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The Epic of the Lion.
After Photograv'ure by Goupil et Cie. — From Painting by Moreau de Tours.
edition be Huxe
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'1' H E WORKS |
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O F |
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VICTOR HUGO |
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VOLUME IX |
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P O E M S |
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DRAMAS |
iHofiton ^ctD gorfe
EDITION DE LUXE
One Thousand copies of this edition have been printed for sale in america, of which this is
Mo
I ''^ t)0
POEMS
OF
VICTOR HUGO
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH BY VARIOUS AUTHORS
WOW FIB8T COLLECTED BT
HENRY LLEWELLYN WILLIAMS
Victor in Poesy, Victor in Romance, Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears, French of tlie French, and Lord of human tears; Child-lover; Bard whose fame-lit laurels glance Darliening the wreaths of all that would advance. Beyond our strait, their claim to be thy peers; Weird Titan by thy winter weight of years As yet unbroken. Stormy voice of France!
Tenkyson.
Thou art chief of us, and lord; Thy song is as a sword Keen-edged and scented in the blade with flowers.
A. C. SWINBURKE.
CONTENTS
Early Poems.
transistor. page
Moses on the Nile Dublin University Magazine . 1
Envy and Avarice American Keepsake .... 4
Odes.— 1818-28.
King Louis XVII. . . The Feast of Freedom .
Genius
The Girl of Otaheite . Nero's Incendiary Song
Regret
Morning
Beloved Name
The Portrait of a Child
Dublin University Magazine . 7
" Father Prout " (F. S. Mahony ) 10 Mrs. Torre Hulme ... .11
Clement Scott 12
H. L. Williams 13
Fraser's Magazine .... 16
H. L. Williams 17
Caroline Bowles (Mrs. Southey) 18
Dublin University Magazine . 19
Ballades.— 1823-28.
The Grandmother The Giant in Glee . The Cymbaleer's Bride The Battle . . . Madelaine .... The Fay and the Peri
" Father Prout " (F. S. Mahony ) 21
Foreign Quart. Bev. (adapted). 23
" Father Prout " (F. S. Mahony ) 24
H. L. Williams 28
H. L. Williams 29
Asiatic Journal 31
Les Orientales. — 1829.
The Scourge of Heaven
Pirates' Song .
The Turkish Captive
Moonlight on the Bosphorus
The Veil . . .
The Dervish . .
The Lost Battle .
Zara, the Bather
Expectation
The Lover's Wish
The Sacking of the City
The Djinns
The Obdurate Beauty
J. N. Fazakerley 35
H. L. Williams 45
W. D., Tait's Edinburgh Mag. 47
John L. O'Sullivan .... 49
" Father Prout " (F. S. Mahony ) 50
H. L. Williams 62
W. D., Bentley's Miscel, 1839. 5:?
John L. O'Sullivan . . . . SG
John L. O'Sullivan .... 60
v., Eton Observer .... 61
John L. O'Sullivan 63
John L. O'Sullivan .... 63
John L. O'Sullivan .... 67
VI
CONTENTS
TRAN9LATOE. PAGE
Cornflowers H. L. Williams 67
The Danube in Wrath .... Fraser's Magazine TO
Old Ocean R. C. Ellwood 70
Napoleon Fraser's Magazine .... 71
Les Feuilles d'Automne. — 1831.
The Patience of the People . . G. W. M. Reynolds . . Dictated before the Rhone Glacier Author of " Critical Essays The Poet's Love for Liveliness . Fraser's Magazine . .
Released Nelson R. Tyerman .
Infantile Influence Henry Highton, M.A.
The Watching Angel .... Foreign Quarterly Review
The Love Dawn Nelson R. Tyerman . .
Sunset Torn Dutt
p i Henry Highton, M.A. )
^^^y^^ JC., Tait's Magazine . j *
Songs of Youth Nelson R. Tyerman .
Les Chants du Crepuscule. — 1835.
Prelude to "The Songs of Twi- light"
The Land of Fable . . The Three Glorious Days Tribute to the Vanquished The Eruption of Vesuvius To the D\apoleon Column Marriage and Feasts The Morrow of Grandeur The Eaglet Mourned Invocation .... Outside the Ball-room Prayer for France . To Canaris, the Greek
Poland
Insult not the Fallen Above the Battle Morning .... Song of Love . Sweet Charmer More Strong than Time Flower and Butterfly A Simile .... The Poet to his Wife
Patriot
O. W. M. Reynolds
G. W. M. Reynolds
Elizabeth Collins .
Fraser's Magazine
Fraser's Magazine
Author of "Critical Essays
G. W. M. Reynolds
Fraser's Magazine
Fraser's Magazine
G. W. M. Reynolds
G. W. M. Reynolds
J. S. Macrae
G. W. M. Reynolds
G. W. M. Reynolds
W. C. K. Wilde .
Nelson R. Tyerman
W. M. Hardinge .
Toru Dutt . . .
H. B. Farnie .
A. Lang
Nelson R. Tyerman
Fanny Kemble-Butler
Les Voix Interieures. — 1837.
The Blinded Bourbons .... Fraser's Magazine
Charity Dublin University Magazine
73
73 75 81 77 78 81 81
83
85
Si
88
89
91
91
92
94
97
99
101
101
103
101
106
106
107
108
109
110
110
111
113
113
114 115
CONTENTS
Vll
TRANSLATOR. PAGE
To Albert Diirer Mrs. Newton Crosland . . . 117
To his Muse Fraser'a Magazine . . . .118
The Cow Torn Dutt 130
Mothers . Dublin University Magazine . 121
To some Birds Flown away . . Mrs. Newton Crosland . . . 122
My Thoughts of Ye Dublin University Magazine . 129
The Beacon in the Storm . . . Nelson R. Tyerman .... 130
Love's Treacherous Pool . . . Nelson R. Tyerman .... 132
The Rose and the Grave . . .A. Lang 132
Les Rayons et les Ombres. — 1840,
Holyrood Palace
The Humble Home
The Eighteenth Century .
Still be a Child
The Pool and the Soul .... Ye Mariners who Spread your
Sails
On a Flemish Window-Pane .
Gastibelza
Guitar Song
Come when I sleep .... Early Love Revisited .... Sweet Memory of Love
The Marble Faun
Baby's Seaside Grave .... A. L
Fraser's Magazine Author of "Critical Essays" Author of "Critical Essays" Dublin University Magazine R. F. Hodgson ....
Author of "Critical Essays" Fraser's Magazine Nelson R. Tyerman . Evelyn Jerrold .... Wm,. W. Tomlinson . Author of "Critical Essays" Author of "Critical Essays" William Young .... Nelson R. Tyerman . Nelson R. Tyerman .
Les Chatiments. — 1853.
Art and the People . Poor Little Children Apostrophe to Nature The Exile's Choice . A Lament .... The Imperial Mantle Sea-Song of the Exiles The Retreat from Moscow Hymn of the Transported The Ocean's Song . The Trumpets of the Mind After the Coup d'Etat .
Patria
Sunrise
The Universal Republic
Nelson R. Tyerman H. L. Williams Nelson R. Tyerman Nelson R. Tyerman Edwin Arnold, C.S.I, Nelson R. Tyerman Nelson R. Tyerman Torn Dutt . . . Nelson R. Tyerman Torn Dutt . . . Torn Dutt . . . Torn Dutt . . .
Nelson R. Tyerman
Les Contemplations. — 1830-56.
To my Dau^ter Nelson R. Tyerman
Childhood Nelson R. Tyerman
134 134 135 136 137
137 139 140 143 143 144 145 146 149 150
151 152 153 153 155 156 157 158 161 162 163 164 165 167 168
170 172
VUl
CONTENTS
THANSLATOE.
How Butterflys are Born . Have You Nothing to Say
Yourself? At Evening . The Love-Song . Death, in Life . The Fountain . The Dying Child to its Mother Epitaph St. John . The Poet's Simple Faith
for
A . Lang
C. H. Kenny . Nelson R. Tyerman Nelson R. Tyerman
Nelson R. Tyerman Bp. Alexander . Nelson R. Tyerman Nelson R. Tyerman Prof. E. Dowden .
PAGE
. 172
173 174 174 175 176 177 178 179 179
La Legende des Siecles. — 1859.
Conscience Dublin University Magazine
The Lions ........ Mrs. Newton Crosland .
Boaz Asleep Bp. Alexander ....
The Parricide i ^- ^™" • :, ■■ \ .
I Dublin University Mag. >
The Boy-King's Prayer . . . Dublin University Magazine
Eviradnus Mrs. Newton Crosland
The Infanta's Rose Mrs. Newton Crosland
The Inquisition Mrs. Newton Crosland
The Swiss Mercenaries .... Bp. Alexander .
After the Battle Mrs. Newton Crosland
Poor Folk Bp. Alexander .
Song of the Prow-Gilders . . . Nelson R. Tyerman .
180 182
187
189
193 194 235 243 245 248 249 254
Mentana
La VOIX DE GUERNESEY. — 1868.
Edwin Arnold, C.S.I.
257
Les Chansons des Rtjes et des Bois.
Love of the Woodland Bahy's Sleep at Dawn Lion's Sleep at Noon
Nelson R. Tyerman Nelson R. Tyerman Nelson R. Tyerman
264 265 266
L'Annee Terrible. — 1872.
To Little Jeanne Marwood Tucker .
From the Invested Walls of Paris Nelson R. Tyerman To a Sick Child during the Siege
of Paris ....... Lucy U. Hooper .
Brute War Nelson R. Tyerman
Mourning Marwood Tucker .
On a Barricade Nelson R. Tyerman
To His Orphan Grandchildren . Marwood Tucker .
To the Cannon " Victor Hugo "
268 270
270 271
272 273 275 277
CONTENTS ix
L'Aht d'ethe Gbandpere. — 1877.
tean8latoh. paok
The Epic of the Lion .... Edwin Arnold, C.8.1 978
Les Quahte Vekts de l'Esphit. — 1881.
Near Avranches Nelson B. Tyerman .... 290
My Happiest Dream .... Nelson R. Tyerman .... 291 On Hearing the Princess Royal
Sing Nelson B. Tyerman .... 292
An Old-Time Lay Nelson B. Tyerman .... 294
Jersey . . Nelson JR. Tyerman .... 294
Then, most, I Smile Nelson B. Tyerman .... 296
Dbamatic Pieces.
Cromwell and the Crown . . . Leitch Bitchie 297
Milton's Appeal to Cromwell 298
First Love Fanny Kemble-Butler . . . 301
The First Black Flag .... Democratic Beview .... 302
The Son in Old Age .... Foreign Quarterly Beview . . 303
The Emperor's Retam .... Athencevm 304
EARLY POEMS
MOSES ON THE NILE
(" Mes sceurs, Vonde est plus fraiche.**)
'^QISTERS! the wave is freshest In the ray
k3 Of the young morning ; the reapers are asleep ;
The river bank is lonely : come away !
The early murmurs of old Memphis creep
Faint on my ear; and here unseen we stray, —
Deep in the covert of the grove withdrawn,
Save by the dewy eye-glance of the dawn.
" Within my father's palace, fair to see.
Shine all the Arts, but oh ! this river side. Pranked with gay flowers, is dearer far to me
Than gold and porphyry vases bright and wide ; How glad in heaven the song-bird carols free!
Sweeter these zephyrs float than all the showers
Of costly odours in our royal bowers.
" The sky is pure, the sparkling stream is clear :
Unloose your zones, my maidens! and fling down To float awhile upon these bushes near
Your blue transparent robes: take off^ my crown, And take away my jealous veil; for here To-day we shall be joyous while we lave Our limbs amid the murmur of the wave.
1
((
POEMS
Hasten ; but through the fleecy mists of mom, What do I see ? Look ye along the stream !
Nay, timid maidens — we must not return ! Coursing along the current, it would seem
An ancient palm-tree to the deep sea borne. That from the distant wilderness proceeds, Downwards, to view our wondrous Pyramids.
But stay ! if I may surely trust mine eye, —
It is the bark of Hermes, or the shell Of Iris, wafted gently to the sighs
Of the light breeze along the rippling swell ; But no: it is a skiff where sweetly lies
An infant slumbering, and his peaceful rest
Looks as if pillowed on his mother's breast.
He sleeps — oh, see ! his little floating bed Swims on the mighty river's fickle flow,
A white dove's nest ; and there at hazard led By the faint winds, and wandering to and fro,
The cot comes down ; beneath his quiet head
The gulfs are moving, and each threatening wave Appears to rock the child upon a grave.
He wakes — ah, maids of Memphis! haste, oh, haste!
He cries ! alas ! — What mother could confide Her offspring to the wild and watery waste?
He stretches out his arms, the rippling tide Murmurs around him, where all rudely placed,
He rests but with a few frail reeds beneath,
Between such helpless innocence and death.
" Oh ! take him up ! Perchance he is of those
Dark sons of Israel whom my sire proscribes ;
Ah! cruel was the mandate that arose
Against most guiltless of the stranger tribes !
Poor child ! my heart is yearning for his woes, I would I were his mother; but I'll give If not his birth, at least the claim to live."
((
MOSES
Thus Iphis spoke; the royal hope and pride Of a great monarch ; while her damsels nigh,
Wandered along the Nile's meandering side ; And these diminished beauties, standing by
The trembling mother; watching with eyes wide Their graceful mistress, admired her as stood, More lovely than the genius of the flood !
The waters broken by her delicate feet
Receive the eager wader, as alone By gentlest pity led, she strives to meet
The wakened babe ; and, see, the prize is won ! She holds the weeping burden with a sweet
And virgin glow of pride upon her brow,
That knew no flush save modesty's till now.
Opening with cautious hands the reedy couch, She brought the rescued infant slowly out
Beyond the humid sands; at her approach Her curious maidens hurried round about
To kiss the new-born brow with gentlest touch ; Greeting the child with smiles, and bending nigh Their faces o'er his large, astonished eye !
Haste thou who, from afar, in doubt and fear,
Dost watchj with straining eyes, the fated boy —
The loved of heaven ! come like a stranger near. And clasp young Moses with maternal joy;
Nor fear the speechless transport and the tear Will e'er betray thy fond and hidden claim. For Iphis knows not yet a mother's name !
With a glad heart, and a triumphal face, The princess to the haughty Pharaoh led
The humble infant of a hated race.
Bathed with the bitter tears a parent shed;
While loudly pealing round the holy place
Of Heaven's white Throne, the voice of angel choirs Intoned the theme of their undying lyres!
, POEMS
" No longer mourn thy pilgrimage below — O Jacob! let thy tears no longer swell
The torrent of the Egyptian river: Lo!
Soon on the Jordan's banks thy tents shall dwell;
And Goshen shall behold thy people go
Despite the power of Egypt's law and brand, From their sad thrall to Canaan's promised land.
" The King of Plagues, the Chosen of Sinai, Is he that, o'er the rushing waters driven, A vigorous hand hath rescued for the sky ;
Ye whose proud hearts disown the ways of heaven ! Attend, be humble ! for its power is nigh : Israel ! a cradle shall redeem thy worth — A Cradle yet shall save the widespread earth ! "
Dublin University Magazine^ 1839.
ENVY AND AVARICE (" U Avarice et VEnvie")
Envy and Avarice, one summer day,
Sauntering abroad
In quest of the abode Of some poor wretch or fool who lived that way— * You — or myself, perhaps — I cannot say — Along the road, scarce heeding where it tended, Their way in sullen, sulky silence wended; For, though twin sisters, these two charming creatures, Rivals in hideousness of form and features. Wasted no love between them as they went.
Pale Avarice,
With gloating eyes. And back and shoulders almost double bent, Was hugging close that fatal box
ENVY AND AVARICE
For which she's ever on the watch
Some glance to catch Suspiciously directed to its locks; And Envy, too, no doubt with silent winking
At her green, greedy orbs, no single minute Withdrawn from it, was hard a-thinking
Of all the shining dollars in it.
The only words that Avarice could utter,
Her constant doom, in a low, frightened mutter,
" There's not enough, enough, yet in my store ! '* While Envy, as she scanned the glittering sight, Groaned as she gnashed her yellow teeth with spite, " She's more than me, more, still forever more ! '*
Thus, each in her own fashion, as they wandered, Upon the coffer's precious contents pondered.
When suddenly, to their surprise.
The God Desire stood before their eyes. Desire, that courteous deity who grants All wishes, prayers, and wants; Said he to the two sisters : " Beauteous ladies, As I'm a gentleman, my task and trade is
To be the slave of your behest — Choose therefore at your own sweet will and pleasure, Honours or treasure!
Or in one word, whatever you'd like best. But, let us understand each other — she Who speaks the first, her prayer shall certainly
Receive — the other, the same boon redoubled! **
Imagine how our amiable pair.
At this proposal, all so frank and fair.
Were mutually troubled ! Misers and enviers, of our human race, Say, what would you have done in such a case? Each of the sisters murmured, sad and low;
6 POEMS
" Wliat boots it, oh, Desire, to me to have Crowns, treasures, all the goods that heart can crave, Or power divine bestow, Since still another must have always more? "
So each, lest she should speak before The other, hesitating slow and long Till the god lost all patience, held her tongue.
He was enraged, in such a way.
To be kept waiting there all day, With two such beauties in the public road ;
Scarce able to be civil even.
He wished them both — well, not in heaven.
Envy at last the silence broke.
And smiling, with malignant sneer, Upon her sister dear,
Who stood in expectation by. Ever implacable and cruel, spoke:
I would be blinded of one eye? "
American Keepsake.
n
ODES.— 1818-28
KING LOUIS XVII
(" En ce temps-la du del les partes.")
THE golden gates were opened wide that day. All through the unveiled heaven there seemed to play Out of the Holiest of Holy, light; And the elect beheld, crowd immortal,
A young soul, led up by young angels bright, Stand in the starry portal.
A fair child fleeing from the world's fierce hate, In his blue eye the shade of sorrow sate,
His golden hair hung all dishevelled down. On wasted cheeks that told a mournful story.
And angels twined him with the innocent's crown. The martyr's palm of glory.
The virgin souls that to the Lamb are near,
Called through the clouds with voices heavenly clear,
God hath prepared a glory for thy brow. Rest in his arms, and all ye hosts that sing His praises ever on untired string,
Chant, for a mortal comes among ye now; Do homage — " 'Tis a king."
And the pale shadow saith to God in heaven:
" I am an orphan and no king at all ; I was a weary prisoner yestereven.
My father's murderers fed my soul with gall.
7
8 POEMS
Not me, O Lord, the regal name beseems.
Last night I fell asleep in dungeon drear, But then I saw my mother in my dreams,
Say, shall I find her here? "
The angels said : " Thy Saviour bids thee come. Out of an impure world He calls thee home,
From the mad earth, where horrid murder waves
Over the broken cross her impure wings. And regicides go down among the graves, Scenting the blood of kings."
He cries: " Then have I finished my long life?
Are all its evils over, all its strife.
And will no cruel gaoler evermore
Wake me to pain, this blissful vision o'er?
Is it no dream that nothing else remains
Of all my torments but this answered cry, And have I had, 0 God, amid my chains.
The happiness to die?
" For none can tell what cause I had to pine. What pangs, what miseries, each day were mine; And when I wept there was no mother near To soothe my cries, and smile away my tear. Poor victim of a punishment unending.
Torn like a sapling from its mother earth. So young, I could not tell what crime impending
Had stained me from my birth.
" Yet far off in dim memory it seems, With all its horror mingled happy dreams, Strange cries of glory rocked my sleeping head. And a glad people watched beside my bed. One day into mysterious darkness thrown,
I saw the promise of my future close; I was a little child, left all alone,
Alas! and I had foes.
ODES 9
" They cast me living in a dreary tomb, Never mine eyes saw sunlight pierce the gloom, Only ye, brother angels, used to sweep Down from your heaven, and visit me in sleep. 'Neath blood-red hands my young life withered there.
Dear Lord, the bad are miserable all. Be not Thou deaf, like them, unto my prayer,
It is for them I call."
The angels sang: " See heaven's high arch unfold,
Come, we will crown thee with the stars above, Will give thee cherub-Avings of blue and gold.
And thou shalt learn our ministry of love, Shalt rock the cradle where some mother's tears
Are dropping o'er her restless little one. Or, with thy luminous breath, in distant spheres,
Shalt kindle some cold sun."
Ceased the full choir, all heaven was hushed to hear, Bowed the fair face, still wet with many a tear. In depths of space, the rolling worlds were stayed, Whilst the Eternal in the infinite said :
" O king, I kept thee far from human state.
Who hadst a dungeon only for thy throne, O son, rejoice, and bless thy bitter fate.
The slavery of kings thou hast not known, What if thy wasted arms are bleeding yet.
And wounded with the fetter's cruel trace. No earthly diadem has ever set
A stain upon thy face.
" Child, life and hope were with thee at thy birth. But life soon bowed thy tender form to earth,
And hope forsook thee in thy hour of need. Come, for thy Saviour had His pains divine; Come, for His brow was crowned with thorns like thine, His sceptre was a reed."
Dublin University Magazine.
10 POEMS
THE FEAST OF FREEDOM
(" Lorsqu'a V antique Olympe immolant Vevangile.^*)
[There was in Rome one antique usage as follows: On the eve of the execution day, the sufferers were given a public banquet — at the prison- gate — known as the "Free Festival." — Chateaubeiand's " Mahtybs."]
TO YE KINGS.
When the Christians were doomed to the lions of old By the priest and the praetor, combined to uphold
An idolatrous cause, Forth they came while the vast Colosseum throughout Gathered thousands looked on, and they fell 'mid the shout
Of " the People's " applause.
On the eve of that day of their evenings the last ! At the gates of their dungeon a gorgeous repast.
Rich, unstinted, unpriced. That the doomed might (forsooth) gather strength ere they
bled. With an ignorant pity the gaolers would spread For the martyrs of Christ.
Oh, 'twas strange for a pupil of Paul to recline On voluptuous couch, while Falernian wine
Fill'd his cup to the brim! Dulcet music of Greece, Asiatic repose. Spicy fragrance of Araby, Italian rose,
All united for him!
Every luxury known through the earth's wide expanse, In profusion procured was put forth to enhance
The repast that they gave; And no Sybarite, nursed in the lap of delight, Such a banquet ere tasted as welcomed that night
The elect of the grave.
ODES 11
And the lion, meantime, shook his ponderous chain, Loud and fierce howled the tiger, impatient to stain
The bloodthirsty arena; Whilst the women of Rome, who applauded those deeds And who hailed the forthcoming enjoyment, must needs
Shame the restless h3'sena.
They who figured as guests on that ultimate eve, In their turn on the morrow were destined to give
To the lions their food ; For, behold, in the guise of a slave at that board. Where his victims enjoyed all that life can afford,
Death administering stood.
Such, O monarchs of earth ! was your banquet of power, But the tocsin has burst on your festival hour —
'Tis your knell that it rings! To the popular tiger a prey is decreed. And the maw of Republican hunger will feed
On a banquet of Kings!
"Father Prout " (Frank Mahony).
GENIUS
(To Chateaubriand.)
(" Malheur a V enfant! ")
Woe unto him ! the child of this sad earth.
Who, in a troubled world, unjust and blind, Bears Genius — treasure of celestial birth,
Within his solitary soul enshrined. Woe unto him ! for Envy's pangs impure. Like the undying vultures', will be driven Into his noble heart, that must endure Pangs for each triumph ; and, still unforgiven. Suffer Prometheus' doom, who ravished fire from Heaven.
12 POEMS
Still though his destiny on earth may be Grief and injustice; who would not endure,
With joyful calm, each proffered agony; Could he the prize of Genius thus ensure?
What mortal feeling kindled in his soul
That clear celestial flame, so pure and high.
O'er which nor time nor death can have control, Would in inglorious pleasures basely fly From suff'erings whose reward is Immortality?
No ! though the clamours of the envious crowd Pursue the son of Genius, he will rise
From the dull clod, borne by an eff'ort proud
Beyond the reach of vulgar enmities. 'Tis thus the eagle, with his pinions spread,
Reposing o'er the tempest, from that height Sees the clouds reel and roll above our head, While he, rejoicing in his tranquil flight, More upward soars sublime in heaven's eternal light.
Mrs. Torre Hulme
THE GIRL OF OTAHEITE
" O! dis-moi, tu veux fulr? "
Forget? Can I forget the scented breath Of breezes, sighing of thee, in mine ear; The strange awaking from a dream of death. The sudden thrill to find thee coming near? Our huts were desolate, and far away I heard thee calling me throughout the day. No one had seen thee pass, Trembling I came. Alas! Can I forget?
ODES 12
Once I was beautiful ; my maiden charms
Died with the grief that from my bosom fell. Ah! weary traveller! rest in my loving arms! Let there be no regrets and no farewell I
Here of thy mother sweet, where waters flow, Here of thy fatherland we whispered low ; Here, music, praise, and prayer Filled the glad summer air. Can I forget.?
Forget? My dear old home must I forget?
And wander forth and hear my people weep. Far from the Avoods where, when the sun has set. Fearless but weary to thy arms I creep ;
Far from lush flow'rets and the palmtree's moan I could not live. Here let me rest alone! Go ! I must follow nigh. With thee I'm doomed to die. Never forget!
Clement Scott.
NtRO'S INCENDIARY SONG
(" Amis! ennui nous tue.")
Aweary unto death, my friends, a mood by wise abhorred. Come to the novel feast I spread, thrice-consul, Nero, lord. The Caesar, master of the world, and eke of harmony, Wlio plays the harp of many strings, a chief of minstrelsy.
