  [To VALENCE.] Sir, one word with you!

  I am a poor dependent of the Prince’s —

  Pitched on to speak, as of slight consequence.

  You are no higher, I find: in other words,

  We two, as probably the wisest here,

  Need not hold diplomatic talk like fools.

  Suppose I speak, divesting the plain fact

  Of all their tortuous phrases, fit for them?

  Do you reply so, and what trouble saved!

  The Prince, then — an embroiled strange heap of news

  This moment reaches him — if true or false,

  All dignity forbids he should inquire

  In person, or by worthier deputy;

  Yet somehow must inquire, lest slander come:

  And so, ‘t is I am pitched on. You have heard

  His offer to your lady?

  VALENCE.

  Yes.

  MELCHIOR.

  — Conceive

  Her joy thereat?

  VALENCE.

  I cannot.

  MELCHIOR.

  No one can.

  All draws to a conclusion, therefore.

  VALENCE [aside.]

  So!

  No after-judgment — no first thought revised —

  Her first and last decision! — me, she leaves,

  Takes him; a simple heart is flung aside,

  The ermine o’er a heartless breast embraced.

  Oh Heaven, this mockery has been played too oft!

  Once, to surprise the angels — twice, that fiends

  Recording, might be proud they chose not so —

  Thrice, many thousand times, to teach the world

  All men should pause, misdoubt their strength, since men

  Can have such chance yet fail so signally,

  — But ever, ever this farewell to Heaven,

  Welcome to earth this taking death for life —

  This spurning love and kneeling to the world —

  Oh Heaven, it is too often and too old!

  MELCHIOR.

  Well, on this point, what but an absurd rumor

  Arises — these, its source — its subject, you!

  Your faith and loyalty misconstruing,

  They say, your service claims the lady’s hand!

  Of course, nor Prince nor lady can respond:

  Yet something must be said: for, were it true

  You made such claim, the Prince would . . .

  VALENCE.

  Well, sir, — would?

  MELCHIOR.

  — Not only probably withdraw his suit,

  But, very like, the lady might be forced

  Accept your own. Oh, there are reasons why!

  But you’ll excuse at present all save one, —

  I think so. What we want is
, your own witness,

  For, or against — her good, or yours: decide!

  VALENCE [aside.]

  Be it her good if she accounts it so!

  [After a contest.] For what am I but hers, to choose as she?

  Who knows how far, beside, the light from her

  May reach, and dwell with, what she looks upon?

  MELCBIOR [to THE PRINCE].

  Now to him, you!

  BERTBOLD [to VALENCE].

  My friend acquaints you, sir,

  The noise runs . . .

  VALENCE.

  — Prince, how fortunate are you,

  Wedding her as you will, in spite of noise,

  To show belief in love! Let her but love you,

  All else you disregard! What else can be?

  You know how love is incompatible

  With falsehood — purifies, assimilates

  All other passions to itself.

  MELCHIOR.

  Ay, sir:

  But softly! Where, in the object we select,

  Such love is, perchance, wanting?

  VALENCE.

  Then indeed,

  What is it you can take?

  MELCHIOR.

  Nay, ask the world!

  Youth, beauty, virtue, an illustrious name,

  An influence o’er mankind.

  VALENCE.

  When man perceives . . .

  — Ah, I can only speak as for myself!

  THE DUCHESS.

  Speak for yourself!

  VALENCE.

  May I? — no, I have spoken,

  And time’s gone by. Had I seen such an one,

  As I loved her — weighing thoroughly that word —

  So should my task be to evolve her love:

  If for myself! — if for another — well.

  BERTBOLD.

  Heroic truly! And your sole reward, —

  The secret pride in yielding up love’s right?

  VALENCE.

  Who thought upon reward? And yet how much

  Comes after — oh, what amplest recompense!

  Is the knowledge of her, naught? the memory, naught?

  — Lady, should such an one have looked on you,

  Ne’er wrong yourself so far as quote the world

  And say, love can go unrequited here!

  You will have blessed him to his whole life’s end —

  Low passions hindered, baser cares kept back,

  All goodness cherished where you dwelt — and dwell.

  What would he have? He holds you — you, both form

  And mind, in his, — where self-love makes such room

  For love of you, he would not serve you now

  The vulgar way, — repulse your enemies,

  Win you new realms, or best, to save the old

  Die blissfully — that’s past so long ago!

  He wishes you no need, thought, care of him —

  Your good, by any means, himself unseen,

  Away, forgotten! — He gives that life’ s task up,

  As it were . . . but this charge which I return —

  [Offers the requisition, which she takes.

  Wishing your good.

 

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