My joyful call should instantly bring all who love me most, — For ne'er were seen such arch delights from Greek or Roman
host; Nor at the free, control-less jousts, where, spite of cynic
vaunts. Austere but lenient Seneca no " Ercles " bumper daunts ;
14 POEMS
Nor where upon the Tiber floats Aglae in galley gay, 'Neath Asian tent of brilliant stripes, in gorgeous array ; Nor when to lutes and tambourines the wealthy prefect flings A score of slaves, their fetters wreathed, to feed grim, greedy things.
I vow to show ye Rome aflame, the whole town in a mass ;
Upon this tower we'll take our stand to watch the 'wildered pass;
How paltry fights of men and beasts ! here be my com- batants,—
The Seven Hills my circus form, and fiends shall lead the dance.
Tlus is more meet for him who rules to drive away his stress —
He, being god, should lightnings hurl and make a wilder- ness —
But, haste ! for night is darkling — soon, the festival it brings ;
Already see the hydra show its tongues and sombre wings,
And mark upon a shrinking prey the rush of kindling
breaths ; They tap and sap the threatened walls, and bear uncounted
deaths ; And 'neath caresses scorching hot the palaces decay — Oh, that I, too, could thus caress, and burn, and blight, and
slay !
Hark to the hubbub ! scent the fumes ! Are those real men or ghosts?
The stillness spreads of Death abroad — down come the tem- ple posts,
Their molten bronze is coursing fast and joins with silver waves
To leap with hiss of thousand snakes where Tiber writhes and raves.
ODES 15
All's lost! in jasper, marble, gold, the statues totter — crash! Spite of the names divine engraved, they are but dust and ash. The victor-scourge sweeps swollen on, whilst north winds
sound the horn To goad the flies of fire yet beyond the flight forlorn.
Proud capital ! farewell for e'er ! these flames nought can sub- due —
The Aqueduct of Sylla gleams, a bridge o'er hellish brew.
'Tis Nero's whim ! how good to see Rome brought the lowest down;
Yet, Queen of all the earth, give thanks for such a splendrous crown!
When I was young, the Sybils pledged eternal rule to thee ; That Time himself would lay his bones before thy unbent
knee. Ha ! ha ! how brief indeed the space ere this " inmiortal star " Shall be consumed in its own glow, and vanished — oh, how
far!
How lovely conflagrations look when night is utter dark ! The youth who fired Ephesus' fane falls low beneath my mark. The pangs of people — when I sport, what matters ? — See
them whirl About, as salamanders frisk and in the brazier curl.
Take from my brow this poor rose-crown — the flames have
made it pine; If blood rains on your festive gowns, wash off with Cretan
wine! I like not overmuch that red — good taste says " gild a
crime ! " " To stifle shrieks by drinking-songs " is — thanks ! a hint
sublime !
16 POEMS
I punish Rome, I am avenged ; did she not offer prayers Erst unto Jove, late unto Christ? — to e'en a Jew, she dares! Now, in thy terror, own my right to rule above them all; Alone I rest — except this pile, I leave no single hall.
Yet I destroy to build a new, and Rome shall fairer shine — But out, my guards, and slay the dolts who thought me not
divine. The stiff necks, haste ! annihilate ! make ruin all complete — And, slaves, bring in fresh roses — what odour is more sweet ?
H. L. Williams.
REGRET
(" Oui, le bonheur Men vite a passe.")
Yes, Happiness hath left me soon behind!
Alas ! we all pursue its steps ! and when We've sunk to rest within its arms entwined, Like the Phoenician virgin, wake, and find
Ourselves alone again.
Then, through the distant future's boundless space,
We seek the lost companion of our days: Return, return ! " we cry, and lo, apace Pleasure appears ! but not to fill the place Of that we mourn always.
I, should unhallowed Pleasure woo me now,
Will to the wanton sorc'ress say, " Begone I Respect the cypress on my mournful brow, Lost Happiness hath left regret — but thou Leavest remorse, alone."
Yet, haply lest I check the mounting fire, O friends, that in your revelry appears!
ODES 17
With you I'll breathe the air which ye respire, And, smiling, hide my melancholy lyre When it is wet with tears.
Each in his secret heart perchance doth own
Some fond regret 'neath passing smiles concealed ; — Sufferers alike together and alone Are we ; with many a grief to others known, How many unrevealed!
Alas ! for natural tears and simple pains,
For tender recollections, cherished long, For guileless griefs, which no compunction stains, We blush ; as if we wore these earthly chains
Only for sport and song!
Yes, my blest hours have fled without a trace :
In vain I strove their parting to delay ; Brightly they beamed, then left a cheerless space, Like an o'erclouded smile, that in the face
Lightens, and fades away.
Fraser^s Magazine.
MORNING (" Le voile du matin")
The mist of the morning is torn by the peaks,
Old towers gleam white in the ray. And already the glory so joyously seeks
The lark that's saluting the day.
Then smile away, man, at the heavens so fair. Though, were you swept hence in the night,
From your dark, lonely tomb the owlets would stare At the sun rising newly as bright. 8
18 POEMS
But out of earth's trammels your soul would have flown
Where glitters Eternity's stream, And you shall have waked 'midst pure glories unknown,
As sunshine disperses a dream.
H. L. W.
BELOVED NAME
(" Le parfum d'un Us.")
The lily's perfume pure, fame's crown of light,
The latest murmur of departing day. Fond friendship's plaint, that melts at piteous sight, The mystic farewell of each hour at flight,
The kiss which beauty grants with coy delay, —
The seven-fold scarf that parting storms bestow As trophy to the proud, triumphant sun ;
The thrilling accent of a voice we know,
The love-enthralled maiden's secret vow.
An infant's dream, ere life's first sands be run, —
The chant of distant choirs, the morning's sigh,
Which erst inspired the fabled Menmon's frame, — The melodies that, hummed, so trembling die, — The sweetest gems that 'mid thought's treasures lie. Have nought of sweetness that can match Her Name !
Low be its utterance, like a prayer divine.
Yet in each warbled song be heard the sound; Be it the light in darksome fanes to shine, The sacred word which at some hidden shrine, The self-same voice forever makes resound !
O friends! ere yet, in living strains of flame, My muse, bewildered in her circlings wide,
ODES 19
With names the vaunting lips of pride proclaim. Shall dare to blend the one, the purer name,
Which love a treasure in my breast doth hide, —
Must the wild lay my faithful harp can sing,
Be like the hymns which mortals, kneeling, hear;
To solemn harmonies attuned the string,
As, music show'ring from his viewless wing. On heavenly airs some angel hovered near,
Caroline Bowles (Mrs. Southey).
THE PORTRAIT OF A CHILD
(" Oui, ce front, ce sourire.")
That brow, that smile, that cheek so fair.
Beseem my child, who weeps and plays ;
A heavenly spirit guards her ways. From whom she stole that mixture rare.
Through all her features shining mild, The poet sees an angel there,
The father sees a child.
And by their flame so pure and bright, We see how lately those sweet eyes Have wandered down from Paradise,
And still are lingering in its light.
All earthly things are but a shade
Through which she looks at things above
And sees the holy Mother-maid,
Athwart her mother's glance of love.
She seems celestial songs to hear, And virgin souls are whispering near,
20 POEMS
Till by her radiant smile deceived, I say, " Young angel, lately given,
When was thy martyrdom achieved?
And what name dost thou bear in Heaven ? "
Dublin University Magazine.
BALLADES.— 1823-'28
THE GRANDMOTHER
(" Dors-tu? . . . reveille toi! ") "To die — to sleep." — Shakespeare,
STHjL asleep! We have been since the noon thus alone. Oh, the hours we have ceased to number! Wake, grandmother ! — speechless say why thou art grown. Then, thy lips are so cold ! — the Madonna of stone
Is like thee in thy holy slumber. We have watched thee in sleep, we have watched thee at prayer, But what can now betide thee? Like thy hours of repose all thy orisons were, And thy lips would still murmur a blessing whene'er Thy children stood beside thee.
Now thine eye is unclosed, and thy forehead is bent
O'er the hearth, where ashes smoulder ; And behold, the watch-lamp will be speedily spent. Art thou vexed? have we done aught amiss? Oh, relent!
But — parent, thy hands grow colder! Say, with ours wilt thou let us rekindle in thine
The glow that has departed? Wilt thou sing us some song of the days of lang syne? Wilt thou tell us some tale, from those volumes divine,
Of the brave and noble-hearted?
21
22 POEMS
Of the dragon who, crouching in forest green glen,
Lies in wait for the unwary — Of the maid who was freed by her knight from the den Of the ogre, whose club was uplifted, but then
Turned aside by the wand of a fairy? Wilt thou teach us spell-words that protect from all harm^
And thoughts of evil banish? What goblins the sign of the cross may disarm? What saint it is good to invoke? and what charm
Can make the demon vanish?
Or unfold to our gaze thy most wonderful book,
So feared by hell and Satan ; At its hermits and martyrs in gold let us look, At the virgins, and bishops with pastoral crook.
And the hymns and the prayers in Latin. Oft with legends of angels, who watch o'er the young.
Thy voice was wont to gladden ; Have thy lips yet no language — no wisdom thy tongue? Oh, see ! the light wavers, and sinking, hath flung
On the wall forms that sadden.
Wake! awake! evil spirits perhaps may presume
To haunt thy holy dwelling; Pale ghosts are, perhaps, stealing into the room — Oh, would that the lamp were relit ! with the gloom
These fearful thoughts dispelling. Thou hast told us our parents lie sleeping beneath
The grass, in a churchyard lonely : Now, thine eyes have no motion, thy mouth has no breath, And thy limbs are all rigid I Oh, say. Is this death.
Or thy prayer or thy slumber only ?
Envoy. Sad vigil they kept by that grandmother's chair.
Kind angels hovered o'er them — And the dead-bell was tolled in the hamlet — and there,
BALLADES 23
On the following eve, knelt that innocent pair, With the missal-book before them.
"Father Prout " (Frank S. Mahony).
THE GIANT IN GLEE
(" Ho, guerriers! je suis ne dans le pays des Gaules.")
Ho, warriors! I was reared in the land of the Gauls; O'er the Rhine my ancestors came bounding like balls Of the snow at the Pole, where, a babe, I was bathed Ere in bear and in walrus-skin I was enswathed.
Thert my father was strong, whom the years lowly bow,-
A bison could wallow in the grooves of his brow.
He is weak, very old — he can scarcely uptear
A young pine-tree for staff since his legs cease to bear;
But here's to replace him ! — I can toy with his axe; As I sit on the hill my feet swing in the flax. And my knee caps the boulders and troubles the trees. How they shiver, yea, quake if I happen to sneeze!
I was still but a springald when, cleaving the Alps,
I brushed snowy periwigs off granitic scalps.
And my head, o'er the pinnacles, stopped the fleet clouds,
Where I captured the eagles and caged them by crowds.
There were tempests ! I blew them back unto their source ! And put out their lightnings ! More than once in a course. Through the ocean I went wading after the whale, And stirred up the bottom as did never a gale.
Fond of rambling, I hunted the shark 'long the beach. And no osprey in ether soared out of my reach ; And the bear that I pinched 'twixt my finger and thumb. Like the lynx and the wolf, perished harmless and dumb.
24 POEMS
But these pleasures of childhood have lost all their zest ;
It is warfare and carnage that now I love best :
The sounds that I wish to awaken and hear
Are the cheers raised by courage, the shrieks due to fear ;
When the riot of flames, ruin, smoke, steel and blood, Announces an army rolls along as a flood, Which I follow, to harry the clamorous ranks, Sharp-goading the laggards and pressing the flanks, Till, 'a thresher 'mid ripest of corn, up I stand With an oak for a flail in my unflagging hand.
Rise the groans ! rise the screams ! on my feet fall vain tears As the roar of my laughter redoubles their fears. I am naked. At armour of steel I should joke — True, I'm helmed — a brass pot you could draw with ten yoke.
I look for no ladder to invade the king's hall —
I stride o'er the ramparts, and down the walls fall,
Till choked are the ditches with the stones, dead and quick,
Whilst the flagstaff* I use 'midst my teeth as a pick.
Oh, when cometh my turn to succumb like my prey. May brave men my body snatch away from th' array Of the crows — may they heap on the rocks till they loom Like a mountain, befitting a colossus' tomb !
Foreign Quarterly Review {adapted).
THE CYMBALEER'S BRIDE
(" Monseigneur le Due de Bretagne")
SIy lord the Duke of Brittany
Has summoned his barons bold —
Their names make a fearful litany !
Among them you will not meet any But men of giant mould.
BALLADES . 25
Proud earls, who dwell in donjon keep,
And steel-clad knight and peer. Whose forts are girt with a moat cut deep — But none excel in soldiership
My own loved cymbaleer.
Clashing his cymbals, forth he went.
With a bold and gallant bearing ; Sure for a captain he was meant, To judge his pride with courage blent.
And the cloth of gold he's wearing.
But in my soul since then I feel
A fear in secret creeping; And to my patron saint I kneel. That she may recommend his weal
To his guardian-angel's keeping.
I've begged our abbot Bernardine
His prayers not to relax; And to procure him aid divine I've burnt upon Saint Gilda's shrine
Three pounds of virgin wax.
Our Lady of Loretto knows
The pilgrimage I've vowed: " To wear the scallop I propose. If health and safety from the foes My lover be allowed."
No letter (fond affection's gage!)
From him could I require, The pain of absence to assuage — A vassal-maid can have no page,
A liegeman has no squire.
This day will witness, with the duke's, My cymbaleer's return:
26 POEMS
Gladness and pride beam in my looks. Delay my heart impatient brooks, All meaner thoughts I spurn.
Back from the battlefield elate
His banner brings each peer; Come, let us see, at the ancient gate, The martial triumph pass in state — With the princes my cymbaleer.
We'll have from the rampart walls a glance Of the air his steed assumes;
His proud neck swells, his glad hoofs prance.
And on his head unceasing dance,
In a gorgeous tuft, red plumes!
Be quick, my sisters ! dress in haste !
Come, see him bear the bell, With laurels decked, with true love graced, While in his bold hands, fitly placed,
The bounding cymbals swell!
Mark well the mantle that he'U wear.
Embroidered by his bride! Admire his burnished helmet's glare, O'ershadowed by the dark horsehair
That waves in jet folds wide!
The gipsy (spiteful wench!) foretold, With a voice like a viper hissing (Though I had crossed her palm with gold). That from the ranks a spirit bold
Would be to-day found missing.
But I have prayed so much, I trust Her words may prove untrue; Though in a tomb the hag accurst Muttered : " Prepare thee for the worst ! ** Whilst the lamp burnt ghastly blue.
BALLADES 27
Mj joy her spells shall not prevent.
Hark ! I can hear the drums ! And ladies fair from silken tent Peep forth, and every eye is bent
On the cavalcade that comes !
Pikemen, dividing on both flanks,
Open the pageantry ; Loud, as they tread, their armour clanks, And silk-robed barons lead the ranks —
The pink of gallantry !
In scarves of gold the priests admire:
The heralds on white steeds; Armorial pride decks their attire, Worn in remembrance of some sire
Famed for heroic deeds.
Feared by the Paynim's dark divan.
The Templars next advance; Then the tall halberds of Lausanne, Foremost to stand in battle van
Against the foes of France.
Now hail the duke, with radiant brow,
Girt with his cavaliers ; Round his triumphant banner bow Those of his foe. Look, sisters, now !
Here come the cymbaleers !
She spoke • — with searching eye surveyed
Their ranks — then, pale, aghast. Sunk in the crowd ! Death came in aid — 'Twas mercy to that loving maid —
The cymbaleers had passed!
" Father Prout " (Frank S. Mahony).
28 POEMS
THE BATTLE
(" Accourez tous, olseaux de proie! ")
Ho ! hither flock, ye fowls of prey !
Ye wolves of war, make no delay !
For foemen 'neath our blades shall fall
Ere night may veil with purple pall.
The evening psalms are nearly o'er. And priests who follow in our train Have promised us the final gain,
And filled with faith our valiant corps.
Let orphans weep, and widows brood!
To-morrow we shall wash the blood
Off saw-gapped sword and lances bent.
So, close the ranks and fire the tent!
And chill yon coward cavalcade With brazen bugles blaring loud, E'en though our chargers' neighing proud
Already has the host dismayed.
Spur, horsemen, spur! the charge resounds!
On Gaelic spear the Northman bounds !
Through helmet plumes the arrows flit,
And plated breasts the pikeheads split.
The double-axe fells human oaks, And like the thistles in the field See bristling up (where none must yield!)
The points hewn off^ by sweeping strokes!
We, heroes all, our wounds disdain; Dismounted now, our horses slain, Yet we advance — more courage show,
BALLADES 29
Though stricken, seek to overthrow The victor-knights who tread in mud
The writhing slaves who bite the heel,
While on caparisons of steel
The maces thunder — cudgels thud !
Should daggers fail hide-coats to shred,
Seize each your man and hug him dead!
Who falls unslain will only make
A mouthful to the wolves who slake
Their month-whet thirst. No captives, none!
We die or win ! but should we die,
The lopped-off arm will wave on high The broken brand to hail the sun !
H. L. W.
MADELAINE
(** Ecoute-mol, Madeleine,"')
List to me, O Madelaine !
Now the snows have left the plain.
Which they warmly cloaked. Come into the forest groves. Where the notes that Echo loves
Are from horns evoked.
Come! where Springtide, Madelaine, Brings a sultry breath from Spain,
Giving buds their hue; And, last night, to glad your eye. Laid the floral marquetry.
Red and gold and blue.
Would I were, O Madelaine, As the lamb whose wool you train Through your tender hands.
30 POEMS
Would I were the bird that whirls Round, and comes to peck your curls, Happy in such bands.
Were I e'en, O Madelaine, Hermit whom the herd disdain
In his pious cell, When your purest lips unfold Sins which might to all be told,
As to him you tell.
Would I were, O Madelaine,
Moth that murmurs 'gainst your pane,
Peering at your rest, As, so like its woolly wing. Ceasing scarce its fluttering.
Heaves and sinks your breast.
If you seek it, Madelaine,
You may wish, and not in vain,
For a serving host. And your splendid hall of state Shall be envied by the great.
O'er the Jew-King's boast.
If you name it, Madelaine,
Round your head no more you'll train
Simple marguerites. No! the coronet of peers. Whom the queen herself oft fears.
And the monarch greets.
If you wish, O Madelaine !
Where you gaze you long shall reign —
For I'm ruler here! I'm the lord who asks your hand If you do not bid me stand
Loving shepherd here!
H. L. W.
BALLADES 81
THE FAY AND THE PERI
(" Oil vas-tu done, jeune dme")
The Peri. Beautiful spirit, coine with me Over the blue enchanted sea:
Morn and evening thou canst play In my garden, where the breeze Warbles through the fruity trees;
No shadow falls upon the day: There thy mother's arms await Her cherished infant at the gate. Of Peris I the loveliest far — My sisters, near the morning star. In ever youthful bloom abide; But pale their lustre by my side — A silken turban wreathes my head, Rubies on my arms are spread. While sailing slowly through the sky. By the uplooker's dazzled eye Are seen my wings of purple hue. Glittering with Elysian dew.
Whiter than a far-off sail My form of beauty glows.
Fair as on a summer night
Dawns the sleep-star's gentle light; And fragrant as the early rose
That scents the green Arabian vale. Soothing the pilgrim as he goes.
The Fay. Beautiful infant (said the Fay),
In the region of the sun I dwell, where in a rich array
32 POEMS
The clouds encircle the king of day,
His radiant journey done. My wings, pure golden, of radiant sheen
(Painted as amorous poet's strain), Glimmer at night, when meadows green
Sparkle with the perfumed rain
While the sun's gone to come again. And clear my hand, as stream that flows ;
And sweet my breath as air of May ;
And o'er my ivory shoulders stray
Locks of sunshine ; — tunes still play From my odorous lips of rose.
Follow, follow ! I have caves
Of pearl beneath the azure waves,
And tents all woven pleasantly
In verdant glades of Faery.
Come, beloved child, with me.
And I will bear thee to the bowers
Where clouds are painted o'er like flowers,
And pour into thy charmed ear
Songs a mortal may not hear;
Harmonies so sweet and ripe
As no inspired shepherd's pipe
E'er breathed into Arcadian glen.
Far from the busy haunts of men.
The Peri. My home is afar in the bright Orient, Where the sun, like a king, in his orange tent, Reigncth for ever in gorgeous pride —
And wafting thee, princess of rich countree,
To the soft flute's lush melody, My golden vessel will gently glide. Kindling the water 'long the side.
BALLADES 33
Vast cities are mine of power and delight, Lahore laid in lilies, Golconda, Cashmere;
And Ispahan, dear to the pilgrim's sight,
And Bagdad, whose towers to heaven uprear; Alep, that pours on the startled ear,
From its restless masts the gathering roar,
As of ocean hamm'ring at night on the shore.
Mysore is a queen on her stately throne.
Thy white domes, Medina, gleam on the eye, — Thy radiant kiosques with their arrowy spires. Shooting afar their golden fires Into the flashing sky, — Like a forest of spears that startle the gaze Of the enemy with the vivid blaze.
Come there, beautiful child, with me,
Come to the arcades of Araby,
To the land of the date and the purple vine,
Where pleasure her rosy wreaths doth twine,
And gladness shall be alway thine;
Singing at sunset next thy bed.
Strewing flowers under thy head.
Beneath a verdant roof of leaves,
Arching a flow'ry carpet o'er. Thou mayst list to lutes on summer eves
Their lays of rustic freshness pour,
While upon the grassy floor Light footsteps, in the hour of calm, Ruffle the shadow of the palm.
The Fay.
Come to the radiant homes of the blest. Where meadows like fountain in light are drest. And the grottoes of verdure never decay, And the glow of the August dies not away.
34 POEMS
Come where the autumn winds never can sweep, And the streams of the woodland steep thee in sleep, Like a fond sister charming the eyes of a brother, Or a little lass lulled on the breast of her mother. Beautiful ! beautiful ! hasten to me ! Colored with crimson thy wings shall be ; Flowers that fade not thy forehead shall twine, Over thee sunlight that sets not shall shine.
The infant listened to the strain,
Now here, now there, its thoughts were driven — But the Fay and the Peri waited in vain, The soul soared above such a sensual gain —
The child rose to Heaven.
Asiatic Journal,
LES ORIENTALES.— 1829
THE SCOURGE OF HEAVEN
(" La, voyez-vous 'passer, la nuee")
I.
HAST seen it pass, that cloud of darkest rim? Now red and glorious, and now grey and dim. Now sad as summer, barren in its heat? One seems to see at once rush through the night The smoke and turmoil from a burning site
Of some great town in fiery grasp complete.
Whence comes it? From the sea, the hills, the sky? Is it the flaming chariot from on high
Which demons to some planet seem to bring? Oh, horror ! from its wondrous centre, lo ! A furious stream of lightning seems to flow
Like a long snake uncoiling its fell ring.
n.
The sea ! naught but the sea ! waves on all sides ! Vainly the sea-bird would outstrip these tides!
Nought but an endless ebb and flow ! Wave upon wave advancing, then controlled Beneath the depths a stream the eyes behold
Rolling in the involved abyss below !
Whilst here and there great fishes in the spray Their silvery fins beneath the sun display,
35
36 POEMS
Or their blue tails lash up from out the surge, Like to a flock the sea its fleece doth fling ; The horizon's edge bound by a brazen ring;
Waters and sky in mutual azure merge.
" Am I to dry these seas? " exclaimed the cloud. " No ! " It went onward 'neath the breath of God.
ni. Green hills, which round a limpid bay
Reflected, bask in the clear wave ! The javelin and its buffalo prey.
The laughter and the j oy ous stave ! The tent, the manger! these describe A hunting and a fishing tribe Free as the air — their arrows fly Swifter than lightning through the sky ! By them is breathed the purest air.
Where'er their wanderings may chance! Children and maidens young and fair,
And warriors circling in the dance! Upon the beach, around the fire, Now quenched by wind, now burning higher, Like spirits which our dreams inspire
To hover o'er our trance.
Virgins, with skins of ebony.
Beauteous as evening skies. Laughed as their forms they dimly see
In metal mirrors rise; Others, as joyously as they. Were drawing for their food by day, With jet-black hands, white camels' whey.
Camels with docile eyes.
Both men and women, bare.
Plunged in the briny bay. Who knows them? Whence they were?
Where passed they yesterday?
LES ORIENTALES 37
Shrill sounds were hovering o*er, Mixed with the ocean's roar, Of cymbals from the shore,
And whinnying courser's neigh.
" Is't there? " one moment asked the cloudy mass;
" Is't there?" An unknow.. utterance answered: "Pass!"
IV.
Whitened with grain see Egypt's lengthened plains, Far as the eyesight larthest space contains,
Like a rich carpet spread their varied hues. The cold sea north, southwards the burying sand Dispute o'er Egypt — while the smiling land
Still mockingly their empire does refuse.
Three marble triangles seem to pierce the sky, Anu hide their basements from the curious eye.
Mountains — with waves jf ashes covered o'er ! In graduated blocks of six feet square From golden base to top, from earth to air
Their ever heightening monstrous steps they bore.
No scorching blast could daunt the sleepless ken Of roseate Sphinx, and god of marble green.
Which stood as guardians o'er the sacred ground. For a greai. port steered vessels huge and fleet, A giant city bathed her marble feet
In the bright waters round.
^&'
One heard the dread simoom in distance roar, Whilst the crushed shell upon the pebbly shore
Crackled beneath the crocodile's huge coil. Westwards, like tiger's skin, each separate isle Spotted the surface of the yellow Nile;
Grey obelisks shot upwards from the soil.
38 POEMS
The star-king set. The sea, it seemed to hold In the cahn miri"or this Hve globe of gold,
This world, the soul and torchbearer of our own. In the red sky, and in the purple streak, Like friendly kings who would each other seek,
Two meeting suns were shown.
" Shall I not stop ? " exclaimed the impatient cloud. " Seek ! " trembling Tabor heard the voice of God.
V.
Sand, sand and still more sand ! The desert! Fearful land!
Teeming with monsters dread And plagues on every hand ! Here in an endless flow. Sandhills of golden glow, Where'er the tempests blow,
Like a great flood are spread. Sometimes the sacred spot Hears human sounds profane, when As from Ophir or from Mcmphre
Stretches the caravan.
From far the eyes, its trail Along the burning shale Bending its wavering tail,
Like a mottled serpent scan. These deserts are of God!
His are the bounds alone. Here, where no feet have trod,
To Him its centre known! And from this smoking sea Veiled in obscurity. The foam one seems to see
In fiery ashes thrown.
3
LES ORIENTALES 39
" Shall desert change to lake? " cried out the cloud. " Still further ! " from heaven's depths sounded that Voice aloud.
VI.
Like tumbled waves, which a huge rock surround ; Like heaps of ruined towers which strew the ground,
See Babel now deserted and dismayed ! Huge witness to the folly of mankind; Four distant mountains when tl\e moonlight shined
Seem covered with its shade.
O'er miles and miles the shattered ruins spread Beneath its base, from captive tempests bred.
The air seemed filled with harmony strange and dire; Wliile swarmed around the entire human race A future Babel, on the world's whole space
Fixed its eternal spire.
Up to the zenith rose its lengthening stair. While each great granite mountain lent a share
To form a stepping base; Height upon height repeated seemed to rise, For pyramid on pyramid the strained eyes
Saw take their ceaseless place.
Through j^awning walls huge elephants stalked by; Under dark pillars rose a forestry,
Pillars by madness multiplied; As round some giant hive, all day and night. Huge vultures, and red eagles' wheeling flight
Was through each porch descried.
" Must I complete it ? " said the angered cloud.
" On still! " " Lord, whither? " groaned it, deep not loud.
VII.
Two cities, strange, unknown in history's page, Up to the clouds seemed scaling, stage by stage.
40 POEMS
Noiseless their streets; their sleeping Inmates lie,
Their gods, their chariots, in obscurity !
Like sisters sleeping 'neath the same moonlight,
O'er their twin towers crept the shades of night,
Whilst scarce distinguished in the black profound,
Stairs, aqueducts, great pillars, gleamed around,
And ruined capitals: then was seen a group
Of granite elephants 'neath a dome to stoop,
Shapeless, giant forms to view arise.
Monsters around, the spawn of hideous ties!
Then hanging gardens, with flowers and galleries:
O'er vast fountains bending grew ebon trees;
Temples, where seated on their rich tiled thrones.
Bull-headed idols shone in j asper stones ;
Vast halls, spanned by one block, where watch and stare
Each upon each, with straight and moveless glare.
Colossal heads in circles ; the eye sees
Great gods of bronze, their hands upon their knees.
Sight seemed confounded, and to have lost its powers,
'Midst bridges, aqueducts, arches, and round towers.
Whilst unknown shapes fill up the devious views
Formed by these palaces and avenues.
Like fapes, the lengthening shadows seem to rise
Of these dark buildings, pointed to the skies.
Immense entanglement in shroud of gloom !
The stars which gleamed in the empyrean dome.
Under the thousand arches in heaven's space
Shone as through meshes of the blackest lace.
Cities of hell, with foul desires demented.
And monstrous pleasures, hour by hour invented !
Each roof and home some monstrous m3'stcry bore !
Which through the world spread like a two-fold sore !
Yet all things slept, and scarce some pale late light.
Flitted along the streets through the still night,
Lamps of debauch, forgotten and alone.
The feast's lost fires left there to flicker on ;
The walls' large angles clove the light-lengthening shades
« >
LES OEIENTALES 4.1
'Neath the white moon, or on some pool's face played. Perchance one heard, faint in the plain beneath, The kiss suppressed, the mingling of the breath; And the two sister cities, tired of heat, In love's embrace lay down in murmurs sweet! Whilst sighing winds the scent of sycamore From Sodom to Gomorrah softly bore! Then over all spread out the blackened cloud, Tis here ! " the Voice on high exclaimed aloud.
vm.
From a cavern wide In the rent cloud's side, In sulphurous showers The red flame pours. The palaces fall
In the lurid light, Which casts a red pall
O'er their facades white!
Oh, Sodom I Gomorrah ! What a dome of horror Rests now on your walls! On you the cloud falls. Nation perverse!
On your fated heads. From its fell jaws, a curse
Its lightning fierce spreads!
The people awaken
Which godlessly slept; Their palaces shaken,
Their offences unwept! Their rolling cars all
Meet and crash in the street; And th? crowds, for a pall.
Find flames round their feet!
4^ POEMS
Numberless dead,
Round thes2 high towers spread,
Still sleep in the shade
By their rugged heights made;
Colossi of rocks
In ill-steadied blocks!
So hang on a wall
Black ants like a pall!
To escape is in vain From this horrible rain!
Alas ! all things die ; In the lightning's red flash The bridges all crash; 'Neath the tiles the flame creeps; From the fire-struck steeps Falls on the pavements below, All lurid in glow,
Rolling down from on high!
Beneath every spark,
The red, tyrannous fire Mounts up in the dark
Ever redder and higher; More swiftly than steed
Uncontrolled, see it pass ! Horrid idols all twist, By the crumbling flame kissed In their infamous dread,
Shrivelled members of brass!
It grows angry, flows on. Silver towers fall down Unforeseen, like a dream In its green and red stream, Which light? up the walls
LES ORIENTALES 43
Ere one crashes and falls, Like the changeable scale Of a lizard's bright mail. Agate, porphyr}^, cracks And is melted into wax ! Bend low to their doom These stones of the tomb ! E'en the great marble giant Called Nabo, sways pliant Like a tree; whilst the flare
Seemed each column to scorch
As it blazed like a torch Round and round in the air.
The magi, in vain.
From the heights to the plain
Their gods' images carry
In white tunic : they quake —
No idol can make The blue sulphur tarry ; The temple e'en where they meet. Swept under their feet In the folds of its sheet ! Turns a palace to coal! Whence the straitened cries roll From its terrified flock;
With incendiary grips It loosens a block.
Which smokes and then slips From its place by the shock ;
To the surface first sheers,
Then melts, disappears. Like the glacier, the rock ! The high priest, full of years, On the burnt site appears,
Whence the others have fled. Lo! his tiara's caught fire
U POEMS
As the furnace burns higher,
And pale, full of dread, See, the hand he would raise To tear his crown from the blaze
Is flaming instead!
Men, women, in crowds Hurrj on — the fire shrouds
And blinds all their eyes As, besieging each gate Of these cities of fate To the conscious-struck crowd. In each fiery cloud.
Hell appears in the skies!
IX.
Men say that then, to see his foe's sad fall As some old prisoner clings to his prison wall, Babel, accomplice of their guilt, was seen O'er the far hills to gaze with vision keen ! And as was worked this dispensation strange, A wondrous noise filled the world's startled range; Reached the dull hearing that deep, direful sound Of their sad tribe who live below the ground.
X.
'Gainst this pitiless flame who condemned could prevail? Who these walls, burnt and calcined, could venture to scale?
Yet their vile hands they sought to uplift. Yet they cared still to ask from what God, by what law? In their last sad embrace, 'midst their horror and awe.
Of this mighty volcano the drift.
'Neath great slabs of marble they hid them in vain, 'Gainst this everliving fire, God's own flaming rain!
'Tis the rash whom God seeks out the first ; They call on their gods, who were deaf to their cries,
|f LES ORIENTALES 45
For the punishing flame caused their cold granite eyes
In tears of hot lava to burst ! Thus away in the whirlwind did everything pass, ^
The man and the city, the soil and its grass !
God burnt this sad, sterile champaign ; Nought living was left of this people destroyed. And the unknown wind which blew over the void,
Each mountain changed into a plain.
XI.
The palm-tree that grows on the rock to this day. Feels its leaf growing yellow, its slight stem decay.
In the blasting and ponderous air; These towns are no more ! but to mirror their past. O'er their embers a cold lake spread far and spread fast.
With smoke like a furnace, lies there!
J. N. Fazakerley.
PIRATES' SONG
(" Nous emmenions en esclavage")
We're bearing five-score Christian dogs
To serve the cruel drivers : Some are fair beauties gently born.
And some rough coral-divers. We hardy skimmers of the sea
Are lucky in each sally. And, eighty strong, we send along
The dreaded Pirate Galley.
A nunnery was spied ashore. We lowered away the cutter.
And, landing, seized the youngest nun Ere she a cry could utter;
46 POEMS
Beside the creek, deaf to our oars, She slumbered in green alley,
As, eighty strong, we sent along The dreaded Pirate Galley.
«
Be silent, darling, you must come —
The wind is off shore blowing ; You only change your prison dull
For one that's splendid, glowing! His Highness doats on milky cheeks.
So do not make us dally " — We, eighty strong, who send along
The dreaded Pirate Galley.
She sought to flee back to her cell,
And called us each a devil ! We dare do aught bcomes Old Scratch,
But like a treatment civil. So, spite of buffet, prayers, and calls —
Too late her friends to rally — We, eighty strong, bore her along
Unto the Pirate Galley.
The fairer for her tears profuse,
As dews refresh the flower. She is well worth three purses full,
And will adorn the bower — For vain her vow to pine and die
Thus torn from her dear valley: She reigns, and we still row along
The dreaded Pirate Galley.
H. L. W.
LES ORIEN TALES 47
THE TURKISH CAPTIVE
(" Si je 11 etait captive.")
Oh ! were I not a captive,
I should love this fair countree; Those fields with maize abounding,
This ever-plaintive sea: I'd love those stars unnumbered,
If, passing in the shade, Beneath our walls I saw not
The spahi's sparkling blade.
I am no Tartar maiden
That a blackamoor of price Should tune my lute and hold to me
My glass of sherbet-ice. Far from these haunts of vices,
In dear my countree, we With sweethearts in the even
May chat and wander free.
But still I love this climate.
Where never wintry breeze Invades, with chilly murmur.
These open lattices ; Where rain is warm in summer,
And the insect glossy green, Most like a living emerald,
Shines 'mid the leafy screen.
With her chapelles fair Smyrna —
A gay pi'incess is she! Still, at her summons round her
Unfading spring ye see.
4i POEMS
And, as in beauteous vases,
Bright groups of flowers repose,
So, in her gulfs are lying Her archipelagoes.
I love these tall red turrets;
These standards brave unrolled ; And, like an infant's playthings,
These houses decked with gold. I love forsooth these reveries.
Though sandstorms make me pantj Voluptuously swaying
Upon an elephant.
Here in this fairy palace,
Full of such melodies, Methinks I hear deep murmurs
That in the deserts rise ; Soft mingling with the music
The Genii's voices pour, Amid the air, unceasing,
Around us evermore.
I love the burning odours
This glowing region gives; And, round each gilded lattice,
Thfe trembling, wreathing leaves; And, 'ncath the bending palm-tree,
The gaily gushing spring; And on the snow-white minaret,
The stork with snowier wing,
I love on mossy couch to sing
A Spanish roundelay. And see my sweet companions
Around commingling gay, —
LES ORIEN TALES 49
A roving band, light-hearted,
In froHcsonic array, — Who 'neath the screening parasols
Dance down the merry daj'.
But more than all enchanting
At niglit, it is to me, To sit, where winds are sighing,
Lone, musing by the sea; And, on its surface gazing,
To mark the moon so fair, Her silver fan outspreading,
In trembling radiance there.
W. D., Tait's Edin. Magazine.
MOONLIGHT ON THE BOSPHORUS.
(" La lune etait sereine.")
Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave ; At the cool casement, to the evening breeze flung wide, Leans the Sultana, and delights to watch the tide,
With surge of silvery sheen, yon sleeping islets lave.
From her hand, as it falls, vibrates the light guitar.
She listens — hark ! that sound that echoes dull and low.
Is it the beat upon the Archipelago Of some long galley's oar, from Scio bound afar.''
Is it the cormorants, whose black wings, one by one,
Cut the blue wave that o'er them breaks in liquid pearls.'' Is it some hovering sprite with whistling scream that hurls
Down to the deep from yon old tower a loosened stone.'*
Who thus disturbs the tide near the seraglio?
'Tis no dark cormorants that on the ripple float,
'Tis no dull plunge of stone — no oars of Turkish boat,
With measured beat along the water creeping slow. 4
50 POEMS
'Tis heavy sacks, borne each by voiceless dusky slaves;
And could you dare to sound the depths of yon dark tide, Something like human form would stir within its side.
Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave.
John L. O'Sullivan.
THE VEIL
(" Qu'avez-vous, mes freres? ") "Have you prayed to-night, Desdemona?"
The Sister. What has happened, my brothers? Your spirit to-day
Some secret sorrow damps: There's a cloud on your brow. What has happened.'' Oh,
say. For your cyeb;dls glare out with a sinister ray
Like the light of funeral lamps. And the blades of your poinards are half unsheathed
In your belt — and le froAvn on me ! There's a woe untold, there's a pang unbreathed
In your bosom, my brothers three!
Eldest Brother. Gulnara, make answer! Hast thou, since the dawn, To the eye of a stranger thy veil withdrawn .-^
The Sister. As I came, oh, my brother ! at noon — from the bath —
As I came — it was noon, my lords — And your sister had then, as she constantly hath. Drawn her veil close around her, aware that the path
Is beset by these foreign hordes. But the weight of the noonday's sultry hour
Near the mosque was so oppressive That — forgetting a moment the eye of the Giaour —
I yielded to th' heat excessive.
LES ORIENTALES 51
Second Brother. Gulnara, make answer! Whom, then, hast thou seen, In a turban of white and a caftan of green ?
The Sister. Nay, he might have been there ; but I muffled me so.
He could scarcely have seen my figure. — But why to 3^our sister thus dark do you grow.'' What words to yourselves do you mutter thus low,
Of " blood'" and " an intriguer " ? Oh ! ye cannot of murder bring down the red guilt
On your souls, my brothers, surely ! Though I fear — from the hands that are chafing the hilt.
And the hints you give obscurely.
Third Brother. Gulnara, this evening when sank the red sun, Didst thou mark how like blood in descending it shone?
The Sister. Mercy ! Allah ! have pity ! oh, spare !
See ! I cling to your knees repenting ! Kind brothers, forgive me ! for mercy, forbear ! Be appeased at the cry of a sister's despair.
For our mother's sake relenting. O God ! must I die ? They arc deaf to my cries !
Their sister's life-blood shedding; They have stabbed me each one — I faint — o'er my eyes
A veil of Death is spreading !
The Brothers. Gulnara, farewell ! take that veil ; 'tis the gift Of thy brothers — a veil thou wilt never lift !
"Father Prout " (Frank S. Mahony).
52 POEMS
THE DERVISH C Un jour AU passait.")
Ali came ridin or bv — the hifirhest head Bent to the dust, o'charged with dread,
Whilst " God be praised ! " all cried ; But through the throng one dervish pressed. Aged and bent, who dared arrest
The pasha in his pride.
" All Tepelini, hght of all light. Who hold'st the Divan's upper seat by right.
Whose fame Fame's trump hath burst — Thou art the master of unnumbered hosts, Shade of the Sultan — vet he only boasts In thee a do^ accurst !
o
" An unseen tomb-torch flickers on thy path. Whilst, as from vial full, thy spare-nought wrath
Splashes this trembling race: These are thy grass as thou their trenchant scythe. Cleaving their neck as 'twere a willow withe —
Their blood none can efface.
" But ends thy tetlier I for Janina makes A grave for thee where every turret quakes,
And thou shalt drop below To where the spirits, to a tree enchained. Will clutch thee, there to be 'mid them retained
For all to-come in woe I
" Or, if, by happy chance, thy soul might flee Thy victims, after, thou shouldst surely see And hear thv crimes relate ;
LES ORIEXTALES 53
streaked with the guileless gore drained from their veins, Greater in number than the reigns on reigns Thou hopedst for thy state.
•* This ?o will be ! and neither fleet nor fort Can stay or aid thee as the deathly port
Receives th^- harried frame! Though, like the cunning Hebrew knave of old, To cheat tl've angel black, thou didst enfold
In altered guise thy name."
All deemed anchorite or saint a pawn — The crater of his blunderbus did yawn.
Sword, dagger hung at ease : But he had let the holy man revile, Though clouds o'erswept his brow ; then, with a smile,
He tossed him his pelisse.
H. L. W.
THE LOST BATTLE
("Allah! qui me rendra — ")
Oh, Allah! who will give me back my terrible array .^ Mv emirs and mv cavalry that shook the earth to-dav; My tent, my wide-extending camp, all dazzling to the sight, Whose watchfires, kindled numberless beneath the brow of
night, Seemed oft unto the sentinel that watched the midnight hours. As heaven along the sombre hill had rained its stars in
showers .'' Where are my beys so gorgeous, in their light pelisses gay, And where my fierce Timariot bands, so fearless in the fray ; My dauntless khans, my spahis brave, swift tliunderbolts of
war; My sunburnt Bedouins, trooping from the P^Tamicfe afar.
54 POEMS
Who laughed to see the labouring hind stand terrified at gaze, And urged their desert horses on amid the ripening maize? These horses with their fiery eyes, their slight untiring feet, That flew along the fields of corn like grasshoppers so fleet — What ! to behold again no more, loud charging o'er the plain, Their squadrons, in the hostile shot diminished all in vain, Burst grandly on the heavy squares, like clouds that bear the
storms, Enveloping in lightning fires the dark resisting swarms! Oh ! they are dead ! their housings bright are trailed amid their
gore; Dark blood is on their manes and sides, all deeply clotted o'er ; All vainly now the spur would strike these cold and rounded
flanks. To wake them to their Avontcd speed amid the rapid ranks: Here the bold riders red and stark upon the sands lie down, Who in their friendly shadows slept throughout the halt at
noon. Oh, Allah ! who will give me back my terrible array ? See where it straggles 'long the fields for leagues on leagues
away. Like riches from a spendthrift's hand flung prodigal to earth. Lo ! steed and rider ; — Tartar chiefs or of Arabian birth. Their turbans and their cruel course, their banners and their
cries. Seem now as if a troubled dream had passed before mine
eyes — My valiant warriors and their steeds, thus doomed to fall and
bleed ! Their voices rouse no echo now, their footsteps have no speed; They sleep, and have forgot at last the sabre and the bit — Yon vale, with all the corpses heaped, seems one wide charncl-
pit. Long shall the evil omen rest upon this plain of dread — To-night, the taint of solemn blood; to-morrow, of the dead. Alas ! 'tis but a shadow now, that noble armament !
LES ORIENTALES 55
How terribly they strove, and struck from morn to eve un- spent,
Amid the fatal fiery ring, enamoured of the fight !
Now o'er the dim horizon sinks the peaceful pall of night:
The brave have nobly done their work, and calmly sleep at last.
The crows begin, and o'er the dead are gathering dark and fast;
Already through their feathers black they pass their eager beaks.
Forth from the forest's distant depth, from bald and barren peaks.
They congregate in hungry flocks and rend their gory prey.
Woe to that flaunting army's pride, so vaunting yesterday !
That formidable host, alas ! is coldly nerveless now
To drive the vulture from his gorge, or scare the carrion crow.
Were now that host again mine own, with banner broad un- furled.
With it I would advance and win the empire of the world.
Monarchs to it should, yield their realms and veil their haughty brows ;
My sister it should ever be, my lady and my spouse.
Oh! what will unrestoring Death, that jealous tyrant lord.
Do with the brave departed souls that cannot swing a sword?
Why turned the balls aside from me? Why struck no hostile hand
My head within its turban green upon the ruddy sand?
I stood all potent yesterday ; my bravest captains three.
All stirless in their tigered sclle, magnificent to see.
Hailed as before my gilded tent rose flowing to the gales,
Shorn from the tameless desert steeds, three dark and tossing tails.
But yesterday a hundred drums were heard when I went by ;
Full forty agas turned their looks respectful on mine eye.
And trembled with contracted brows within their hall of state.
Instead of heavy catapults, of slow unwieldy weight.
56 POEMS
I had bright cannons rolHng on oak wheels in threatening
tiers, And calm and steady by their sides marched English cannon-
iers. But yesterday, and I had towns, and castles strong and high, And Greeks in thousands, for the base and merciless to buy. But yesterday, and arsenals and harems were my own ; While now, defeated and proscribed, deserted and alone, I flee away, a fugitive, and of my former power, Allah . I have not now at least one battlemented tower. And must he fly — the grand vizier ! the pasha of three tails ! O'er the horizon's bounding hills, where distant vision fails. All stealthily, with eyes on earth, and shrinking from the
sight. As a nocturnal robber holds his dark and breathless flight, And thinks he sees the gibbet spread its arms in solemn wrath. In every tree that dimly throws its shadow on his path !
Thus, after his defeat, pale Reschid speaks,
Among the dead we mourned a thousand Greeks.
Lone from the field the Pasha fled afar.
And musing, wiped his reeking scimitar;
His two dead steeds upon the sands were flung,
And on their sides their empty stirrups hung.
W. D., Bentley's Miscellany, 1839.
ZARA, THE BATHER
(" Sara, belle d'indolence.")
In a swinging hammock lying,
Lightly flying, Zara, lovely indolent.
O'er a fountain's crystal wave
There to lave Her young beauty — see her bent.
LES OIUENTALES 57
As she leans, so sweet and soft,
Flitting oft. O'er the mirroi* to and fro, Seems that airy floating bat
Like a feather From some sea-gull's wing of snow.
Every time the frail boat laden
With the maiden Skims the water in its flight.
Starting from its trembling sheen.
Swift are seen A white foot and neck so white.
As that lithe foot's timid tips
Quick she dips, Passing, in the rippling pool, (Blush, oh! snowiest ivory!)
Frolic, she Laughs to feel the pleasant cool.
Here displayed, but half concealed —
Half revealed, Each bright charm shall you behold. In her innocence emerging,
As a-verging On the wave her hands grow cold.
For no star howe'er divine
Has the shine Of a maid's pure loveliness.
Frightened if a leaf but quivers
As she shivers. Veiled with nought but dripping trees.
By the happy breezes fanned See her stand, —
58 POEMS
Blushing like a living rose, On her bosom swelling high If a fly Dare to seek a sweet repose.
In those eyes which maiden pride
Fain would hide, Mark how passion's lightnings sleep! And their glance is brighter far
Than the star Brightest in heaven's bluest deep.
O'er her limbs the glittering current
In soft torrent Rains adown the gentle girl.
As if, drop by drop, should fall.
One and all From her necklace every pearl.
Lengthening still the reckless pleasure
At her leisure. Care-free Zara ever slow
As the hammock floats and swings
Smiles and sings. To herself, so sweet and low.
((
Oh, were I a capitana,
Or sultana. Amber should be always mixt In my bath of jewelled stone.
Near my throne. Griffins twain of gold betwixt.
" Then my hammock should be silk, White as milk ; And, more soft than down of dove. Velvet cushions where I sit Should emit Perfumes that inspire loye,
LES ORIENTALES 59
" Then should I, no clanger near. Free from fear, Revel in my garden's stream; Nor amid the shadows deep Dread the peep Of two dark eyes' kindling gleam.
*' He who thus would play the spy, On the die For such sight his head must throw; In his blood the sabre naked Would be slaked, Of my slaves of ebon brow.
Then my rich robes trailing show
As I go, None to chide should be so bold ; And upon my sandals fine
How should shine Rubies worked in cloth-of-gold ! "
Fancying herself a queen,
All unseen, Thus vibrating in delight ; In her indolent coquetting
Quite forgetting How the hours wing their flight.
As she lists the showery tinkling
Of the sprinkling By her wanton curvets made, Never pauses she to think Of the brink Where her wrapper white is laid.
To the harvest-fields the while, In long file.
60 POEMS
Speed her sisters' lively band, Like a flock of birds in flight Streaming light, Dancing onward hand in hand.
And they're singing, every one,
As they run ; This the burden of their lay : '* Fie upon such idleness ! Not to dress Earlier on harvest-day ! "
John L. O'Sullivan.
EXPECTATION
("Monte, ecureuiL")
Squirrel, mount yon oak so high, To its twig that next the sky
Bends and trembles as a flower ! Strain, O stork, thy pinion well, — From thy nest 'neath old church-bell. Mount to yon tall citadel.
And its tallest donjon tower! To your mountain, eagle old, Mount, whose brow so white and cold,
Kisses the last ray of even ! And, O thou that lov'st to mark Morn's first sunbeam pierce the dark. Mount, O mount, thou joyous lark —
Joyous lark, O mount to heaven! And now say, from topmost bough. Towering shaft, and peak of snow.
And heaven's arch — O, can you see One white plume that like a star.
LES ORIENTALES 61
Streams along the plain afar, And a steed that from the war
Bears my lover back to me?
John L. O'Sullivan.
THE LOVER'S WISH
(" Si yitais la feuille.")
Oh ! were I the leaf that the wind of the West, His course through the forest uncaring ;
To sleep on the gale or the wave's placid breast In a pendulous cradle is bearing.
All fresh with the morn's balmy kiss would I haste, As the dewdrops upon me were glancing;
When Aurora sets out on the roseate waste, And round her the breezes are dancing.
On the pinions of air I would fly, I would rush Thro' the glens and the valleys to quiver ;
Past the mountain ravine, past the grove's dreamy hush, And the murmuring fall of the river.
By the darkening hollow and bramble-bush lane.
To catch the sweet breath of the roses ; Past the land would I speed, where the sand-driven plain
'Neath the heat of the noonday reposes.
Past the rocks that uprear their tall forms to the sky, Whence the storm-fiend his anger is pouring ;
Past lakes that lie dead, tho' the tempest roll nigh. And the turbulent whirlwind be roaring.
On, on would I fly, till a charm stopped my way,
A charm that would lead to the bower; Where the daughter of Araby sings to the day,
At the dawn and the vesper hour.
62 POEMS
Then hovering down on her brow would I light,
'Midst her golden tresses entwining; That gleam like the corn when the fields are bright,
And the sunbeams upon it shining.
A single frail gem on her beautiful head,
I should sit in the golden glory ; And prouder I'd be than the diadem spread
Round the brow of kings famous in story.
v., Eton Observer.
THE SACKING OF THE CITY
(" La flamme par ton ordre, O rot! ")
Thy will, O King, is done ! Lighting but to consume.
The roar of the fierce flames drowned even the shouts and shrieks ;
Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of bloody doom, Seemed they in joyous flight to dance about their wrecks.
Slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed on high.
Fell fathers, husbands, wives, beneath his streaming steel ;
Prostrate, the palaces, huge tombs of fire, lie.
While gathering overhead the vultures scream and wheel!
Died the pale mothers, and the virgins, from their arms, O Caliph, fiercely torn, bewailed their 3'^oung years' blight ;
With stabs and kisses fouled, all their yet quivering charms. At our fleet coursers' heels were dragged in mocking flight.
Lo ! where the city lies mantled in pall of death ;
Lo ! where thy mighty hand hath passed, all things must bend ! Priests prayed, the sword estopped blaspheming breath.
Vainly their cheating book for shield did they extend.
LES ORIENTALES 68
Some infants yet survived, and the unsated steel
Still drinks the hfe-blood of each whelp of Christian-kind,
To kiss thy sandall'd foot, O King, thy people kneel, And golden circlets to thy victor-ankle bind.
John L. O'Sullivan.
THE DJINNS (** Murs, ville et port")
Town, tower, Shore, deep,
Where lower Cliffs steep;
Waves grey,
Where play
Winds gay, All sleep.
Hark ! a sound, Far and slight.
Breathes around On the night:
High and higher.
Nigh and nigher.
Like a fire,
Roaring, bright.
Now, on 'tis sweeping With rattling beat,
Like dwarf imp leaping In gallop fleet:
He flies, he prances,
In frolic fancies.
On wave-crest dances With pattering feet.
64 POEMS
Hark, the rising swell,
With each new burst! Like the tolling bell
Of a convent curst ; Like the billowy roar On a storm-lashed shore, — Now hushed, but once more
Maddening to its worst.
O God ! the deadly sound
Of the D j inn's fearful cry ;
Quick, 'neath the spiral round Of the deep staircase fly !
See, see our lamplight fade !
And of the balustrade
Mounts, mounts the circling shade Up to the ceiling high!
'Tis the Dj inns' wild streaming swarm Whistling in their tempest flight;
Snap the tall yews 'neath the storm ; Like a pine flame crackling bright.
Swift though heavy, lo ! their crowd
Through the heavens rushing loud
Like a livid thunder-cloud With its bolt of fiery might!
Ho! they are on us, close without!
Shut tight the shelter where we lie ! With hideous din the monster rout,
Dragon and vampire, fill the sky ! The loosened rafter overhead Trembles and bends like quivering reed ; Shakes the old door with shuddering dread,
As from its rusty hinge 'twould fly ! Wild cries of hell ! voices that howl and shriek !
The horrid troop before the tempest tossed — O Heaven ! — descends my lowly roof to seek :
LES ORIENTALES 65
Bends the strong wall beneath the furious host. Totters the house as though, like dry leaf shorn From autumn bough and on the mad blast borne, Up from its deep foundations it were torn
To join the stormy whirl. Ah! all is lost!
O Prophet ! if thy hand but now
Save from these hellish things, A pilgrim at thy shrine I'll bow,
Laden with pious offerings. Bid their hot breath its fiery rain Stream on the faithful's door in vain ; Vainly upon my blackened pane
Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings!
They have passed ! — and their wild legion
Cease to thunder at my door; Fleeting through night's rayless region,
Hither they return no more. Clanking chains and sounds of woe Fill the forests as they go ; And the tall oaTcs cower low.
Bent their flaming light before.
On ! on ! the storm of wings
Bears far the fiery fear. Till scarce the breeze now brings
Dim murmurings to the ear; Like locusts' humming hail. Or thrash of tiny flail Plied by the fitful gale
On some old roof -tree sere.
Fainter now are borne
Feeble muttcrings still; As when Arab horn
Swells its magic peal.
66 POEMS
Shoreward o'er the deep Fairy voices sweep, And the infant's sleep Golden visions fill.
Each deadly Djinn,
Dark child of fright. Of death and sin,
Speeds in wild flight. Hark, the dull moan, Like the deep tone Of Ocean's groan Afar, by night!
More and more Fades it slow,
As on shore
Ripples flow, —
As the plaint
Far and faint
Of a saint
Murmured low.
Hark ! hist ! Around, I hst!
The bounds Of space All trace Eff^ace Of sound.
John L. O'Sullivan.
*' Be a Christian, noble Kingl For it were a grievous thing Love to seek and find too well In the arms of infidel."
Poems : The Obdurate Beauty
Page 67.
LES OKIEN TALES 67
THE OBDURATE BEAUTY
{"A Juana la Grenadine! ")
To Juana ever gay,
Sultan Achmet spoke one day :
" Lo, the realms that kneel to own
Homage to my sword and crown All I'd freely cast away,
Maiden dear, for thee alone."
" Be a Christian, noble King ! For it were a grievous thing:
Love to seek and find too well
In the arms of infidel. Spain with cry of shame would ring,
If from honour faithful fell.
** By these pearls whose spotless chain, Oh, my gentle sovereign.
Clasps thy neck of ivory. Aught thou askest I will be,
If that necklace pure of stain Thou wilt give for rosary."
John L. 0'Sui.t.ivan.
CORNFLOWERS
(" Tandis que Vetoile inodore.")
While bright but scentless azure stars
Be-gem the golden corn, And spangle with their skyey tint
The furrows not yet shorn ;
68 POEMS
While still the pure white tufts of May Are each a snowy ball, —
Away, ye merry maids, and haste To gather ere they fall !
Nowhere the sun of Spain outshines
Upon a fairer plain Than Peilafiel's, or bestows
More wealth of grass and grain. Nowhere a broader square reflects
Such brilliant mansions, tall, — Away, ye merry maids, &c.
Nowhere a statelier abbey rears Dome huger o'er a shrine.
Though seek ye from old Rome itself To even Seville fine.
Here countless pilgrims come to pray And promenade the Mall, —
Away, ye merry maids, &c.
Where glide the girls more joyfully Than ours who dance at dusk,
With roses white upon their brows, With waists that scorn the busk?
Mantillas elsewhere hide dull eyes — Compared with these, how small!
Away, ye merry maids, &c.
A blossom in a city lane,
Alizia was our pride. And oft the blundering bee, deceived,
Came buzzing to her side — But, oh ! for one that felt the sting,
And found, 'neath lioney, gall — Away, ye merry maids, &c.
LES ORIENTALES 69
Young, haughty, from still hotter lands,
A stranger hither came — Was he a Moor or African,
Or Murcian known to fame? None knew — least, she — or false or true.
By what name him to call. Away, ye merry maids, &c.
Alizla asked not his degree,
She saw him but as Love, And through Xarama's vale they strayed.
And tarried in the grove, — Oh ! curses on that fatal eve,
And on that leafy hall ! Away, ye merry maids, &c.
The darkened city breathed no more;
The moon was mantled long. Till towers thrust the cloudy cloak
Upon the steeples' throng ; The cross way Christ, in ivy draped,
Shrank, grieving, 'neath the pall, — Away, ye merry maids, &c.
But while, alone, they kept the shade.
The other dark-eyed dears Were murmuring on the stifling air
Their jealous threats and fears; Ahzia was so blamed, that time,
Unheeded rang the call : Away, ye merry maids, &c.
Although, above, the hawk describes
The circle round the lark. It sleeps, unconscious, and our lass
Had eyes but for her spark — A spark ? — a sun ! 'Twas Juan, King !
Who wears our coronal, — Away, ye merry maids, &c.
70 POEMS
A love so far above one's state
Ends sadly. Came a black And guarded palanquin to bear
The girl that ne'er comes back; By royal writ, some nunnery
StiU shields her from us all: Away, ye merry maids, and haste
To gather ere they fall!
H. L. W.
THE DANUBE IN WRATH
(" Quoil ne pouvez-vous vivre ensemble f ") The BJver Deity upbraids his Daughters, the contributary Streams:
Ye daughters mine! will naught abate Your fierce interminable hate? Still am I doomed to rue the fate
That such unfriendly neighbours made? The while ye might, in peaceful cheer, Mirror upon your waters clear, Semlin! thy Gothic steeples dear.
And thy bright minarets, Belgrade !
Fraser's Magazme.
OLD OCEAN
(** J'etais seul pres des f,ots")
I STOOD by the waves, while the stars soared in sight, Not a cloud specked the sky, not a sail shimmered bright ;
Scenes beyond this dim world were revealed to mine eve ; And the woods, and the hills, and all nature around, Seem'd to question with moody, mysterious sound,
The waves, and the pure stars on high.
LES ORIENTALES 71
And the clear constellations, that infinite throng, While thousand rich harmonies swelled in their song,
Replying, bowed meekly their diamond-blaze — And the blue waves, which nothing may bind or arrest, Chorus'd forth, as they stooped the white foam of their crest :
" Creator ! we bless thee and praise ! "
R. C. Ellwood.
NAPOLEON
(" Tu domines notre age; ange ou demon, qu'vmporte! ")
Angel or demon ! thou, — whether of light The minister, or darkness — still dost sway This age of ours ; thine eagle's soaring flight Bears us, all breathless, after it away. The eye that from thy presence fain would stray, Shuns thee in vain ; thy mighty shadow thrown Rests on all pictures of the living day. And on the threshold of our time alone. Dazzling, yet sombre, stands thy form, Napoleon!
Thus, when the admiring stranger's steps explore The subject-lands that 'neath Vesuvius be. Whether he wind along the enchanting shore To Portici from fair Parthenope, Or, lingering long in dreamy reverie. O'er loveliest Ischia's od'rous isle he stray, Wooed by whose breath the soft and am'rous sea Seems like some languishing sultana's lay, A voice for very sweets that scarce can win its way.
Him, whether Paestum's solemn fane detain. Shrouding his soul with meditation's power ; Or at Pozzuoli, to the sprightly strain Of tarantella danced 'neath Tuscan tower.
72 POEMS
Listening, he while away the evening hour; Or wake the echoes, mournful, lone and deep. Of that sad city, in its dreaming bower By the volcano seized, vv'here mansions keep The likeness which they wore at that last fatal sleep ;
Or be his bark at Posiilip'^o laid, While as the swarthy Loacman a- his bide Chants Tasso's lays to Virgil's pleased shade, Ever he sees, throughout cha^ circuit wide, From shaded nook oV oumiy ia,wa espied, From rocky headland viewed^ o? _low'ry shore. From sea, and spreading metid alike descried, The Giant Mount, tow'ring all objects o'er. And black'ning with its breath th' horizon evermore !
Preiser's Magazine.
LES FEUILLES D'AUTOMNE.— 1831
THE PATIENCE OF THE PEOPLE
(" II s^est dit tant de fois.")
HOW often have the people said: What's power? Who reigns soon is dethroned? each fleeting hour Has onward borne, as in a fevered dream, Such quick reverses, Hke a judge supreme — Austere but just, they contemplate the end To which the current of events must tend. Self-confidence has taught them to forbear, And in the vastness of their strength, they spare. Armed with impunity, for one in vain Resists a nation^ they let others reign.
G. W. M. Reynolds.
DICTATED BEFORE THE RHONE GLACIER
(" Souvent quand mon esprit riche.")
When my mind, on the ocean of poesy hurled. Floats on in repose round this wonderful world,
Oft the sacred fire from heaven — Mysterious sun, that gives light to the soul — Strikes mine with its ray, and above the pole
Its upward course is driven,
73
74 POEMS
Like a wandering cloudy then, my eager thought Capriciously flieSj to no guidance brought,
With every quar^ ^r's wind , It regards from those .adiant vaults on high. Earth's cities below, and again doth fly,
And leaves but its shadow behind.
In the glistening gold of the morning bright. It shines, detaching some ^ance jf light,
Or- as warrior's armour rings; It forages forests .^lat iermenc around, Or bathed in tho sun-red gleams is found.
Where the west its radiance flings.
Or, on mountain peak, that rears its head Where snow-clad Alps around are spread,
By furious gale 'tis thrown. From the yawning abyss see the cloud scud away, And the glacier appears, with its multiform ray,
The giant mountain's crown !
Like Parnassian pinnacle yet to be scaled.
In its form from afar, by the aspirant hailed ;
On its side the rainbow plays. And at eve, when the shadow sinks sleeping below, The last slanting ray on its crest of snow
Makes its cap like a crater to blaze.
In the darkness, its front seems some pale orb of light, The chamois with fear flashes on in its flight.
The eagle afar is driven; The deluge but roars in despair to its feet, And scarce dare the eye its aspect to meet,
So near doth it rise to heaven. Alone on these altitudes, feeling no fear. Forgetful of earth, my spirit draws near,
On the starry vault to gaze.
LES FEUILLES D'AUTOMNE 75
And nearer, to gaze on those glories of night, On th' horizon high heaving, Hke arches of light, Till again the sun shall blaze.
For then will the glacier with glory be graced,
On its prisms will light streaked with darkness be placed.
The morn its echoes greet; Like a torrent it falls on the ocean of life. Like Chaos unformed, vith the sea-stormy strife,
When waters on waters meet.
As the spirit of poesy touches my thought. It is thus my ideas in a circle are brought.
From earth, with the waters of pain. As under a sunbeam a cloud ascends. These fly to the heavens — their course never ends,
But descend to the ocean again.
Author of " Critical Essays.**
THE POET'S LOVE FOR LIVELINESS
(" Moi, quelque soit le monde.'*)
Fob me, whate'er my life and lot may show.
Years blank with gloom or cheered by mem'ry's glow,
Turmoil or peace ; ne'er be it mine, I pray. To be a dweller of the peopled earth, Save 'neath a roof alive with children's mirth
Loud through the livelong day.
So, if my hap it be to see once more
Those scenes my footsteps tottered in before.
An infant follower in Napoleon's train: Rodrigo's holds, Valencia and Leon, And both Castiles, and mated Aragon;
Ne'er be it mine, O Spain !
76 POEMS
To pass thy plains with cities scant between, Thy stately arches flung o'er deep ravine,
Thy palaces, of Moor's or Roman's time; Or the swift snakings of thy Guadalquiver, Save in those gilded cars, where bells forever
Ring their melodious chime.
Eraser's Magazine.
RELEASED
(" Quand le livre ou s'endort.'*)
What time dull books have drowsed my mind at even, What time my room's hot air's nigh stifling grown.
What time the town's monotonous hum hath striven All day to hush all spirit of song with moan, —
What time the countless cares of toil or pleasure Which make the narrow circle of our days.
Have touched once more, at length, their utmost measure, Until to-morrow's dawn renew their race, —
No moment my poor soul, released, delay eth;
But, as a bird might flutter to its nest After long capture, blithely so it strayeth.
Though wingless, weak, on yet diviner quest.
To the woods it hies, and there, deep in the gloaming Just thrilled with the moon's first melodies and rays,
Finds Reverie, loved comrade of its roaming Through what delightful faery-haunted ways!
N. R. T.
-LES FEUILLES D'AUTOMNE 77
INFANTILE INFLUENCE
(" Lorsque V enfant 'par ait.**)
The child comes toddling in, and young and old With smiling eyes its smiling eyes behold,
And artless, babyish joy; A playful welcome greets it through the room, The saddest brow unfolds its wrinkled gloom,
To greet the happy boy.
If June with flowers has spangled all the ground, Or winter bleak the flickering hearth around
Draws close the circling seat ; The child still sheds a never-failing light ; We call; Mamma with mingled joy and fright
Watches its tottering feet.
Perhaps at eve as round the fire we draw, We speak of heaven, or poetry, or law.
Or politics, or prayer; The child comes in, 'tis now all smiles and play. Farewell to grave discourse and poet's lay,
Philosophy and care.
Wlien fancy wakes, but sense in heaviest sleep Lies steeped, and like the sobs of them that weep
The dark stream sinks and swells, The dawn, like Pharos gleaming o'er the sea. Bursts forth, and sudden wakes the minstrelsy
Of birds and chiming bells ;
Thou art my dawn ; my soul is as the field. Where sweetest flowers their balmy perfumes yield
When breathed upon by thee. Of forest, where thy voice like zephyr plays. And morn pours out its flood of golden rays,
When thy sweet smile I see.
78 POEMS
Oh, sweetest eyes, like founts of liquid blue ; And little hands that evil never knew,
Pure as the new-formed snow; Thy feet are still unstained by this world's mire, Thy golden locks hke aiu"eole of fire
Circle thy cherub brow!
Dove of our ark, thine angel spirit flies
On azure wings forth from thy beaming eyes.
Though weak thine infant feet. What strange amaze this new and strange world gives To thy sweet virgin soul, that spotless lives
In virgin body sweet.
Oh, gentle face, radiant with happy smile. And eager prattling tongue that knows no guile.
Quick changing tears and bliss ; Thy soul expands to catch this new world's light. Thy mazed eyes to drink each wondrous sight.
Thy lips to taste the kiss.
Ob, God ! bless me and mine, and these I love. And e'en my foes that still triumphant prove
Victors by force or guile; A flowerless summer may we never see, Or nest of bird bereft, or hive of bee,
Or home of infant's smile.
Henry Highton, M.A.
THE WATCHING ANGEL
(" Dans Valcove sombre")
In the dusky nook.
Near the altar laid. Sleeps the child in shadow
Of his mother's bed:
LES FEUILLES D'AUTOMNE 79
Softly he reposes, And his hd of roses. Closed to earth, uncloses On the heaven o'erhead.
Many a dream is with him.
Fresh from fairyland, Spangled o'er with diamonds
Seems the ocean sand ; Suns are flaming there, Troops of ladies fair Souls of infants bear
In each charming hand.
Oh, enchanting vision !
Lo, a rill upsprings. And from out its bosom
Comes a voice that sings. Lovelier there appear Sire and sisters dear. While his mother near
Plumes her new-born wings.
But a brighter vision
Yet his eyes behold ; Roses pied and lilies
Every path enfold; Lakes delicious sleeping, Silver fishes leaping, Through the wavelets creeping
Up to reeds of gold.
Slumber on, sweet infant,
Slumber peacefully; Thy young soul yet knows not
What thy lot may be.
80 POEMS
Like dead weeds that sweep O'er the dol'rous deep, Thou art borne in sleep. What is all to thee?
Thou canst slumber by the way;
Thou hast learnt to borrow Nought from study, nought from care;
The cold hand of sorrow On thy brow unwrinkled yet. Where young truth and candour sit, Ne'er with rugged nail hath writ
That sad word, " To-morrow ! "
Innocent ! thou sleepest —
See the angehc band. Who foreknow the trials
That for man are planned; Seeing him unarmed, Unfearing, unalarmed. With their tears have warmed
This unconscious hand.
Still they, hovering o'er him.
Kiss him where he lies. Hark! he sees them weeping, " Gabriel ! " he cries ; *' Hush ! " the angel says, On his lip he lays One finger, one displays His native skies.
Foreign Quarterly Review,
LES i:EUILLES D'AUTOMNE 81
THE LOVE-DAWN
(" Madame, autour de vous.")
Lady, such spirit of sense is yours to entrance
Men's souls ; your song's so sweet, and, when you dance,
Hearts so for bhss beat higher; So lovely is the light no summer skies Contain, the dew of pity in your deep eyes,
Of love the sunnier fire, —
That when you deign, young Star than heaven's more bright, To lighten with one glorious smile the night
Whose shadow round us clingeth. As in the forest dark the bird ere morn, A tender thought, in bowers yet darker born.
Trembles, till blithely it singeth.
Too holy art thou, too heavenly sweet to hear it ; An angel-woven veil enfolds thy spirit,
Love soon shall draw apart; jAnd then, as now, the angel watching thee Will smile Love's rosy blush of dawn to see
In the pure heaven, thy heart!
N. R. T.
SUNSET (" Le soleil s'est couche")
The sun set this evening in masses of cloud,
The storm comes to-morrow, then calm be the night,
Then the Dawn in her chariot refulgent and proud.
Then more nights, and still days, steps of Time in his flight.
82 POEMS
The days shall pass rapid as swifts on the wing,
O'er the face of the hills, o'er the face of the seas, O'er streamlets of silver, and forests that ring
With a dirge for the dead, chanted low by the breeze ; The face of the waters, the brow of the mounts Deep scared but not shrivelled, and woods tufted green. Their youth shall renew ; and the rocks to the founts Shall yield what these yielded to ocean their queen. But day by day bending still lower my head.
Still chilled in the sunlight, soon I shall have cast. At height of the banquet, my lot with the dead,
Unmissed by creation aye joyous and vast.
TORU DUTT.
PRAYER (** Ma file, va prier! ")
I.
Come, child, to prayer; the busy day is done,
A golden star gleams through the dusk of night;
The hills are trembling in the rising mist,
The rumbling wain looms dim upon the sight;
All things wend home to rest; the road-side trees
Shake off their dust, stirred by the evening breeze.
The sparkling stars gush forth in sudden blaze, As twilight open flings the doors of night ;
The fringe of carmine narrows in the west.
The rippling waves are tipped with silver light ;
The bush, the path — all blend in one dull grey ;
The doubtful traveller gropes his anxious way.
Oh, day ! with toil, with wrong, with hatred rife ;
Oh, blessed night! with sober calmness sweet. The sad winds moaning through the ruined tower,
The age-worn hind, the sheep's sad broken bleat —
LES FEUILLES D'AUTOMNE 83
All nature groans opprest with toil and care, And wearied craves for rest, and love, and prayer.
At eve the babes with angels converse hold,
While we to our strange pleasures wend our way,
Each with its little face upraised to heaven,
With folded hands, barefoot kneels down to pray,
At self-same hour with self-same words they call
On God, the common Father of them all.
And then they sleep, and golden dreams anon,
Born as the busy day's last murmurs die. In swarms tumultuous flitting through the gloom
Their breathing lips and golden locks descry. And as the bees o'er bright flowers joyous roam. Around their curtained cradles clustering come.
Oh, prayer of childhood ! simple, innocent ;
Oh, infant slumbers ! peaceful, pure, and light. Oh, happy worship ! ever gay with smiles,
Meet prelude to the harmonies of night; As birds beneath the wing enfold their head. Nestled in prayer the infant seeks its bed.
Henry Highton, M.A.
n.
To prayer, my child ! and O, be thy first prayer For her who, many nights, with anxious care.
Rocked thy first cradle ; who took tliy infant soul From heaven and gave it to the world ; then rife With love, still drank herself the gall of life.
And left for thy young lips the honied bowl.
And then — I need it more — then pray for me ! For she is gentle, artless, true like thee ; —
She has a guileless heart, brow placid still; Pity she has for all, envy for none ; Gentle and wise, she patiently lives on;
And she endures, nor knows who does the ill.
84. POEMS
In culling flowers, her novice hand has ne'er Touched e'en the outer rind of vice ; no snare
With smiling show has lured her steps aside ; On her the past has left no staining mark ; Nor knows she aught of those bad thoughts which, dark
Like shade on waters, o'er the spirit glide.
She knows not — nor mayst thou — the miseries In which our spirits mingle: vanities.
Remorse, soul-gnawing cares. Pleasure's false show; Passions which float upon the heart like foam, Bitter remembrances which o'er us come,
And Shame's red spot spread sudden o'er the brow.
I know life better! when thou'rt older grown I'll tell thee — it is needful to be known —
Of the pursuit of wealth — art, power ; the cost, That it is folly, nothingness : that shame For glory is oft thrown us in the game
Of Fortune ; chances where the soul is lost.
The soul will change. Although of everything The cause and end be clear, yet wildering
We roam through life (of vice and error full). We wander as we go ; we feel the load Of doubt ; and to the briars upon the road
Man leaves his virtue, as the sheep its wool.
Then go, go pray for me ! And as the prayer Gushes in words, be this the form they bear : — •
" Lord, Lord, our Father ! God, my prayer attend ; Pardon ! Thou art good ! Pardon — Thou art great ! " Let them go freely forth, fear not their fate !
Where thy soul sends them, thitherward they tend.
There's nothing here below which does not find Its tendency. O'er plains the rivers wind. And reach the sea ; the bee, by instinct driven.
LES FEUILLES D'AUTOMNE 86
Finds out the honied flowers ; the eagle flies To seek the sun ; the vulture where death lies ;
The swallow to the spring; the prayer to Heaven!
And when thy voice is raised to God for me, I'm like the slave whom in the vale we see
Seated to rest, his heavy load laid by ; I feel refreshed — the load of faults and woe Which, groaning, I drag with me as I go,
Thy winged prayer bears off rejoicingly!
Pray for thy father I that his dreams be bright With visitings of angel forms of light.
And his soul burn as incense flaming wide. Let thy pure breath all his dark sins eff^ace. So that his heart be like that holy place.
An altar pavement each eve purified !
C, TaWs Magazine.
SONGS OF YOUTH
(^"Avant que mes chansons J*^)
Ere yet my youthful songs beloved. Tender and true, keen pangs had proved Of the base world's ingratitude. Far from the bitter blasts of reason. How bloomed they in how bright a season With sweetest scents and rays endued !
t From singing branches of life's tree, With a weird ghostly melody, Now, ere wild winter's come, they're riven. East, South, North, West, they're whirled and scattered, Each petal pure with mud bespattered. By wind or water drown'd or driven.
85 POEMS
Whilst I, whose brow, raethought, should be With leaf and bloom perpetually Adorn'd, watch their wild dance i' the air; Till lo, I'm turned from looking after. Hearing the dull world's mocking laughter Around the sighing branches bare !
N. R.
LES CHANTS DU CREPUSCULE.— 1835
PRELUDE TO " THE SONGS OF TWILIGHT "
(" De quel nom te nommer? ")
H
OW shall I note thee, line of troubled years, Which mark existence in our little span? One constant twihght in the heaven appears One constant twilight in the mind of man !
Creed, hope, anticipation and despair,
Are but a mingling, as of day and night;
The globe, surrounded by deceptive air. Is all enveloped in the same half-light.
And voice is deadened by the evening breeze. The shepherd's song, or maiden's in her bowar.
Mix with the rustling of the neighbouring trees. Within whose foliage is lulled the power.
Yet all unites ! The winding path that leads
Thro' fields where verdure meets the trav'ller's eye.
The river's margin, blurred with wavy reeds, The muffled anthem, echoing to the sky !
The ivy smothering the armed tower ;
The dying wind that mocks the pilot's ear; The lordly equipage at midnight hour.
Draws into danger in a fog the peer;
87
88 POEMS
The votaries of Satan or of Jove ;
The wretched mendicant absorbed in woe; The din of multitudes that onward move ;
The voice of conscience in the heart below;
The waves, which Thou, O Lord, alone canst still;
Th' elastic air ; the streamlet on its way ; And all that man projects, or sovereigns will;
Or things inanimate might seem to say;
The strain of gondolier slow streaming by ;
The lively barks that o'er the waters bound ; The trees that shake their foliage to the sky ;
The wailing voice that fills the cots around ;
And man, who studies with an aching heart — For now, when smiles are rarely deemed sincere.
In vain the sceptic bids his doubts depart — Those doubts at length will arguments appear!
Hence, reader, know the subject of my song — A mystic age, resembling twilight gloom,
Wherein we smile at birth, or bear along. With noiseless steps, a victim to the tomb!
G. W. M. Reynolds.
THE LAND OF FABLE
(" UOrient! qvj'y voyez-vous, poetes? ")
Now, vot'ries of the Muses, turn your eyes. Unto the East, and say what there appears ! ** Alas ! " the voice of Poesy replies,
*' Mystic's that light between the hemispheres ! "
LES CHANTS DU CREPUSCULE 89
" Yes, dread's the mystic light in yonder heaven — Dull is the gleam beliind the distant hill ; Like feeble flashes in the welkin driven,
When the far thunder seems as it were still 1
" But who can tell if that uncertain glare
Be Phoebus' self, adorned with glowing vest; Or, if illusions, pregnant in the air.
Have drawn our glances to the radiant west?
" Haply the sunset has deceived the sight —
Perchance 'tis evening, while we look for morning; Bewildered in the mazes of twilight.
That lucid sunset may appear a dawning ! "
G. W. M. Reynolds.
THE THREE GLORIOUS DAYS
(" Freres, vous avez vos journees.")
Youth of France, sons of the bold.
Your oakleaf victor-wreaths behold!
Our civic-laurels — honoured dead !
So bright your triumphs in life's morn, Your maiden-standards hacked and torn.
On Austerlitz might lustre shed.
All that your fathers did re-done — A people's rights all nobly won — Ye tore them living from the shroud! Three glorious days bright July's gift. The Bastiles off our hearts ye lift! Oh ! of such deeds be ever proud !
Of patriot sires ye lineage claim. Their souls shone in your eye of flame;
90 POEMS
Commencing the great work was theirs; On you the task to finish laid Your fruitful mother, France, who bade
Flow in one day a hundred years.
E'en chilly Albion admires,
The grand example Europe fires ;
America shall clap her hands.
When swiftly o'er the Atlantic wave, Fame sounds the news of how the brave,
In three bright days, have burst their bands!
With tyrant dead your fathers traced A circle wide, with battles graced ; Victorious garland, red and vast!
Which blooming out from home did go
To Cadiz, Cairo, Rome, Moscow, From Jemappes to Montmirail passed!
Of warlike Lyceums ye are
The favoured sons ; there, deeds of war
Formed e'en your plays, while o'er you shook
The battle-flags in air aloft!
Passing your lines. Napoleon oft Electrified you with a look!
Eagle of France ! whose vivid wing
Did in a hundred places fling
A bloody feather, till one night
The arrow whelmed thee 'neath the wavei Look up — rejoice — for now thy brave
And worthy eaglets dare the light.
Elizabeth Collins.
LES CHANTS DU CREPUSCULE 91
TRIBUTE TO THE VANQUISHED
(" Oh! laissez-moi pleurer sur cetta race.")
Oh ! let me weep that race whose day is past,
By exile given, by exile claimed once more, Thrice swept away upon that fatal blast. Whate'er its blame, escort we to our shore These relics of the monarchy of yore ; And to th' outmarching oriflamme be paid War's honours by the flag on Fleurus' field displayed!
Fraser'g Magazine.
THE ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS
(**. . . Quand longtemps a gronde la bouche du YS-
suve.")
When huge Vesuvius in its torment long, Threatening has growled its cavernous jaws among, When its hot lava like the bubbling wine, Foaming doth all its monstrous edge incarnadine, Then is alarm in Naples.
With dismay. Wanton and wild her weeping thousands pour. Convulsive grasp the ground, its rage to stay, Implore the angry Mount — in vain implore ! For lo ! a column tow'ring more and more, Of smoke and ashes from the burning crest Shoots hke a vulture's neck reared from its airy nest.
Sudden a flash, and from th' enormous den Th' eruption's lurid mass bursts forth amain. Bounding in frantic ecstasy. Ah ! then
^2 POEMS
Farewell to Grecian fount and Tuscan fame!
Sails in the bay imbibe the purpling stain, The while the lava in profusion wide Flings o'er the mountain's neck its showery locks untied.
It comes — it comes ! that lava deep and rich, That dower which fertilizes fields and fills
New moles upon the waters, bay and beach.
Broad sea and clustered isles, one terror thrills
As roll the red inexorable rills ; While Naples trembles in her palaces. More helpless than the leaves when tempests shake the trees.
Prodigious chaos, streets in ashes lost.
Dwellings devoured and vomited again. Roof against neighbour-roof, bewildered, tossed. The waters boiling and the burning plain ; While clang the giant steeples as they reel, Unprompted, their own tocsin peal.
Yet 'mid the wreck of cities, and the pride
Of the green valleys and the isles laid low, The crash of walls, the tumult waste and wide.
O'er sea and land ; 'mid all this work of woe, Vesuvius still, though close its crater-glow. Forgetful spares — Heaven wills that it should spare. The lonely cell where kneels an aged priest in prayer.
Fraser's Magazine.
TO THE NAPOLEON COLUIMN
(" Oh! quand il bdtissait")
When with gigantic hand he placed. For throne on vassal Europe based, That column's lofty height —
LES CHANTS DU CREPUSCULE 93
Pillar, in whose dread majesty, In double immortality, Glory and bronze unite!
Aye, when he built it that, some day. Discord or war their course might stay,
Or here might break their car; And in our streets to put to shame Pigmies that bear the hero's name
Of Greek and Roman war.
It was a glorious sight ; the world
His hosts had trod, with flags unfurled, .
In veteran array ; Kings fled before liim, forced to yield. He, conqueror on each battlefield,
Their cannon bore away.
Then, with his victors back he came; All France with booty teemed, her name
Was writ on sculptured stone ; And Paris cried with joy, as when The parent bird comes home again
To th' eaglets left alone.
Into the furnace flame, so fast. Were heaps of war-won metal cast,
The future monument! His thought had formed the giant mould. And piles of brass in the fire he rolled,
From hostile cannon rent.
When to the battlefield he came.
He grasped the guns spite tongues of flame,
And bore the spoil away. This bronze to France's Rome he brought. And to the founder said, " Is aught
Wanting for our array ? "
94 POEMS
And when, beneath a radiant sun, That man, his noble purpose done.
With calm and tranquil mien, Disclosed to view this glorious fane, And did with peaceful hand contain
The warlike eagle's sheen.
Round thee, when hundred thousands placed, As some great Roman's triumph graced,
The little Romans all; We boys hung on the procession's flanks, Seeking some father in thy ranks,
And loud thy praise did call.
Who that survey'd thee, when that day Thou deem'd that future glory ray
Would here be ever bright; Fear'd that, ere long, all France thy grave From pettifoggers vain would crave
Beneath that column's height.?
Author of " Critical Essays.'
MARRIAGE AND FEASTS
(" La salle est magnif.que")
The hall is gay with limpid lustre bright — The feast to pampered palate gives delight — The sated guests pick at the spicy food, And drink profusely, for the cheer is good; And at that table — where the wise are few — Both sexes and all ages meet the view ;
The sturdy warrior with a thoughtful face — The am'rous youth, the maid replete with grace. The prattling infant, and the hoary hair Of second childhood's proselytes — are there ; —
LES CHANTS DU CREPUSCULE 06
And the most gaudy in that spacious hall, Are e'er the young, or oldest of them all! Helmet and banner, ornament and crest, The lion rampant, and the jewelled vest, The silver star that glitters fair and white. The arms that tell of many a nation's might — ■ Heraldic blazonry, ancestral pride. And all mankind invents for pomp beside. The winged leopard, and the eagle wild — All these encircle woman, chief and child; Shine on the carpet burying their feet. Adorn the dishes that contain their meat; And hang upon the drapery, which around Falls from the lofty ceiling to the ground. Till on the floor its waving fringe is spread. As the bird's wing may sweep the roses' bed. —
Thus is the banquet ruled by Noise and Light, Since Light and Noise are foremost on the site.
The chamber echoes to the joy of them Who throng around, each with his diadem — Each seated on proud throne — but, lesson vain ! Each sceptre holds its master with a chain ! Thus hope of flight were futile from that hall, Where chief est guest was most enslaved of all! The god-like-making draught that fires the soul The Love — sweet poison-honey — past control, (Formed of the sexual breath — an idle name, Off"spring of Fancy and a nervous frame) — Pleasure, mad daughter of the darksome Night, Whose languid eye flames when is fading Hght — The gallant chases where a man is borne By stalwart charger, to the sounding horn — The sheeny silk, the bed of leaves of rose. Made more to soothe the sight than court repoae ; The mighty palaces that raise the sneer
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Of jealous mendicants and wretches near —
The spacious parks, from which horizon blue
Arches o'er alabaster statues new;
Where Superstition still her walk will take,
Unto soft music stealing o'er the lake —
The innocent modesty by gems undone —
The qualms of judges by small brib'ry won —
The dread of children, trembling whije they play —
The bliss of monarchs, potent in their sway —
The note of war struck by the culverin.
That snakes its brazen neck through battle din —
The military millipede
That tramples out the guilty seed —
The capital all pleasure and delight —
And all that like a town or army chokes
The gazer with foul dust or sulphur smokes.
The budget, prize for which ten thousand bait
A subtle hook, that ever, as they wait
Catches a weed, and drags them to their fate.
While gleamingly its golden scales still spread —
Such were the meats by which these guests were fed.
A hundred slaves for lazy master cared,
And served each one with what was e'er prepared
By him, who in a sombre vault below.
Peppered the royal pig with peoples' woe,
And grimly glad went labouring till late —
The morose alchemist we know as Fate!
That ev'ry guest might learn to suit his taste.
Behind had Conscience, real or mock'ry, placed;
Conscience a guide who every evil spies.
But royal nurses early pluck out both his eyes !
Oh ! at the table there be all the great, Whose lives are bubbles that best joys inflate! Superb, magnificent of revels — doubt That sagest lose their heads in such a rout! In the long laughter, ceaseless roaming round,
LES CHANTS DU CREPUSCULE 97
Joj, mirth and glee give out a maelstrom's sound, And the astonished gazer casts his care, Where ev'ry eyeball glistens in the flare.
But oh ! while yet the singing Hebes pour
Forgetf ulness of those without the door —
At very hour when all are most in joy.
And the hid orchestra annuls annoy.
Woe — woe ! with jollity a-top the heights,
With further tapers adding to the lights.
And gleaming 'tween the curtains on the street,
Where poor folks stare — hark to the heavy feet !
Some one smites roundly on the gilded gi'ate.
Some one below will be admitted straight,
Some one, though not invited, who'll not wait !
Close not the door ! Your orders are vain breath —
That stranger enters to be known as Death —
Or merely Exile — clothed in alien guise —
Death drags away • — with his prey Exile flies !
Death is that sight. He promenades the hall, And casts a gloomy shadow on them all, 'Neath which they bend like willows soft. Ere seizing one — the dumbest monarch oft. And bears him to eternal heat and drouth. While still the toothsome morsel's in his mouth.
G. W. M. Reynolds.
THE MORROW OF GRANDEUR
(" Non, Vavenir n'cst a 'personnel ")
Sire, beware, the future's range
Is of God alone the power. Naught below but augurs change,
E'en with ev'ry passing hour. 7
POEMS
Future! mighty mystery! All the earthly goods that be, Fortune, glor}^, war's renown. King or kaiser's sparkling crown, Victory I with her burning wings. Proud ambition's covetings, —
These may our grasp no more detain Than the free bird who doth alight Upon our roof, and takes its flight
High into air again.
Nor smile, nor tear, nor haughtiest lord's command. Avails t' unclasp the cold and closed hand.
Thy voice to disenthrall. Dumb phantom, shadow ever at our side ! Veiled spectre, journeying with us stride for stride
Whom men " To-morrow '* call.
Oh, to-morrow ! who may dare
Its realties to scan? God to-morrow brings to bear
What to-day is sown by man. 'Tis the lightning in its shroud, 'Tis the star-concealing cloud. Traitor, tis his purpose showing. Engine, lofty tow'rs o'erthrowing, Wand'ring star, its region changing, " Lady of kingdoms," ever ranging.
To-morrow ! 'Tis the rude display Of the throne's framework, blank and cold, That, rich with velvet, bright with gold.
Dazzles the eye to-day.
To-morrow ! 'tis the foaming war-horse falling ; To-morrow ! thy victorious march appalling,
'Tis the red fires from IVIoscow's tow'rs that wave; 'Tis thine Old Guard strewing the Belgian plain ;
LES CHANTS DU CREPUSCULE M
'Tis the lone island in th' Atlantic main To-morrow ! 'tis the grave !
Into capitals subdued
Thou mayst ride with gallant rein. Cut the knots of civil feud
With the trenchant steel in twain ; With thine edicts barricade Haughty Thames' o'er-freighted trade; Fickle Victory's self enthrall, Captive to thy trumpet call; Burst the stoutest gates asunder ; Leave the names of brightest wonder,
Pale and dim, behind thee far ; And to exhaustless armies yield Thy glancing spur, — o'er Europe's field
A glory-guiding star.
God guards duration, if lends space to thee, Thou mayst o'er-range mundane immensity,
Rise high as human head can rise sublime, Snatch Europe from the stamp of Charlemagne, Asia from Mahomet; but never gain
Power o'er the Morrow from the Lord of Time !
Fraser's Magazine.
THE EAGLET MOURNED
{"Encor si ce banni n'eut rien avme sur terre.**)
Too hard Napoleon's fate ! if, lone. No being he had loved, no single one.
Less dark that doom had been. But with the heart of might doth ever dwell The heart of love ! and in his island cell
Two things there were — 1 ween.
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Two things — a portrait and a map there were — Here hung the pictured world, an infant there : That framed his genius, this enshrined his love. And as at eve he glanced round th' alcove, Where gaolers watched his very thoughts to spy, What mused he then — what dream of years gone-by Stirred 'neath that discrowned brow, and fired that glisten- ing eye?
'Twas not the steps of that heroic tale That from Areola marched to Montmirail
On Glory's red degrees ; Nor Cairo-pashas' steel-devouring steeds. Nor the tall shadows of the Pyramids —
Ah! 'twas not always these;
'Twas not the bursting shell, the iron sleet, The whirlwind rush of battle 'neath liis feet,
Through twice ten years ago. When at his beck, upon that sea of steel Were launched the rustling banners — there to reel
Like masts when tempests blow.
'Twas not Madrid, nor Kremlin of the Czar,
Nor Pharos on Old Egypt's coast afar
Nor shrill reveille's camp-awakening sound.
Nor bivouac couch'd its starry fires around.
Crested dragoons, grim, veteran grenadiers.
Nor the red lancers 'mid their wood of spears
Blazing like baleful poppies 'mong the golden ears.
No — 'twas an infant's image, fresh and fair. With rosy mouth half oped, as slumbering there.
It lay beneath the smile Of her whose breast, soft-bending o'er its sleep, Lingering upon that little lip doth keep
One pendent drop the while.
LES CHANTS DU CREPUSCULE 101
Then, his sad head upon his hands inchned, He wept ; that father-heart all unconfined,
Outpoured in love alone. My blessing on thy clay-cold head, poor child. Sole being for whose sake his thoughts, beguiled.
Forgot the world's lost throne.
Fraser's Magazine,
INVOCATION
Say, Lord ! for Thou alone canst tell Where lurks the good invisible Amidst the depths of discord's sea — That seem, alas ! so dark to me ! Oppressive to a mighty state, Contentions, feuds, the people's hate — But who dare question that which fate
Has ordered to have been? Haply the earthquake may unfold The resting-place of purest gold, And haply surges up have rolled
The pearls that were unseen !
G. W. M. Reynoij>9.
OUTSIDE THE BALL-ROOM
("Akisi r Hotel de Ville illumine")
Behold the ball-room flashing on the sight, From step to cornice one grand glare of light; TJhe noise of mirth and revelry resounds. Like fairy melody on haunted grounds. But who demands this profuse, wanton glee, These shouts prolonged and wild festivity — Not sure our city — web, more woe than bliss. In any hour, requiring aught but this!
102 POEMS
Deaf is the ear of all that jewelled crowd To sorrow's sob, although its call be loud. Better than waste long nights in idle show» To help the indigent and raise the low — To train the wicked to forsake his way. And find th' industrious work from day to day ! Better to charity those hours afford, Which now are wasted at the festal board;
And ye, O high-born beauties ! in whose soul Virtue resides, and Vice has no control; Ye whom prosperity forbids to sin, So fair without — so chaste, so pure within — Whose honour Want ne'er threatened to betray, Whose eyes are joyous, and whose heart is gay; Around whose modesty a hundred arms. Aided by pride, protect a thousand charms ; For you this ball is pregnant with delight; As glitt'ring planets cheer the gloomy night: — But, O, ye wist not, while your souls are glad, How millions wander, homeless, sick apd sad! Hazard has placed you in a happy sphere, And like your own to you all lots appear; For blinded by the sun of bliss your eyes Can see no dark horizon to the skies.
Such is the chance of life ! Each gallant thane,
Prince, peer, and noble, follow in your train ; —
They praise your loveliness, and in your ear
They whisper pleasing things, but insincere;
Thus, as the moths enamoured of the light,
Ye seek these realms of revelry each night.
But as ye travel thither, did ye know
What wretches walk the streets through which you go.
Sisters, whose gewgaws glitter in the glare
Of your great lustre, all expectant there.
Watching the passing crowd with avid eye,
LES CHANTS DU CREPUSCULE 103
Till one their love, or lust, or shame may buy ; Or, with commingling jealousy and rage. They mark the progress of your equipage ; And their deceitful life essays the while To mask their woe beneath a sickly smile !
G. W. M. Reynolds.
PRAYER FOR FRANCE
(" O Dieu, si vous avez la France")
O God ! if France be still thy guardian care, Oh ! spare these mercenary combats, spare ! The thrones that now are reared but to be broke ; The rights we render, and anon revoke ; The muddy stream of laws, ideas, needs. Flooding our social life as it proceeds ; Opposing tribunes, even when seeming one — Soft, yielding plaster put in place of stone; Wave chasing wave in endless ebb and flow; War, darker still and deeper in its woe; One party fall'n, successor scarce preludes. Than, straight, new views their furious feuds ; The great man's pressure on the poor for gold. Rumours uncertain, conflicts, crimes untold; Dark systems hatched in secret and in fear, Telling of hate and strife to every ear. That even to midnight sleep no peace is given. For murd'rous cannon through our streets are driven. * J. S. Mackae.
104 POEMS
TO CANARIS, THE GREEK PATRIOT
(" Canaris! nous favons oublie.")
O Canaris ! O Canaris ! the poet's song
Has blameful left untold thj deeds too long !
But when the tragic actor's part is done,
When clamour ceases, and the fights are won,
When heroes realize what Fate decreed.
When chieftains mark no more wliich thousands bleed;
When they have shone, as clouded or as bright,
As fitful meteor in the heaven at night,
And when the sycophant no more proclaims
To gaping crowds the glory of their names, —
'Tis then the mem'ries of warriors die,
And fall — alas ! — into obscurity.
Until the poet, in whose verse alone
Exists a world — can make their actions known.
And in eternal epic measures, show
They are not yet forgotten here below.
And yet by us neglected ! glory gloomed.
Thy name seems sealed apart, entombed.
Although our shouts to pigmies rise — no cries
To mark thy presence echo to the skies ;
Farewell to Grecian heroes — silent is the lute.
And sets your sun without one Memnon bruit?
There was a time men gave no peace
To cheers for Athens, Bozzaris, Leonidas, and Greece!
And Canaris' more-worshipped name was found
On ev'ry lip, in ev'ry heart around.
But now is changed the scene ! On hist'ry's page
Are writ o'er thine deeds of another age,
And thine are not remembered. — Greece, farewell !
LES CHANTS DU CREPUSCULE 105
The world no more thine heroes' deeds will tell.
Not that this matters to a man like thee!
To whom is left the dark blue open sea,
Thy gallant bark, that o'er the water flies.
And the bright planet guiding in clear skies.
All these remain, with accident and strife,
Hope, and the pleasures of a roving life.
Boon Nature's fairest prospects — land and main —
The noisy starting, glad return again ;
The pride of freeman on a bounding deck,
Which mocks at dangers and despises wreck,
And e'en if lightning-pmions cleave the sea,
'Tis all replete with joyousness to thee!
Yes, these remain ! blue sky and ocean blue,
Thine eagles with one sweep beyond the view —
The sun in golden beauty ever pure.
The distance where rich warmth doth aye endure —
Thy language so mcllifluously bland.
Mixed with sweet idioms from Italia's strand.
As Baya's streams to Samos' waters glide
And with them mingle in one placid tide.
Yes, these remain, and Canaris ! thy arms —
The sculptured sabre, faithful in alarms —
The broidered garb, the yataghan, the vest
Expressive of thy rank, to thee still rest!
And when thy vessel o'er tlie foaming sound
Is proud past storied coasts to blithely bound.
At once the point of beauty may restore
Dmiles to thy lip, and smoothe thy brow once more.
G. W. M. Reynolds.
106 POEMS
POLAND
(^"Seule au pied de la tour")
Alone, beneath the tower whence thunder forth The mandates of the Tyrant of the North, Poland's sad genius kneels, absorbed in tears, Bound, vanquished, pallid with her fears — Alas ! the crucifix is all that's left To her, of freedom and her sons bereft ; And on her royal robe foul marks are seen Where Russian hectors' scornful feet have been. Anon she hears the clank of murd'rous arms, — The swordsmen come once more to spread alarms! And while she weeps against the prison walls, And waves her bleeding arm until it falls. To France she hopeless turns her glazing eyes, And sues her sister's succour ere she dies.
G. W. M. ReynoldSc
INSULT NOT THE FALLEN
(" Oh! nHnsultez jamais une femme qui tombe.**)
I TELL you, hush ! no word of sneering scorn —
True, fallen ; but God knows how deep her sorrow. Poor girl ! too many like her only born
To love one day — to sin — and die the morrow. What know 3'ou of her struggles or her grief?
Or what wild storms of want and woe and pain Tore down her soul from honour? As a leaf
From autumn branches, or a drop of rain That hung in frailest splendour from a bough —
Bright, glistening in the sunlight of God's day —
LES CHANTS DU CliEPUSCULE 107
So had she clung to virtue once. But now —
See Heaven's clear pearl polluted with earth's clay! The sin is yours — with your accursed gold —
Man's wealth is master — woman's soul the slave 1 Some purest water still the mire may hold.
Is there no hope for her — no power to save ? Yea, once again to draw up from the clay
The fallen rain-drop, till it shine above. Or save a fallen soul, needs but one ray
Of Heaven's sunshine, or of human love.
W. C. K. Wilde.
ABOVE THE BATTLE
(" Le grand liovime vaincu! ")
In a brief moment can the hero fall
From out his pride of place high-throned o'er all
Earth's petty kings that shiver. Of all his glory and might discrown'd, ay, even Of that bright spell which seemed a dower of heaven ;
But his high heart keeps ever!
Thus, when the blast of battle doth enfold A banner bright, its azure, scarlet, gold,
Adorned with glorious vallance, About th' ensanguined field lies scattered. Torn fiercely asunder shred by glittering shred, ^ As by a vulture's talons.
What matter ! O'er the ghastly strife that streams Hither and thither, wild with fire, smoke, screams.
Of aspect calm and regal. High on the staff — last sight of warriors dying — Whence late the last proud purple rags were flying.
Still stands the brazen eagle!
N. R. T.
108 POEMS
MORNING
(" Uaurore s'allume.**)
MoENiNG glances hither,
Now the shade is past; Dream and fog fly thither
Where Night goes at last ; Open eyes and roses As the darkness closes ; And the sound that grows is
Nature waking fast.
Murmuring all and singing,
Hark ! the news is stirred, Roof and creepers clinging.
Smoke and nest of bird; Winds to oak-trees bear it, Streams and fountains hear it. Every breath and spirit
As a voice is heard.
All takes up its story.
Child resumes his play. Hearth its ruddy glory.
Lute its lifted lay. Wild or out of senses, Through the world immense is Sound as each commences
Schemes of yesterday.
W. M. Haudinge.
LES CHANTS DU CREPUSCULE 109
SONG OF LOVE (" iS'iZ est un charmant gazon")
If there be a velvet sward
By dewdrops pearly drest, Where through all seasons fairies guard
Flowers by bees carest, Where one may gather, day and night, Roses, honeysuckle, lily white, I fain would make of it a site
For thy foot to rest.
If there be a loving heart
Where Honour rules the breast, Loyal and true in every part. That changes ne'er molest, Eager to run its noble race, Intent to do some work of grace, I fain would make of it a place For thy brow to rest.
And if there be of love a dream
Rose-scented as the west, Which shows, each time it comes, a gleam, —
A something sweet and blest, — A dream of which heaven is the pole, A dream that mingles soul and soul, I fain of it would make the goal
Where thy mind should rest.
TOEU DUTT.
no POEMS
SWEET CHARMERS
A
(" L'aube nait et ta porte est close.")
Though heaven's gate of light uncloses, Thou stirr'st not — thou'rt laid to rest, Waking are thy sister roses,
One only dreameth on thy breast. Hear me, sweet dreamer !
Tell me all thy fears. Trembling in song. But to break in tears.
Lo ! to greet thee, spirits pressing.
Soft music brings the gentle dove. And fair light falleth like a blessing.
While my poor heart can bring thee only love. Worship thee, angels love thee, sweet woman?
Yes ; for that love perfects my soul. None the less of heaven that my heart is human.
Blent in one exquisite, harmonious whole.
H. B. Fabnle.
MORE STRONG THAN TIME
(" Puisque j^ai mis ma levre a ta coupe")
Since I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet. Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid.
Since I have known your soul, and all the bloom of it, And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade ;
1 Set to music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.
LES CHANTS DU CREPUSCULE 111
Since it was given to me to hear one happy while, The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries,
Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile, Your lips upon my lips, and your gaze upon my eyes ;
Since I have known upon my forehead glance and gleam, A ray, a single ray, of your star, veiled always.
Since I have felt the fall upon my lifetime's stream Of one rose-petal plucked from the roses of your days ;
I now am bold to say to the swift-changing hours. Pass — pass upon your way, for I grow never old.
Flee to the dark abysm with all your fading flowers. One rose that none may pluck, within my heart I hold.
Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill The cup fulfilled of love, from which my lips are wet.
My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill. My soul more love than you can make my soul forget.
Andrew Lang.
FLOWER AND BUTTERFLY
(" La pauvre fleur disait.")
The humble flower bespake the heavenly butterfly:
" Flee no more ! See how our fates are diverse. Fixed to earth am I,
Thou canst soar !
" Yet the same breath of love is ours ; from men afar Both are fain To dwell ; so like we be, 'tis soothly said we are Flowerets twain.
" But ah ! the air uphfts thee, while the earth still doth hold me: Fortune's spite!
112 POEMS
With fragrant breath I long to embalm thee and enfold thee In heaven-flight.
" In vain, — too far thou flitt'st ! Through garden and through meadow, Fair and fleet ; Whilst I all lonely bide, and watch my circling shadow At my feet.
" Thou fliest ; then return'st ; again afar art borne, Void of fears ; And alway find'st thou me, 'neath every roseate morn, Bathed in tears.
" Oh ! that our love may prove the same sweets summer brings. Fair king mine, Even like thy slave take root, or bless me with bright wings Like to thine ! "
Envoy, to ... .
Roses and Butterflies, the grave must reunite us,
Soon or late. Wherefore await it, say.? Wilt not we now unite us,
Fate with fate.?
Haply within the air, if from such place thy pleasure
Take blithe birth : I' the meads, if, like a flower, thou shed thy beauteous treasure
On the earth.
E'en where thou wilt! What skills it.? Be thou colour bright. Fragrance sweet ;
LES CHANTS DU CREPUSCULE 113
Resplendent butterfly, or flower too fond for flight; Bloom, — wing fleet !
To live with one another ! such the sole good worth
One least sigh; With that, let chance allot what home it will — dark earth,
Or blue sky !
N. R. T.
A SIMILE (" Soyez comme I'oiseau.**)
Thou art like the bird
That alights and sings Though the frail spray bends —
For he knows he has wings.
Fanny Kemble (Butler).
THE POET TO HIS WIFE
(" Oh! qui que vous soyez")
Whoe'er you be, send blessings to her — she
Was sister of my soul immortal, free !
My pride, my hope, my shelter, my resource,
When green hoped not to grey to run its course;
She was enthroned Virtue under heaven's dome,
My idol in the shrine of curtained home.
8
LES VOIX INTERIEURES.— 1837
THE BLINDED BOURBONS
(" Qui leur eut dit V austere destinee? ")
WHO then^ to them ^ had told the Future's story? Or said that France, low bowed before their glory One day would mindful be Of them and of their mournful fate no more, Than of the wrecks its waters have swept o'er The unremembering sea?
That their old Tuileries should see the fall Of blazons from its high heraldic hall,
Dismantled, crumbling, prone ; ^ Or that, o'er yon dark Louvre's architrave ^ A Corsican, as yet unborn, should grave
An eagle, then unknown?
That gay St. Cloud another lord awaited. Or that in scenes Le Notre's art created
For princely sport and ease, Crimean steeds, trampling the velvet glade. Should browse the bark beneath the stately shade
Of the great Louis' trees?
Fraser's Magazine.
1 The young princes, afterwards Louis XVIII. and Charles X.
2 The Tuileries, several times stormed by mobs, was so irreparably Injured by the Communists that, in 1882, the Paris Town Council decided that the ruins should 'ie cleared away.
3 After the Eagle and the T'.ee superseded the Lily-flowers, the Third Napoleon's i litial " N " flourished for two decades, but has been excised or plastered over, the -ords " National Property " or " Liberty, Equal- ity, Fraternity" being cut in the stona profusely.
114
«
LES VOIX INTERIEURES 115
CHARITY
(" J^ suis la Charite")
Lo! I am Charity," she cries,
" Who waketh up before the day ; While yet asleep all nature lies,
God bids me rise and go my way."
• «••••
How fair her glorious features shine,
Whereon the hand of God hath set An angel's attributes divine,
With all a woman's sweetness met.
Above the old man's couch of woe
She bows her forehead, pure and even.
There's nothing fairer here below.
There's nothing grander up in heaven,
Than when caressingly she stands
(The cold hearts wakening 'gain their beat), And holds within her holy hands
The little children's naked feet.
To every den of want and toil
She goes, and leaves the poorest fed;
Leaves wine and bread, and genial oil. And hopes that blossom in her tread.
And fire, too, beautiful bright fire,
That mocks the glowing dawn begun.
Where, having set the blind old sire. He dreams he's sitting in the sun.
Then, over all the earth she runs. And seeks, in the cold mists of life.
Those poor forsaken little ones
Who droop and weary in the strife.
116 POEMS
Ah, most her heart is stirred for them.
Whose foreheads, wrapped in mists obscure,
Still wear a triple diadem —
The young, the innocent, the poor.
And they are better far than we, And she bestows a worthier meed ;
For, with the loaf of charity,
She gives the kiss that children need.
She gives, and while they wondering eat The tear-steeped bread by love supplied.
She stretches round them in the street Her arm that passers push aside.
If, with raised head and step alert. She sees the rich man stalking by,
She touches his embroidered skirt.
And gently shows them where they lie.
She begs for them of careless crowd Of earnest brows and narrow hearts^
That when it hears her cry aloud. Turns hke the ebb-tide and departs.
O miserable he who sings
Some strain impure, whose numbers fall Along the cruel wind that brings
Death to some child beneath his wall.
O strange and sad and fatal thing.
When, in the rich man's gorgeous hall.
The huge fire on the hearth doth fling A light on some great festival,
To see the drunkard smile in state.
In purple wrapt, with myrtle crowned.
While Jesus licth at the gate
With only rags to wrap him round.
Dublin University Magazine.
LES VOIX INTERIEUKES 117
TO ALBERT DURER.
(" Dans les vieilles forets.")
Through ancient forests — where like flowing tide
The rising sap shoots vigour far and wide,
Mounting the column of the alder dark
And silv'ring o'er the birch's shining bark —
Hast thou not often, Albert Diirer, strayed
Pond'ring awe-stricken — through the half -lit glade,
Pallid and trembhng — glancing not behind
From mystic fear that did thy senses bind.
Yet made thee hasten with unsteady pace?
Oh, Master grave! whose musings lone we trace
Throughout thy works we look on reverently.
Amidst the gloomy umbrage thy mind's eye
Saw clearly, 'mong the shadows soft yet deep.
The web-toed faun, and Pan the green-eyed peep.
Who decked with flowers the cave where thou might'st rest
Leaf -laden dryads, too, in verdure drest.
A strange weird world such forest was to thee,
Where mingled truth and dreams in mystery ;
There leaned old ruminating pines, and there
The giant elms, whose boughs deformed and bare
A hundred rough and crooked elbows made ;
And in this sombre group the wind had swayed.
Nor life — nor death — but life in death seemed found.
The cresses drink — the water flows — and round
Upon the slopes the mountain rowans meet.
And 'neath the brushwood plant their gnarled feet,
Intwining slowly where the creepers twine.
There, too, the lakes as mirrors brightly shine.
And show the swan-necked flowers, each line bj' line. .
Chimeras roused take stranger shapes for thee,
118 POEMS
The glittering scales of mailed throat we see,
And claws tight pressed on huge old knotted tree;
While from a cavern dim the bright eyes glare.
Oh, vegetation ! Spirit ! Do we dare
Question of matter, and of forces found
'Neath a rude skin — in living verdure bound.
Oh, Master — I, like thee, have wandered oft
Where mighty trees made arches high aloft.
But ever with a consciousness of strife,
A surging struggle of the inner life.
Ever the trembling of the grass I say.
And the boughs rocking as the breezes play,
Have stirred deep thoughts in a bewild'ring way.
Oh, God ! alone Great Witness of all deeds.
Of thoughts and acts, and all our human needs,
God only knows how often in such scenes
Of savage beauty under leafy screens,
I've felt the mighty oaks had spirit dower —
Like me knew mirth and sorrow — sentient power.
And whisp'ring each to each in twilight dim.
Had hearts that beat — and owned a soul from Him !
Mrs. Newton Crosland.
TO HIS MUSE
(" Puisqu'ici-bas tout dme.")
Since everything below
Doth, in this mortal state.
Its tone, its fragrance, or its glow Communicate ;
Since all that lives and moves
Upon the earth, bestows On what it seeks and what it loves
Its thorn or rose ;
LES VOIX INTERIEURES 119
Since April to the trees
Gives a bewitching sound, And sombre night to grief gives ease,
And peace profound;
Since day-spring on the flower
A fresh'ning drop confers, And the fresh air on branch and bower
Its choristers ;
Since the dark wave bestows
A soft caress, imprest On the green bank to which it goes
Seeking its rest;
I give thee at this hour,
Thus fondly bent o'er thee. The best of all the things in dow'r
That in me be.
Receive, — poor gift, 'tis true,
Which grief, not joy, endears, — My thoughts, that like a shower of dew.
Reach thee in tears.
My vows untold receive.
All pure before thee laid ; Receive of all the days I live
The lieht or shade !
^&'
My hours with rapture fill'd, Which no suspicion wrongs ;
And all the blandishments distill'd From all my songs.
My spirit, whose essay
Flies fearless, wild, and free,
And hath, and seeks, to guide its way No star but thee.
120 POEMS
No pensive, dreamy Muse,
Who, though all else should smile,
Oft as thou weep'st, with thee would choose, To weep the while.
Oh, sweetest mine ! this gift
Receive ; — 'tis thine alone ; — My heart, of which there's nothing left
When Love is gone !
Fraser's Magazme,
THE COW
(" Devant la blanche ferme")
Before the farm where, o'er the porch, festoon Wild creepers red, and gaffer sits at noon. Whilst strutting fowl display their varied crests, And the old watchdog slumberously rests. They half-attentive to the clarion of their king, Resplendent in the sunshine op'ning wing — There stood a cow, with neck-bell jingling light, Superb, enormous, dappled red and white — Soft, gentle, patient as a hind unto its young. Letting the children swarm until they hung Around her, under — rustics with their teeth Whiter than marble their ripe lips beneath^ And bushy hair fresh and more brown Than mossy walls at old gates of a town, Calling to one another with loud cries For younger imps to be in at the prize ; Stealing without concern but tremulous with fear They glance around lest Doll the maid appear; — Their jolly lips — that haply cause some pain. And all those busy fingers, pressing now and 'gain, The teeming udders whose small, thousand pores
LES VOIX INTERIEURES 121
Gush out the nectar 'mid their laughing roars,
While she, good mother, gives and gives in heaps,
And never moves. Anon there creeps
A vague soft shiver o'er the hide unmarred,
As sharp they pull, she seems of stone most hard.
Dreamy of large eye, seeks she no release,
And shrinks not while there's one still to appease.
Thus Nature — refuge 'gainst the slings of fate » Mother of all, indulgent as she's great! Lets us, the hungered of each age and rank. Shadow and milk seek in the eternal flank ; Mystic and carnal, foolish, wise, repair. The souls retiring and those that dare. Sages with halos, poets laurel-crowned. All creep beneath or cluster close around, And with unending greed and joyous cries. From sources full, draw need's supplies. Quench hearty thirst, obtain what must eftsoon Form blood and mind, in freest boon. Respire at length thy sacred flaming light. From all that greets our ears, touch, scent or sight — Brown leaves, blue mountains, yellow gleams, green sod — Thou undistracted still dost dream of God.
TORU DUTT.
MOTHERS
('* Regardez: les enfants")
See all the children gathered there. Their mother near ; so young, so fair,
An elder sister she might be. And yet she hears, amid their games. The shaking of their unknown names
In the dark urn of destiny.
122 POEMS
She wakes their smiles, she soothes their cares. On that pure heart so like to theirs,
Her spirit with such life is rife That in its golden rays we see, Touched into graceful poesy,
The dull cold commonplace of life.
Still following, watching, whether burn The Christmas log in winter stern,
While merry plays go round; Or streamlets laugh to breeze of May That shakes the leaf to break away —
A shadow falling to the ground.
If some poor man with hungry eyes Her baby's coral bauble spies.
She marks his look with famine wild, For Christ's dear sake she makes with joy An alms-gift of the silver toy —
A smiling angel of the child.
Dublin University Magazine*
TO SOME BIRDS FLOWN AWAY
(" Enfants! Oh! revenezf ")
Childeen, come back — come back, I say —
You whom my folly chased away
A moment since, from this my room,
With bristling wrath and words of doom!
What had you done, you bandits small.
With lips as red as roses all ? ~
What crime? — what wild and hapless deed?
What porcelain vase by you was split To thousand pieces? Did you need
For pastime, as you handled it.
LES VOIX INTERIEURES 123
Some Gothic missal to enrich
With your designs fantastical?
Or did your tearing fingers fall On some old picture? Which, oh, which Your dreadful fault? Not one of these; Only when left yourselves to please This morning but a moment here
'Mid papers tinted by my mind, You took some embryo verses near —
Half formed, but fully well designed To open out. Your heart's desire Was but to throw them on the fire. Then watch the tinder, for the sight Of shining sparks that twinkle bright As little boats that sail at night. Or like the window lights that spring From out the dark at evening.
'Twas all, and you were well content. Fine loss was this for anger's vent — A strophe ill made midst your play. Sweet sound that chased the words away In stormy flight. An ode quite new. With rhymes inflated — stanzas, too, That panted, moving lazily.
And heavy Alexandrine lines That seemed to jostle bodily,
Like children full of play designs That spring at once from schoolroom's form. Instead of all this angry storm. Another might have thanked you well For saving prey from that grim cell, That hollowed den 'neath journals great,
Where editors who poets flout
With their demoniac laughter shout. And I have scolded you! What fate For charming dwarfs who never meant
124. POEMS
To anger Hercules ! And I Have frightened you ! — My chair I sent
Back to the wall, and then let fly A shower of words the envious use — *' Get out," I said, with hard abuse, *' Leave me alone — alone I say." Poor man alone! Ah, well-a-day. What fine result — v;hat triumph rare !
As one turns from the coffin'd dead So left you me : • — I could but stare
Upon the door through which you fled — I proud and grave — but punished quite. And what care j^ou for this my plight ! — You have recovered liberty, Fresh air and lovely scenery, The spacious park and wished-f or grass ;
The running stream, where you can throw A blade to watch what comes to pass ;
Blue sky, and all the spring can show ; Nature, serenely fair to see ; The book of birds and spirits free, God's poem, worth much more than mine, Where flowers for perfect stanzas shine — Flowers that a child may pluck in play. No harsh voice frightening it away. And Fm alone — all pleasure o'er — -
Alone with pedant called " Ennui," For since the morning at my door
Ennui has waited patientl^^ That doctor — London born, you mark, One Sunday in December dark. Poor little ones — he loved you not, And waited till the chance he got To enter as you passed away.
And in the very corner where You played with frolic laughter gay,
He sighs and yawns with weary air.
LES VOIX INTERIEURES 125
What can I do? Shall I read books, Or write more verse — or turn fond looks Upon enamels blue, sea green, And white — on insects rare as seen Upon my Dresden china ware? Or shall I touch the globe, and care To make the heavens turn upon Its axis? No, not one — not one Of all these things care I to do; All wearies me — I think of you. In truth with you my sunshine fled, And gaiety with your light tread — Glad noise that set me dreaming still. 'Twas my delight to watch your will, And mark you point with finger tips
To help your spelling out a word ; To see the pearls between your lips
When I your joyous laughter heard; Your honest brows that looked so true,
And said " Oh, yes ! " to each intent ; Your great bright eyes, that loved to view
With admiration innocent My fine old Sevres ; the eager thought That every kind of knowledge sought ; The elbow push with " Come and see ! "
Oh, certes ! spirits, sylphs, there be,
And fays the wind blows often here ;
The gnomes that squat the ceiling near,
In corners made by old books dim ;
The long-backed dwarfs, those goblins grim
That seem at home 'mong vases rare.
And chat to them with friendly air —
Oh, how the joyous demon throng
Must all have laughed with laughter long
To see you on my rough drafts fall,
My bald hexameters, and all
126 POEMS
The mournful, miserable band, And drag them with relentless hand From out their box, with true delight To set them each and all a-light. And then with clapping hands to lean Above the stove and watch the scene, How to the mass deformed there came A soul that showed itself in flame!
Bright tricksy children — oh, I pray Come back and sing and dance away. And chatter too — sometimes you may, A giddy group, a big book seize — Or sometimes, if it so you please. With nimble step you'll run to me
And push the arm that holds the peUj Till on my finished verse will be
A stroke that's like a steeple when Seen suddenly upon a plain. My soul longs for your breath again To warm it. Oh, return — come here With laugh and babble — and no fear
When with your shadow you obscure
The book I read, for I am sure. Oh, madcaps terrible and dear. That you were right and I was wrong. But who has ne'er with scolding tongue Blamed out of season. Pardon me ! You must forgive — for sad are we. The young should not be hard and cold And unforgiving to the old. Children each morn your souls ope out
Like windows to the shining day. Oh, miracle that comes about,
The miracle that children gay Have happiness and goodness too.
LES VOIX INTERIEURES 127
Caressed by destiny are you,
Charming you are, if you but play. But we with living overwrought, And full of grave and sombre thought, Are snappish oft : dear little men. We have ill tempered days, and then. Are quite unjust and full of care ; It rained this morning and the air Was chill ; but clouds that dimm'd the sky Have passed. Things spited me, and why.? But now my heart repents. Behold What 'twas that made me cross, and scold ! All by-and-by you'll understand, When brows are mark'd by Time's stern hand ; Then you will comprehend, be sure. When older — that's to say, less pure.
The fault I freely own was mine.
But oh, for pardon now I pine!
Enough my punishment to meet.
You must forgive, I do entreat
With clasped hands praying ■ — oh, come back.
Make peace, and you shall nothing lack.
See^ now my pencils — paper — here.
And pointless compasses, and dear
Old lacquer-work ; and stoneware clear
Through glass protecting ; all man's toys
So coveted by girls and boys.
Great China monsters — bodies much
Like cucumbers — you all shall touch.
I yield up all ! my picture rare
Found beneath antique rubbish heap. My great and tapestried oak chair
I will from you no longer keep. You shall about my table climb.
And dance, or drag, without a cry From me as if it were a crime.
128 POEMS
Even I'll look on patiently If you your jagged toys all throw Upon my carved bench, till it show The wood is torn ; and freely too, I'll leave in your own hands to view, My pictured Bible — oft desired — But which to touch your fear inspired — With God in emperor's robes attired.
Then if to see my verses burn.
Should seem to you a pleasant turn.
Take them to freely tear away
Or burn. But, oh ! not so I'd say,
If this were Mery's room to-day.
That noble poet! Happy town,
Marseilles the Greek, that him doth own !
Daughter of Homer, fair to see.
Of Virgil's son the mother she.
To you I'd say. Hold, children all.
Let but your eyes on his work fall ;
These papers are the sacred nest
In which his crooning fancies rest;
To-morrow winged to Heaven they'll soar.
For new-born verse imprisoned still In manuscript may suffer sore
At your small hands and childish will. Without a thought of bad intent. Of cruelty quite innocent. You wound their feet, and bruise their wings. And make them suffer those ill things That children's play to young birds bring.
But mine ! no matter what you do. My poetry is all in you; You are my inspiration bright That gives my verse its purest light. Children whose life is made of hope.
LES VOIX INTERIEURES 129
Whose joy, within its mystic scope,
Owes all to ignorance of ill,
You have not suffered, and you still
Know not what gloomy thoughts weigh down
The poet-writer weary grown.
What warmth is shed by your sweet smile !
How much he needs to gaze awhile
Upon your shining placid brow.
When liis own brow its ache doth know ;
With what delight he loves to hear
Your frolic play 'neath tree that's near,
Your joyous voices mixing well
With his own song's all-mournful swell !
Come back then, children ! come to me,
If you wish not that I should be
As lonely now that you're afar
As fisherman of Etretat,
Who listless on his elbow leans
Through all the weary winter scenes,
As tired of thought — as on Time flies —
And watching only rainy skies !
Mrs. Newton Crosl,and.
MY THOUGHTS OF YE
{"A quoi je songe? ")
What do I dream of.'' Far from the low roof. Where now ye are, children, I dream of you ; Of your young heads that are the hope and crown Of my full summer, ripening to its fall. Branches whose shadow grows along my wall, Sweet souls scarce open to the breath of day, Still dazzled with the brightness of your dawn. I dream of those two little ones at play, Making the threshold vocal with their cries,
180 POEMS
Half tears, half laughter, mingled sport and strife. Like two flowers knocked together by the wind. Or of the elder two — more anxious thought — Breasting already broader waves of life, A conscious innocence on either face. My pensive daughter and my curious boy. Thus do I dream, while the light sailors sing, At even moored beneath some steepy shore. While the waves opening all their nostrils breathe A thousand sea-scents to the wandering wind. And the whole air is full of wondrous sounds. From sea to strand, from land to sea, given back — Alone and sad, thus do I dream of you. Children, and house and home, the table set, The glowing hearth, and all the pious care Of tender mother, and of grandsire kind ; And while before me, spotted with white sails, The hmpid ocean mirrors all the stars. And while the pilot, from the infinite main, Looks with calm eye into the infinite heaven, I dreaming of you only, seek to scan 4nd fathom all my soul's deep love for you — Love sweet, and powerful, and everlasting — And find that the great sea is small beside it.
Dublin University Magazine.
THE BEACON IN THE STORM
(" Quels sont ces bruits sourds? ")
Haek, what sombre tones !
From far billows dying.
Listen, hollow sighing. Blent with heavy moans.
Blent with eerie crying, —
LES VOIX INTERIEUKES 131
Till a shriller wail
Bodes new agony . . . — Through his horn the gale
Thunders o'er the sea!
Rain in torrents, hark !
On the low shore yonder,
Billows die in thunder, 'Neath a heaven all-dark ;
While with dread we wonder Winter should prevail,
Ere his time to be . . . — Through his horn the gale.
Thunders o'er the sea !
Oh ! lost mariners !
While the ship doth founder,
Through the darkness round her Toward the shore one nears
(Ay, the low shore yonder!) Brawny arms, — how frail ! —
Stretched out helplessly ! . . .— Through his horn the gale I Thunders o'er the sea !
Oh ! rash mariners !
While the ship's on-driven,
Sail on sail shrieks, riven As with tooth or shears.
Not a star in heaven ! Strife's of none avail!
Deadly rocks to lee . . .— Through his horn the gale
Thunders o'er the sea !
Lo I what sudden light ? 'Tis the star beholden. Brighter than all golden
132 POEMS
Stars that gem the night : Torch God fires to embolden
Mariners who hail
It, while threateningly
Through his horn the gale Thunders o'er the sea !
N. R. T.
LOVE'S TREACHEROUS POOL
{^" Jeune file, Vamour")
Dear Child, at first dear love's a mirror bright Whereo'er fair women bend with fond delight
For bold or timorous gazing ; With heavenly beams each heart it doth fulfil, Making all good things lovelier, all things ill
From the rapt soul erasing. Then one bends nearer, 'tis a pool . . . and then A deep abysm ! and clinging hands are vain
To banks frail flowers are crowning ! — Charming is love, but deadly ! Fear it. Sweet, In a river first the foolish little feet
Dip ; then a fair form's drowning !
N. R. T.
THE ROSE AND THE GRAVE
(" La tombe dit a la rose.")
The Grave said to the Rose:
" What of the dews of dawn, Love's flower, what end is theirs ? "
" And what of spirits flown. The souls whereon doth close
The tomb's mouth unawares ? " The Rose said to the Grave.
LES VOIX INTERIEUKES 133
The Rose said : " In the shade From the dawn's tears is made
A perfume faint and strange,
Amber and honey sweet."
" And all the spirits fleet Do suffer a sky-change,
More strangely than the dew,
To God's own angels new," The Grave said to the Rose.
Andrew Lang.
LES RAYONS ET LES OMBRES.— 1840
HOLYROOD PALACE
(" O palais, sois benie")
PALACE and ruin, bless thee evermore! Grateful we bow thy gloomy tow'rs before; For the old King of France ^ hath found in thee That melancholy hospitality Which in their royal fortune's evil day, Stuarts and Bourbons to each other pay.
Fraser'g Magazine.
THE HUMBLE HOME
(" L'egUse est vaste et haute")
The Church ^ is vast ; its towering pride, its steeples loom on
on high ; The bristling stones with leaf and flower are sculptured won- drously ; The portal glows respondent with its " rose," And 'neath the vault immense at evening swarm Figures of angel, saint, or demon's form.
As oft a fearful world our dreams disclose. But not the huge Cathedral's height, nor yet its vault sublime,
1 King Charles X.
2 The Cathedral N6tre Dame of Paris; compare Book III. chap. L of the author's romance, " Notre Dame."
134
LES RAYONS ET LES OMBRES 135
Nor porch, nor glass, nor streaks of light, nor shadows deep with time; Nor massy towers, that fascinate mine eyes ; No, 'tis that spot — the mind's tranquillity — Chamber whercfrom the song mounts cheerily. Placed like a joyful nest well nigh the skies. Yea! glorious is the Church, I ween, but Meekness dwelleth
here; Less do I love the lofty oak than mossy nest it bear ;
More dear is meadow breath than stormy wind : And when my mind for meditation's meant. The seaweed is preferred to the shore's extent, — The swallow to the main it leaves behind.
Author of " Critical Essays."
THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
("0 dix-huitieme siecle! ")
O Eighteenth Century ! by Heaven chastised ! Godless thou livedst, by God thy doom was fixed. Thou in one ruin sword and sceptre mixed.
Then outraged love, and pity's claim despised. Thy life a banquet — but its board a scaffold at the close, Where far from Christ's beatic reign, Satanic deeds arose! Thy writers, like thyself, by good men scorned —
Yet, from thy crimes, renown has decked thy name,
As the smoke emplumcs the furnace flame, A revolution's deeds have thine adorned !
Author of " Critical Essays."
136 POEMS
STILL BE A CHILD
("0 vous que voire age defend.''^)
In youthful spirits wild, Smile, for all beams on thee ;
Sport, sing, be still the child, The flower, the honey-bee.
Bring not the future near, For Joy too soon declines —
What is man's mission here? Toil, where no sunlight shines !
Our lot is hard, we know ;
From eyes so gaily beaming. Whence rays of beauty flow,
Salt tears most oft are streaming.
Free from emotions past.
All joy and hope possessing,
With mind in pureness cast. Sweet ignorance confessing.
Plant, safe from winds and showers, Heart with soft visions glowing.
In childhood's happy hours A mother's rapture showing.
Loved by each anxious friend, No carking care within —
When summer gambols end. Thy winter sports begin.
Sweet poesy from heaven Around thy form is placed,
A mother's beauty given.
By father's thought is graced !
LES RAYONS ET LES OMBRES 137
Seize, then, each blissful second,
Live, for joy sinks in night. And those whose tale is reckoned,
Have had their days of light.
Then, oh ! before we part,
The poet's blessing take. Ere bleeds that angel heart
Or child the woman make.
Dublin University Magazine.
THE POOL AND THE SOUL
(" Comme dans les etangs.")
As in some stagnant pool by forest-side. In human souls two things are oft descried ; The sky, — which tints the surface of the pool With all its rays, and all its shadows cool ; The basin next, — where gloomy, dark and deep, Through slime and mud black reptiles vaguely creep.
R. F. Hodgson.
YE MARINERS WHO SPREAD YOUR SAILS
(" Matelots, vous deploirez les voiles.")
Ye mariners ! ye mariners ! each sail to the breeze unfurled, In joy or sorrow still pursue your course around the world ; And when the stars next sunset shine, ye anxiously will gaze Upon the shore, a friend or foe, as the windy quarter lays.
Ye envious souls, with spiteful tooth, the statue's base will bite;
138 POEMS
Ye birds will sing, ye bending boughs with verdure glad the
sight ; The ivy root in the stone entwined, will cause old gates to fall ; The church-bell sound to work or rest the villagers will call.
Ye glorious oaks will still increase in solitude profound. Where the far west in distance lies as evening veils around ; Ye willows, to the earth your arms in mournful trail will bend, And back again your mirror'd forms the water's surface send.
Ye nests will oscillate beneath the youthful progeny ; Embraced in furrows of the earth the germing grain will lie ; Ye lightning-torches still your streams Avill cast into the air. Which like a troubled spirit's course float wildly here and there.
Ye thunder-peals will God proclaim, as doth the ocean wave ; Ye violets will nourish still the flower that April gave ; Upon your ambient tides will be man's sternest shadow cast ; Your waters ever will roll on when man himself is past.
All things that are, or being have, or those that mutely lie, Have each its course to follow out, or object to descry ; Contributing its little share to that stupendous whole, Where with man's teeming race combined creation's wonders roll.
The poet, too, will contemplate th' Almighty Father's love. Who to our restless minds, with light and darkness from
above. Hath given the heavens that glorious urn of tranquil majesty. Whence in unceasing stores we draw calm and serenity.
Author of " Critical Essays."
LES RAYONS ET LES OMBRES 139
ON A FLEMISH WINDOW-PANE
(" J*aime le carillon dans tes cites antiques.'*)
Within thy cities of the olden time
Dearly I love to list the ringing chime,
Thou faithful guardian of domestic worth.
Noble old Flanders ! where the rigid North
A flush of rich meridian glow doth feel,
Caught from reflected suns of bright Castile.
The chime, the clinking chime ! To Fancy's eye —
Prompt her aff'ections to personify —
It is the fresh and frolic hour, arrayed
In guise of Andalusian dancing maid,
Appealing by a crevice fine and rare,
As of a door oped in " th' incorporal air."
She comes ! o'er drowsy roofs, inert and dull,
Shaking her lap, of silv'ry music full.
Rousing without remorse the drones a-bed,
Trippmg like joyous bird with tiniest tread,
Quiv'ring hke dart that trembles in the targe,
By a frail crystal stair, whose viewless marge
Bears her sHght footfall, tim'rous half, yet free,
In innocent extravagance of glee
The graceful elf alights from out the spheres.
While the quick spirit — thing of eyes and ears —
As now she goes, now comes, mounts, and anon
Descends, those delicate degrees upon,
Hears her melodious spirit from step to step run on.
Fraser's Magazine,
140 POEMS
GASTIBELZA
(" Gastibelza, Vhovime a la carabine")
Gastibelza, the man with the carabine,
Sung in this wise: " Hath one of you here known Dona Sabine
With the gentle eyes? Ay, dance and sing ! For the night draws nigh
O'er hill and lea.
— The wind that wails o'er yon mountain high Will madden me.
** Hath one of you here known Dona Sabine,
To me so dear? Her mother, the old, old Maugrabine,
Erst made one fear. For each night from the haunted cavern she'd cry
With an owlet's glee.
— The wind that wails o'er yon mountain high Will madden me!
" Ay, dance ye and sing ! The hour's delight
One needs must use. How young she was, and those eyes how bright,
Which made one muse. — To this old man whom a child leads by,
A coin cast ye!
— The wind that wails o'er yon mountain high Will madden me!
" In sooth the queen for envy had wept, Had she seen her, alack ! As o'er Toledo's bridge she light-tript In a corset black.
LES llAYONS ET LES OMBRES 141
A chaplet of beads that charmed one's eye, From her neck hung free.
— The wind that wails o'er yon mountain high Will madden me!
" The King, bedazed with her loveHness,
Bespake one there: ' For one only smile, for one only kiss,
One tress of her hair, I would give my Spain and gold realms that lie
O'er yonder sea ! '
— The wind that wails o'er yon mountain high Will madden me!
" I know not well if I loved this sweet,
But well I know. If but one glance of her soul might greet
My soul, I would go On the galleys to toil, on the galleys to die.
Right cheerfully.
— The wind that wails o'er yon mountain high Will ifiadden me!
" One summer morn when all heaven was bright.
All earth was gay, To the stream with her sister for dear delight,
This sweet must stray. The foot of her comrade I there did spy.
And saw her knee.
— The wind that wails o'er yon mountain high Will madden me!
" When thus of me, a poor shepherd, was seen This glorious May, Methought, 'tis Cleopatra the queen Who once, they say,
142 POEMS
Won Caesar, great Emperor of Germany, Her slave to be.
— The wind that wails o'er yon mountain high Will madden me!
" Dance ye and sing — lo> the night doth fall ! Sabine, one while Her dovelike beauty, her soul, her all.
Her angel-smile. For a ring of gold to the Count hath sold — Saldane is he.
— The wind that wails o'er yon mountain high Will madden met
" On this bench for a moment suffer me rest, — Full-weary each limb. With tliis Count then fled this loveHest —
Alas ! with him ! By the road that leads . . . but I know not, I, Where then fled she.
— The wind that wails o'er yon mountain high Will madden me!
" I saw her pass at the death of day,
And all was night. And now I wander and weary alway,
In pain's despite. My soul's on quest ; my dagger's put by,
Ne'er-used to be. The wind that wails o'er yon mountain high
Has maddened me!"
N. R. T.
LES RAYONS ET LES OMBRES 143
GUITAR SONG
(" Comment, disaient-ils.**)
How shall we flee sorrow — flee sorrow ? said he.
How, how ! How shall we flee sorrow — flee sorrow ? said he.
How — how — how ? answered she.
How shall we see pleasure — see pleasure? said he.
How, how! How shall we see pleasure — see pleasure.? said
he. Dream — dream — dream ! answered she.
How shall we be happy — be happy ? said he.
How, how ! How shall we be happy — be happy ? said he.
Love — love — love ! whispered she.
Evelyn Jeakold.
COME WHEN I SLEEP
(" Oh, quand je dors.")
Oh ! when I sleep, come near my resting-place.
As Laura came to bless her poet's heart, And let thy breath in passing touch my face — At once a space My lips will part.
And on my brow where too long weighed supreme A vision — haply spent now — black as night. Let thy look as a star arise and beam — At once my dream Will seem of light.
lU POEMS
Then press mj lips, where plays a flame of bliss —
A pure and holy love-light — and forsake The angel for the woman in a kiss — At once, I wis, My soul will wake !
Wm. W. Tomlinson.
EARLY LOVE REVISITED (" 0 douleur! j'ai voulu savoir")
I HAVE wished In the grief of my heart to know
If the vase yet treasured that nectar so clear, And to see what this beautiful valley could show
Of all that was once to my soul most dear. In how short a span doth all Nature change.
How quickly she smoothes with her hand serene — And how rarely she snaps, in her ceaseless range,
The Hnks that bound our hearts to the scene.
Our beautiful bowers are all laid waste ;
The fir Is felled that our names once bore; Our rows of roses, by urchins haste,
Are destroyed where they leap the barrier o'er. The fount is walled in where, at noonday pride,
She so gaily drank, from the wood descending ; In her fairy hand was transformed the tide.
And It turned to pearls through her fingers wending.
The wild, rugged path Is paved with spars.
Where erst in the sand her footsteps were traced, When so small were the prints that the surface mars,
That they seemed to smile ere by mine effaced. The bank on the side of the road, day by day.
Where of old she awaited my loved approach, Is now become the traveller's way
To avoid the track of the thundering coach.
LES RAYONS ET LES OMBRES 145
Here the forest contracts, there the mead extends,
Of all that was ours, there is little left — Like the ashes that wildly are whisked by winds,
Of all souvenirs is the place bereft. Do we live no more — is our hour then gone?
Will it give back nought to our hungry cry? The breeze answers my call with a mocking tone,
The house that was mine makes no reply.
True ! others shall pass, as we have passed,
As we have come, so others shall meet, And the dream that our mind had sketched in haste,
Shall others continue, but never complete. For none upon earth can achieve his scheme.
The best as the worst are futile here : We awake at the selfsame point of the dream —
All is here begun, and finished elsewhere.
Yes ! others shall come in the bloom of the heart.
To enjoy in this pure and happy retreat. All that pature to timid love can impart
Of solemn repose and communion sweet. In our fields, in our paths, shall strangers stray,
In thy wood, my dearest, new lovers go lost. And other fair forms in the stream shall play
Which of old thy delicate feet have crossed.
Author of " Critical Essays,**
SWEET MEMORY OF LOVE
(" Toutes les passions s'cloignent avec Vdge")
As life wanes on, the passions slow depart.
One with his grinning mask, one with his steel;
Like to a strolling troupe of Thespian art.
Whose pace decreases, winding past the hill. 10
146 POEMS
But nought can Love's all charming power efface. That light, our misty tracks suspended o'er,
In joy thou'rt ours, more dear thy tearful grace. The young may curse thee, but the old adore.
But when the weight of years bow down the head,
And man feels aU his energies decline, His projects gone, himself tomb'd with the dead,
Where virtues lie, nor more illusions shine. When all our lofty thoughts dispersed and o'er.
We count within our hearts so near congealed. Each grief that's past, each dream, exhausted ore!
As counting dead upon the battle-field.
As one who walks by the lamp's flickering blaze.
Far from the hum of men, the joys of earth — Our mind arrives at last by tortuous ways
At that drear gulf where but despair has birth. E'en there, amid the darkness of that night.
When aU seems closing round in empty air. Is seen through thickening gloom one trembling light !
'Tis Love's sweet memory that lingers there !
Author of " Critical Essays,
THE MARBLE FAUN
(" II semhlait grelotter.")
He seemed to shiver, for the wind was keen. 'Twas a poor statue underneath a mass Of leafless branches, with a blackened back And a green foot — an isolated Faun In old deserted park, who, bending forward, Half -merged himself in the entangled boughs, Half in his marble settings. He was there. Pensive, and bound to earth ; and, as all things Devoid of movement, he was there — forgotten.
»t
LES RAYONS ET LES OMBRES 147
Trees were around him, whipped by icy blasts — Gigantic chestnuts, without leaf or bird, And, like himself, grown old in that same place. Through the dark network of their undergrowth, Pallid his aspect ; and the earth was brown. Starless and moonless, a rough winter's night Was letting down her lappets o'er the mist.
This — nothing more : old Faun, dull sky, dark wood.
Poor, helpless marble, how I've pitied it! Less often man — the harder of the two.
So, then, without a word that might oifend His ear deformed — for well the marble hears The voice of thought — I said to him : " You hail From the gay amorous age. O Faun, what saw you When you were happy? Were you of the Court.?
" Speak to me, comely Faun, as you would speak To tree, or zephyr, or untrodden grass. Have you, O Greek, O mocker of old days, Have you not sometimes with that oblique eye Winked at the Farnese Hercules? — Alone, Have you, O Faun, considerately turned From side to side when counsel-seekers came, And now advised as shepherd, now as satyr? — Have you sometimes, upon this very bench. Seen, at mid-day, Vincent de Paul instilling Grace into Gondi ? — Have you ever thrown That searching glance on Louis with Fontange, On Anne with Buckingham ; and did they not Start, with flushed cheeks, to hear your laugh ring forth From corner of the wood ? — Was your advice As to the thyrsis or the ivy asked. When, in grand ballet of fantastic form, God Phoebus, or God Pan, and all his court, Turned the fair head of the proud Montespan,
148 POEMS
Calling her Amaryllis ? — La Fontaine,
Flying the courtiers' ears of stone, came he,
Tears on his eyelids, to reveal to you
The sorrows of his nymphs of Vaux ? — What said
Boileau to you — to you — O lettered Faun,
Who once with Virgil, in the Eclogue, held
That charming dialogue ? — Say, have you seen
Young beauties sporting on the sward ? — Have you
Been honoured with a sight of Moliere
In dreamy mood? — Has he perchance, at eve,
When here the thinker homeward went, has he.
Who — seeing souls all naked — could not fear
Your nudity, in his inquiring mind,
Confronted you with Man ? "
Under the thickly-tangled branches, thus Did I speak to him ; he no answer gave.
I shook my head, and moved myself away ; Then, from the copses, and from secret caves Hid in the wood, methought a ghostly voice Came forth and woke an echo in my soul, As in the hollow of an amphora.
" Imprudent poet," thus it seemed to say, " What dost thou here? Leave the forsaken Fauns In peace beneath their trees ! Dost thou not know. Poet, that ever it is impious deemed. In desert spots where drowsy shades repose — Though love itself might prompt thee — to shake down The moss that hangs from ruined centuries. And, with the vain noise of thine ill-timed words, To mar the recollections of the dead? "
Then to the gardens all enwrapped in mist I hurried, dreaming of the vanished days. And still behind me — hieroglyph obscure Of antique alphabet — the lonely Faun Held to his laughter, through the falling night.
LES RAYONS ET LES OMBRES 149
I went my way ; but yet — in saddened spirit Pondering on all that had my vision crossed, Leaves of old summers, fair ones of old time — Through all, at distance, would my fancy see, In the woods, statues ; shadows in the past !
WiiiLiAM Young.
BABY'S SEASIDE GRAVE
(" Vieux lierre, frais gazon")
Brown ivy old, grass freshly green, bright flowers ;
Fane, where the soul sees One it elsewhere dreams ; Gay insects murmuring music warm long hours
To the tired shepherd drowsed with summer's beams ;
Winds, waves, aye blending wild sweet harmony ;
Woods-'wherein brightest noontide pales to even ; Ye fruits that gleam from out the dusk-leaved tree ;
Ye stars that gleam from out mysterious heaven ;
Birds with quick joyous cries, billows soft-sighing;
Cold lizard of the hottest nook still fain ; Fields unto ocean's bounteous love replying, —
One giving silvery pearl, one golden grain;
Nature, that wak'st to life, that lull'st to death ;
Leaf-cradled nests round which the air scarce creeps; Above this mossy cradle hold your breath ; —
Leave the child sleeping while its mother weeps !
N. R. T.
150 POEMS
A. L.
(** Toute esperancc, Enfant.'*)
Each hope, dear child, Is a slender reed.
God holds in His hand frail threads of our days, And divides them at pleasure, and takes no heed
That, the thread being cut, our joy falls from its place; In each cradle on earth A death hath birth.
Erewhile, seest thou, the future, pure light,
Shone sweetly before my young spirit afire, — Bright bird on the wave, in heaven star bright.
Splendid bloom 'mid the shadow athrob with desire : This vision, my sweet. How lovely ! how fleet !
If, haply, nigh thee one dreamfully weep. Let the tears fall, nor do thou ask why. Sweet 'tis to weep, — ay, the bright drops keep Soft melody 'midst the tempestuous world-cry : O child, every tear Leaves some sin clear!
N. R. T.
LES CHATIMENTS.— 1853
A
ART AND THE PEOPLE I.
RT, 'tis a glory, a delight;
I' the tempest it holds fire-flight, It irradiates the deep blue sky. Art, splendour infinite, On the brow of the People doth sit, As a star in God's heaven most high.
Art, 'tis a broad-flowered plain Wh^re Peace holds beloved reign ;
'Tis the passionate unison Of music the city hath made With the country, the man with the maid.
All sweet songs made perfect in one !
Art, 'tis Humanity's thought
Which shatters chains century-wrought!
Art, 'tis the conqueror sweet ! Unto Art, each world-river, each sea! Slave-People, 'tis Art makes free;
Free People, 'tis Art makes great!
n.
O chivalrous France, without cease Chant loudly thy hymn of peace, — Chant, with eyes fixed on the sky !
151
152 POEMS
Thy joyous voice and profound Through the slumbering world doth resound . O noble People, chant high !
True People, chant gladly the dawn. At even raise song as at morn !
After labour sweet singing should be. Laugh for the century o'erthrown! Sing love in a tender tone.
And loudlier chant Liberty !
Chant Italy sacred and sweet, Poor Poland, slain sons at her feet,
Naples, whose heart-blood outpours, Hungary, the Russian's base vaunt . . . — O tyrants ! the People doth chant
Even as the lion roars !
N. R. T.
POOR LITTLE CHILDREN
(" La femelle! elle est morte")
Mother birdie stiff and cold,
Puss has hushed the other's singing; Winds go whisthng o'er the wold, —
Empty nest in sport a-flinging. Poor little birdies!
Faithless shepherd strayed afar. Playful dog the gadflies catching ;
Wolves bound boldly o'er the bar. Not a friend the fold is watching — Poor little lambkins !
Father into prison fell.
Mother begging through the parish ;
LES CHATIMENTS 153
Baby's cot they, too, will sell, —
Who will now feed, clothe and cherish? Poor little children !
H. L. W.
APOSTROPHE TO NATURE
(" 0 Soleil! ")
O Sun ! bright face aye-undefiled ; O flowers i' the valley blooming wild;
Caverns, dim haunt of Solitude ; Perfume whereby one's step's beguiled
Deep, deep into the sombre wood ; —
O sacred mounts that heavenward climb. White as a temple-front, sublime ;
Olji oaks, that centuries' might inherit, — Somewhat whereof I feel (what time
'Neath you I stand) endues my spirit; —
O Virgin forest, crystal spring,
Lake where no storm for long can fling
Darkness, clear heaven-reflecting face ; — Pure soul of Nature unslumbering.
What think you of this bandit base?
N. R.
THE EXn^E'S CHOICE
(" Puisque le juste est dans Vablme.**)
Since Justice slumbers in the abysm, Since the Crime's crowned with despotism. Since all most upright souls are smitten.
154. POEMS
Since proudest souls are bowed for shame. Since on the walls in hnes of flame
My country's dark dishonour's written;
0 grand Republic of our sires, Pantheon filled with sacred fires,
In the free azure golden dome, Temple with Shades immortal thronged, Since thus thy glory they have wronged.
With " Empire " staining Freedom's home ;
Since in my country each soul born
Is base; since there are laughed to scorn
The true, the pure, the great, the brave. The indignant eyes of history. Honour, law, right, and liberty.
And those, — alas ! — within the grave ;
Solitude, exile ! I love them ! Sorrow, be thou my diadem !
Poverty love I, — for 'tis pride ! My rugged home winds beat upon ; And even that awful Statue wan
Aye seated silent by my side.
1 love the woe that proves me strong; That shadow of fate which all ye throng,
O ye to whom high hearts aye bow, — Faith, Virtue veiled, stern Dignity, And thou, proud Exile, Liberty,
And, nobler yet, Devotion, thou !
I love this islet lonely, bold, Jersey, whereover England's old
Free banner doth the storm-blast brave ; Yon darkling ocean's ebb and flow. Its vessels, each a wandering plough.
Whose mystic furrow is the wave.
LES CHATIMENTS 155
I love thy gull, with snowy wing
In pearls to the wind blithe scattering,
O ocean vast, thy sunny spray ; Who darts beneath huge billows gaping. Soon from those monstrous throats escaping
As a soul from sorrow flits away !
I love the rock — how solemn, stern ! Thence hearkening aye the plaint eterne,
On the wild air around me shed. Ever the sullen night outpours, — Of waves that sob on sombre shores.
Of mothers mourning children dead!
N. R. T.
A LAMENT
(" Sentiers ou Vherbe se balance.*^)
O PATHS whereon wild grasses wave !
0 valleys ! hillsides ! forests hoar ! Why are ye silent as the grave?
For One, who came, and comes no more !
Why is thy window closed of late? And why thy garden in its sere? O house ! where doth thy master wait ?
1 only know he is not here.
Good dog ! thou watchest ; yet no hand
Will feed thee. In the house is none. Whom weepest thou ? child ! My father. And
O wife ! whom weepest thou ? The Gone.
Where is he gone? Into the dark. —
O sad, and ever-plaining surge ! Whence art thou? From the convict-bark.
And why thy mournful voice? A dirge.
Edwin Aenold, C.S.I.
156 POEMS
THE IMPERIAL MANTLE »
(" Oh, vous dont le travail est joie")
O YE whose labour is bliss alway, Blithe-winged ones who have for prey
But odorous breaths of azure skies, Who, ere December come, far flee. Sweet thieves of sweetest blooms, O ye
Who bear to men the honey prize.
Chaste sippers of the morning dew. Who visit 'neath noon's amorous blue
The lily glowing like a star, — Fond sisters of May's flowerets bright. Bees, blithesome daughters of the light,
From that foul mantle flit afar !
Winged warriors, rush upon that man ! O busy toilers, noble clan,
For duty and virtue arduous, With golden wings, keen darts of flame, Swarm round that dull foul thing of shame,
And hiss : — " For what hast taken us?
*' Accurst ! We are the honey-bees ! Our hives the pride of cottages,
From homeliest flowers our sweetest sips ! Though oft, what time warm June discloses For love of us his loveliest roses.
We're fain to alight on Plato's lips !
1 This poem alludes to the use of the bee as a badge by Napoleon III.
LES CHATIMENTS 157
** What's born of mire to mire's inclined. Go, in his lair Tiberius find,
Charles neuf his balcony upon. Go, go, Hymettus' bees scarce grace Your purple, there behoves you place
The black foul swarm of Montf aucon ! "
And all together sting him there, — O tiny warriors of the air
Sting blind this traitor soulless, base ; Upon him swarm from far and near. And, since the men of France have fear.
Let bees of France the monster chase !
N. R. T.
SEA-SONG OF THE EXILES
(" Adieu, patrie! ")
Dear land, farewell! Waves surge and swell. Dear land, farewell, — Blue sky !
Farewell, white Cot whence the ripe grapes fall, Gold blooms that bask on the mossy wall !
Dear land, farewell ! Plain, valley, and hill ! Dear land, farewell, — Blue sky !
Dear land, farewell ! , Waves surge and swell. Dear land, farewell, — Blue sky !
158 POEMS
Farewell, Betrothed with the pure pale brow ; 'Neath sombre heaven dark billows we plough.
Dear land, farewell ! In thee our loves dwell ; Dear land, farewell, — Blue sky !
Dear land, farewell! Waves surge and swell. Dear land, farewell, — Blue sky!
Our eyes, whose tears all brightness blot, Leave the dark wave for a darker lot !
Dear land, farewell! In our heart's a knell. Dear land, farewell,- Blue sky I
N. R. T.
THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW
(" II neigeait.")
It snowed. A defeat was our conquest red ! For once the eagle was hanging its head. Sad days ! the Emperor turned slowly his back On smoking Moscow, blent orange and black. The winter burst, avalanche-like, to reign Over the endless blanched sheet of the plain. Nor chief nor banner in order could keep, The wolves of warfare were 'wildered like sheep. The wings from centre could hardly be known Through snow o'er horses and carts o'erthrown.
LES CHATIMENTS 159
Where froze the wounded. In the bivouacs forlorn Strange sights and gruesome met the breaking morn: Mute were the bugles, while the men bestrode Steeds turned to marble, unheading the goad. The shells and bullets came down with the snow As though the heavens hated these poor troops below. Surprised at trembling, though it was with cold, Who ne'er had trembled out of fear, the veterans bold Marched stern; to grizzled moustache hoarfrost clung 'Neath banners that in leaden masses hung.
It snowed, went snowing still. And chill the breeze
Whistled upon the glassy endless seas,
Where naked feet on, on for ever went.
With naught to eat, and not a sheltering tent.
They were not living troops as seen in war.
But merely phantoms of a dream, afar
In darkness wandering, amid the vapour dim, —
A mystery ; of shadows a procession grim,
Nearing a blackening sky, unto its rim.
Frightful, since boundless, solitude behold
Where only Nemesis wove, mute and cold,
A net all snowy with its soft meshes dense,
A shroud of magnitude for host immense ;
Till every one felt as if left alone
In a wide wilderness where no light shone.
To die, with pity none, and none to see
That from tliis mournful realm none should get free.
Their foes the frozen North and Czar — That, worst.
Cannon were broken up in haste accurst
To burn the frames and make the pale fire high.
Where those lay down who never woke or woke to die.
Sad and commingled, groups that blindly fled
Were swallowed smoothly by the desert dread.
'Neath folds of blankness, monuments were raised O'er regiments. And History, amazed,
160 POEMS
Could not record the ruin of this retreat,
UnHke a downfall known before or the defeat
Of Hannibal — reversed and wrapped in gloom !
Of Attila, when nations met their doom !
Perished an army • — fled French glory then,
Though there the Emperor ! he stood and gazed
At the wild havoc, like a monarch dazed
In woodland hoar, who felt the shrieking saw —
He, hving oak, beheld his branches fall, with awe.
Chiefs, soldiers, comrades died. But still warm love
Kept those that rose all dastard fear above.
As on his tent they saw his shadow pass —
Backwards and forwards, for they credited, alas!
His fortune's star ! it could not, could not be
That he had not his work to do — a destiny ?
To hurl him headlong from his high estate.
Would be high treason in his bondman. Fate.
But all the while he felt himself alone.
Stunned with disasters few have ever known.
Sudden, a fear came o'er his troubled soul.
What more was written on the Future's scroll?
Was this an expiation ? It must be, yea !
He turned to God for one enlightening ray.
" Is this the vengeance. Lord of Hosts? " he sighed, But the first murmur on his parched lips died.
*' Is this the vengeance ? Must my glory set ? " A pause: his name was called; of flame a jet Sprang in the darkness ; — a Voice answered : " No ! Not yet."
Outside still fell the smothering snow. Was it a voice indeed? or but a dream? It was the vulture's, but how like the sea-bird's scream.
TORU DUTT.
LES CHATIMENTS 161
HYMN OF THE TRANSPORTED
(" Prions! ")
Let us pray ! Lo, the shadow serene ! God, toward Thee our arms are upraised and our eyes. They who proffer Thee here their tears and their chain Are the most sorrowful Thy sorrow tries. Most honour have they being possessed of most pain.
Let us suffer! The crime will take flight.
Birds passing, — our cottages !
Winds passing, — on weary knees
Mothers, sisters, weep there day and night!
Winds, tell them our miseries !
Birds, bear our heart's love to their sight!
Our thought is uplifted to Thee, God ! The proscribed we beseech thee forget, But give back her old glory to France whom we see Shame-smitten ; ay ! slay us, us sorrow-beset, Hot day but consigns to chill night's agony !
Let us suffer ! The crime —
As a bowman striketh a mark. The fierce sun smites us with shafts of fire; After dire day-labour, no sleep in night dark; The bat that takes wing from the marish-mire, — Fever, — flaps noiseless our brows — and leaves stark.
Let us suffer I The crime —
Athirst ! The scant water-drop burns !
An-hungered! — black bread! work, work, ye accurst!
At each stroke of the pick wild laughter returns U
162 POEMS
Loud-echoed ; lo, from the soil Death hath burst, Kouud a man folds arms, and to sleep anew turns.
Let us suffer ! The crime —
What matters it ! Nothing can tame Us ; we are tortured and we are content. And we thank high God toward Whom like flame Our hymn burnetii, that unto us suffering is sent. When all they that endure not suffering bear shame.
Let us suffer ! The crime —
Live the Republic world-great! Peace to the vast mysterious even ! Peace to the dead sweet slumber doth sate! To wan ocean peace, that blends beneath heaven Africa's sob with Cayenne's wail of hate !
Let us suffer! The crime will take flight.
Birds passing, — our cottages !
Winds passing, — on weary knees
Mothers, sisters, weep there day and night !
Winds, tell them our miseries !
Birds, bear our heart's love to their sight!
N. R.
THE OCEAN'S SONG
(" Nous nous promenions a Rozcl-Tower")
We walked amongst the ruins famed in story
Of Rozel-Tower, And saw the boundless waters stretch in glory
And heave in power.
LES CHATIMENTS 163
O ocean vast! we heard thy song with wonder, Whilst waves marked time. " Appear, O Truth ! " thou sang'st with tone of thunder, " And shine subhme !
" The world's enslaved and hunted down by beagles, — To despots sold, Souls of deep thinkers, soar like mighty eagles. The Right uphold.
" Be born ; arise ; o'er earth and wild waves bounding Peoples and suns ! Let darkness vanish ; — tocsins be resounding, And flash, ye guns !
** And you,— >- who love no pomps of fog, or glamour. Who fear no shocks. Brave foam and hghtning, hurricane and clamour. Exiles — the rocks ! "
TORU DUTT.
THE TRUMPETS OF THE MIND
(" Sonnez, clairons de la pensee/ ")
Sound, sound for ever. Clarions of Thought !
When Joshua 'gainst the high-walled city fought, He marched around it with his banner high. His troops in serried order following nigh. But not a sword was drawn, no shaft outsprang, Only the trumpets the shrill onset rang, At the first blast, smiled scornfully the king, And at the second sneered, half-wondering: " Hop'st thou with noise my stronghold to break down? ** At the third round, the ark of old renown
164 POEMS
Swept forward, still the trumpets sounding loud, And then the troops with ensigns waving proud. Stepped out upon the old walls children dark With horns to mock the notes and hoot the ark. At the fourth turn, braving the Israelites, Women appeared upon the crenelated heights — Those battlements embrowned with age and rust — And hurled upon the Hebrews stones and dust, And spun and sang when weary of the game. At the fifth circuit came the blind and lame, And with wild uproar clamorous and high Railed at the clarion ringing to the sky. At the sixth time, upon a tower's tall crest, So high that there the eagle built his nest, So hard that on it lightning lit in vain, Appeared in merriment the king again: " These Hebrew Jews musicians are, meseems ! " He scoffed, loud laughing, " but they live on dreams. The princes laughed submissive to the king. Laughed all the courtiers in their glittering ring, And thence the laughter spread through all the town.
At the seventh blast — the city walls fell down.
TORU DUTT.
AFTER THE COUP D'ETAT
(" Devant les trahisons")
Before foul treachery and heads hung down, I'll fold my arms, indignant but serene.
Oh ! faith in fallen things — be thou my crown, My force, my joy, my prop on which I lean:
Yes, whilst Tie^s there, or struggle some or fall, O France, dear France, for whom I weep in vain,
»
LES CHATIMENTS 165
Tomb of my sires, nest of my loves — my all, I ne'er shall see thee with these eyes again.
I shall not see thy sad, sad sounding shore, France, save my duty, I shall all forget ;
Amongst the true and tried, I'll tug my oar, And rest proscribed to brand the fawning set.
O bitter exile, hard, without a term,
Thee I accept, nor seek nor care to know
Who have down-truckled 'mid the men deemed firm. And who have fled that should have fought the foe.
If true ^ thousand stand, with them I stand;
A hundred? 'tis enough: we'll Sylla brave; Ten ? put my name down foremost in the band ;
One? well, alone — until I find my grave.
Toau DuTT.
PATRIAE
(" La-haut, qui sourit? '*)
Who smiles there? Is it A stray spirit. Or woman fair?
Sombre, yet soft the brow !
Bow, nations, bow; O soul in air.
Speak — what art thou?
In grief the fair face seems — What means those sudden gleams? Our antique pride from dreams Starts up, and beams
1 Written to music by Beethoven.
166 POEMS
Its conquering glance, —
To make our sad hearts dance.
And wake in woods hushed long
The wild bird's song.
Angel of Day !
Our Hope, Love, Stay,
Thy countenance
Lights land and sea
Eternally, Thy name is France
Or Verity.
Fair angel in thy glass
When vile things move or pass.
Clouds in the skies amass ;
Terrible, alas !
Thy stern commands are then : " Form your battalions, men,
The flag display ! "
And all obey.
Angel of might
Sent kings to smite.
The words in dark skies glance, " Mene, Mene," hiss Bolts that never miss!
Thy name is France, Or Nemesis.
As halcyons in May, O nations, in his ray Float and bask for aye. Nor know decay ! One arm upraised to heaven Seals the past forgiven; One holds a sword To quell hell's horde. Angel of God !
LES CHATIMENTS 167
Thy wings stretch broad
As heaven's expanse!
To shield and free
Humanity ! Thy name is France,
Or, Liberty!
SUNRISE
(" II est des jours objects.**)
Foul times there are, when nations spiritless
Throw honour away For tinsel glory ; to base happiness
A mournful prey.
Then from the nations, fain of lustful rest.
Dull slavery's dreams, All virtue ebbs, as from a sponge tight-pressed
Clear water streams.
Then men, to vice and folly docile slaves,
Aye lowly-inclined, Ape the vile fearful reed that stoops and waves
For every wind.
Then feasts and kisses ; nought that saith the soul
Stirs shame or dread ; One drinks, one eats, one sings, one skips — is foul
And comforted.
Crime, ministered to by loathsome lackeys, reigns ;
Yea, 'neath God's fires Laughs ; and ye shiver, sombre dread remains
Of glorious sires.
168 POEMS
All life seems foul, with vice intoxicate.
Aye, thus to be : — Sudden a clarion unto all winds elate
Peals Liberty!
And the dull world whose soul this blast doth smite,
Is like to one Drunken all night, upstaggering 'neath the Hght
O' the risen sun !
N. R. T.
THE UNIVERSAL REPUBLIC
(" Temps futurs! ")
O VISION of the coming time !
When man has 'scaped the trackless slime
And reached the desert spring; When sands are crossed, the sward invites The worn to rest 'mid rare delights
And gratefully to sing.
E'en now the eye that's levelled high, Though dimly, can the hope espy
So solid soon, one day; For every chain must then be broke. And hatred none will dare evoke,
And June shall scatter May.
E'en now amid our misery The germ of Union many see,
And through the hedge of thorn. Like to a bee that dawn awakes, On, Progress strides o'er shattered stakes,
With solemn, scathing soorn.
LES CHATIMENTS 169
Behold the blackness shrink, and flee! Behold the world rise up so free
Of coronetted things ! Whilst o'er the distant youthful States, Like Amazonian bosom-plates,
Spread Freedom's shielding wings.
Ye, liberated lands, we hail!
Your sails are whole despite the gale !
Your masts are firm, and will not fail —
The triumph follows pain ! Hear forges roar ! the hammer clanks — It jbeats the time to nations' thanks —
At last, a peaceful strain !
'Tis rust, not gore, that gnaws the guns, And shattered shells are but the runs
Where warring insects cope ; And all the headsman's racks and blades And pincers, tools of tyrants' aids,
Are buried with the rope.
Upon the skyline glows i' the dark The Sun that now is but a spark ;
But soon will be unfurled — The glorious banner of us all. The flag that rises ne'er to fall.
Republic of the World !
LES CONTEMPLATIONS.— 1830-'56
TO MY DAUGHTER
(" O mon enfant, tu vols, je me soumets")
M
Y child, thou seest, I am content to wait.
So be thou too ; with cahn secluded mind : Happy ? ah no ! nor e'er with hope elate, — But still resigned!
Be humbly good, and lift a blameless brow.
As morning pours the sunlight in the skies, Suffer, my child, thy sunnier spirit glow
Through azure eyes !
Victorious, happy, is none in this world's strife.
Time unto all a fickle lord doth prove; And Time's a shadow, and, child, our little life
Is made thereof.
All men, alas ! grow weary by the way.
For to be happy — O fate unkind ! — to all All's lacking. And, though all were granted, say
What thing so small !
And yet this little thing with anxious care Is sought for ceaselessly, by good and vile:
A little gold, a word, a name to wear, A loving smile!
170
LES CONTEMPLATIONS 171
The mightiest king o'er love and joy is powerless;
Vast deserts yearn for but one drop of rain. Man is a well spring brims, till summer, showerless,
Makes void again.
Behold these kings of thought we divinize, — These heroes, brows transcendent over night.
Names at whose clarion-sound most sombre skies Flash lightning-bright !
When once they have fulfilled their glorious doom. Earth for awhile a little brighter made.
They finB, for all reward, within the tomb A little shade.
Kind heaven, that knows our struggles and our sorrows,
Hath pity on our days, sonorous, vain. Bathing with tears bright dawn of all our morrows
Whose noon is pain.
God lightens aye the path whereon we go;
Still what He is, what we are, brings to mind ; One law revealed in all things here below,
As in mankind!
That steadfast law, bright-stablished above, On every soul its heavenly beams lets fall : —
Hate nothing, O my child, but all things love. Or pity aU !
N. R. T.
172 POEMS
CHILDHOOD
(" U enfant chantait.'^)
The small child sang; the mother, outstretched on the low bed, With anguish moaned, — fair Form pain should possess not long ; For, ever nigher. Death hovered around her head:
I hearkened there this moan, and heard even there that song.
The child was but five years, and, close to the lattice, aye Made a sweet noise with games and with his laughter bright ;
And the wan mother, beside this being the livelong day Carolling joyously, coughed hoarsely all the night.
The mother went to sleep with them that sleep alway ;
And the blithe little lad began anew to sing Sorrow is like a fruit: God doth not therewith weigh
Earthward the branch strong yet but for the blossoming.
N. R. T.
HOW BUTTERFLIES ARE BORN
(" Comme le matin rit sur les roses.")
The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers The tearful roses — lo, the little lovers — That kiss the buds and all the flutterings In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings That go and come, and fly, and peep, and hide
LES CONTEMPLATIONS 173
With muffled music, murmured far and wide !
Ah, Springtime, when we think of all the lays
That dreamy lovers send to dreamy Mays,
Of the proud hearts witliin a billet bound.
Of all the soft silk paper that men wound,
The messages of love that mortals write,
Filled with intoxication of deliglit.
Written in April, and before the INIaytime
Shredded and flown, playthings for the winds' playtime.
We dream that all white butterflies above.
Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love.
And leave* their lady mistress to despair.
To flirt with flowers, as tender and more fair,
Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies
Flutter, and float, and change to Butterflies.
Andrew Lang.
HAVE YOU NOTHING TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?
(" Si vous n'avez rien a me dire.")
Speak, if you love me, gentle maiden !
Or haunt no more my lone retreat. If not for me thy heart be laden,
Why trouble mine with smiles so sweet?
Ah ! tell me why so mute, fair maiden.
Whene'er as thus so oft we meet? If not for me thy heart be, Aideen,
Why trouble mine with smiles so sweet?
Why, when my hand unconscious pressing, Still keep untold the maiden dream?
In fancy thou art thus caressing
The while we wander by the stream.
174 POEMS
If thou art pained when I am near thee,
Why in my path so often stray? For in my heart I love yet fear thee,
And fain would fly, yet fondly stay.
C. H. Kenny.
AT EVENING
(" Mon bras pressait")
My arm pressed gently thy form, slight
And supple as the slender reed ; Thy sweet heart quivered, even as might A bird's wing freed.
A long while silent, we beheld
The day from heaven softly move. What then our trembling souls fulfilled? Love! O our love!
Even as an angel that grows bright
And brighter, thou didst gaze on me. Till thy star-look shone 'mid my night Too sweet to see.
N. R. T.
THE LOVE-SONG
(" Viens! une flute")
Come, O come ! an unseen flute
'Mid the orchard-bowers is sighing!-
Ah ! the song that makes most mute Is the shepherd-song soft-dying.
LES CONTEMPLATIONS 175
Breezes, 'neath the elm vine-clad
Gently fret the river-shadows. — Ah ! the song that makes most glad
Is the bird-song from the meadows.
Be no care in thy bright breast.
Let us love! Ay, love for ever! — Ah ! the song the loveliest
Is the love-song silenced never.
R. N. T.
DEATH, IN LIFE
(" Ceux-ci partent")
We pass — these sleep Beneath the shade where deep-leaved boughs Bend o'er the furrows the Great Reaper ploughs, And gentle summer winds in mazy sweep Whirl in eddying waves The dead leaves o'er the graves.
And the living sigh: Forgotten ones, so soon your memories die. Ye never more may list the wild bird's song. Or mingle in the crowded city-throng.
Ye must ever dwell in gloom,
'Mid the silence of the tomb.
And the dead reply : God giveth us His life. Ye die. Your barren lives are tilled with tears, For glory, ye are clad with fears.
Oh, living ones ! oh, earthly shades !
We live ; your beauty clouds and fades.
176 POEMS
THE FOUNTAIN (" Un lion habit ait pres d'une source.**)
Anigh a desert-spring a lion dwelt; an eagle
Drank from the same clear flow. One morn it chanced two warrior-chiefs of aspect regal —
Often fate suffers so —
Drew nigh this spring which with its broad and shadowy palms
Allures the traveller, And, recognizing each his foe, flashed sudden arms,
Fought, — and fell bleeding there.
Then, while they breathed their last, the eagle, hovering
O'er lowly heads, shrilled loud : *' Ye found the whole wide earth for you too small a thing.
That are less than a little cloud !
" O Princes ! and your bones, strong yester-night with youth.
Will be, to-morrow morn. Stones mingled with the stones o' the track, but sooner in sooth
By travellers' footing worn.
" Ye fools ! for what great end was this bright-flashing strif e> Your duel fierce and rude ! . . .
I, th' Eagle, and yon hon lead a peaceful life In this vast solitude.
" Both come to quench our thirst at the same crystal fount,
Kings in the same dominions ; He roams in lordly wise the prairie, forest, mount, —
The air's swept by my pinions ! "
N. R. T.
LES CONTEMPLATIONS 177
THE DYING CHILD TO ITS MOTHER
(" Oh! vous aurez trop dit.^')
Ah, you said too often to your angel Tliere are other angels in the sky —
There, where nothing changes, nothing suffers, Sweet it were to enter in on high.
To that dome on marvellous pilasters.
To that tent roofed o'er with coloured bars.
That blue garden full of stars like lilies. And of lilies beautiful as stars.
And you said it was a place most joyous,
All our poor imaginings above. With the winged cherubim for playmates,
And the good God evermore to love.
Sweet It were to dwell there In all seasons, Like a taper burning day and night.
Near to the child Jesus and the Virgin, In that home so beautiful and bright.
But you should have told him, hapless mother, Told your child so frail and gentle too.
That you were all his in life's beginning, But that also he belonged to you.
For the mother watches o'er the Infant, He must rise up in her latter days.
She will need the man that was her baby To stand by her when her strength decays. 12
178 POEMS
Ah, you did not tell enough your darling That God made us in this lower life,
Woman for the man, and man for woman, In our pains, our pleasures and our strife.
So that one sad day, O loss, O sorrov/ !
The sweet creature left you all alone ; 'Twas your own hand hung the cage door open.
Mother, and your pretty bird is flown.
Bp. AliEXANDEE.
EPITAPH
(" II vivait, il jouait.")
He lived and ever played, the tender smiling thing. What need, O Earth, to have plucked this flower from blos- soming ? Hadst thou not then the birds with rainbow-colours bright. The stars and the great woods, the wan wave, the blue sky? What need to have rapt this child from her thou hadst placed him by — Beneath those other flowers to have hid this flower from sight?
Because of this one child thou hast no more of might,
O star-girt Earth, his death yields thee not higher delight !
But, ah! the mother's heart with woe for ever wild.
This heart whose sovran bliss brought forth such bitter
birth — This world as vast as thou, even thou, O sorrowless Earth, Is desolate and void because of this one child !
N. R. T.
iiES CONTEMPLATIONS 179
ST. JOHN
(" Un jour, le morne esprit*'*)
One day, the sombre soul, the Prophet most sublime
At Patmos who aye dreamed, And tremblihgly perused, without the vast of Time,
Words that with hell-fire gleamed,
Said to his eagle : " Bird, spread wings for loftiest flight -
Needs must I see His Face ! " The Eagle soared. At length, far beyond day and night,
Lo ! the all-sacred Place !
And John beheld the Way whereof no angel knows
The name, nor there hath trod ; And, lo ! the Place fulfilled with shadow that aye glows
Because of very God.
N. R. T.
THE POET'S SIMPLE FAITH
You say, " Where goest thou? " I cannot tell.
And still go on. If but the way be straight,
It cannot go amiss ! before me lies
Dawn and the Day; the Night behind me; that
Suffices me ; I break the bounds ; I see.
And nothing more ; believe, and nothing less.
My future is not one of my concerns.
Edw. Dowden.
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES.— 1859
CONSCIENCE
(" Lorsque avec ses enfants Cain se fut enfui")
THEN, with his children, clothed in skins of brutes. Dishevelled, livid, rushing through the storm, Cain fled before Jehovah. As night fell The dark man reached a mount in a great plain, And his tired wife and his sons, out of breath, Said : " Let us lie down on the earth and sleep." Cain, sleeping not, dreamed at the mountain foot. Raising his head, in that funereal heaven He saw an eye, a great eye, in the night Open, and staring at him in the gloom.
" I am too near," he said, and tremblingly woke up His sleeping sons again, and his tired wife. And fled through space and darkness. Thirty days He went, and thirty nights-, nor looked behind ; Pale, silent, watchful, shaking at each sound ; No rest, no sleep, till he attained the strand Where the sea washes that which since was Asshur,
" Here pause," he said, " for this place is secure ; Here may we rest, for this is the world's end." And he sat down ; when, lo ! in the sad sky. The self -same Eye on the horizon's verge, And the wretch shook as in an ague fit.
" Hide me! " lie cried; and all his watchful sons,
180
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 181
Their finger on their lip, stared at their sire. Cain said to Jabal (father of them that dwell In tents ) : " Spread here the curtain of thy tent." And they spread wide the floating canvas roof, And made it fast and fixed it down with lead.
*' You see nought now," said Zillah then, fair cliild, The daughter of his eldest, sweet as day. But Cain replied, " That Eye — I see it still." And Jubal cried (the father of all those That handle harp and organ ) : "I will build A sanctuary ; " and he made a wall of bronze, And set his sire behind it. But Cain moaned,
" That Eye is glaring at me ever." Henoch cried
" Then must we make a circle vast of towers. So terrible that nothing dare draw near; Build we a city with a citadel; Build we a city high and close it fast." Then Tubal Cain (instructor of all them That work in brass and iron) built a tower — = Enormous, superhuman. While he wrought, His fiery brothers from the plain around Hunted the sons of Enoch and of Seth; They plucked the eyes out of whoever passed, And hurled at even arrows to the stars. They set strong granite for the canvas w^all, And every block was clamped with iron chains. It seemed a city made for hell. Its towers, With their huge masses made night in the land. The walls were thick as mountains. On the door They graved: " Let not God enter here." Tliis done, And having finished to cement and build In a stone tower, they set him in the midst. To him, still dark and haggard, " Oh, my sire, Is the Eye gone? " quoth Zillah tremblingly. But Cain replied : " Na}^, it is even there." Then added : " I will live beneath the earth, As a lone man within liis sepulchre.
182 POEMS
I will see nothing; will be seen of none.
5>
They digged a trench, and Cain said : " 'Tis enow,' As he went down alone into the vault ; But when he sat, so ghost-like, in his chair, And they had closed the dungeon o'er his head. The Eye was in the tomb and fixed on Cain.
Dublin University Magazine.
THE LIONS
(*' Leslions dans la fosse etaient sans nourriture.")
Famished the lions were in their strong den. And roared appeal to Nature from the men Who caged them — Nature that for them had care- Kept for three days without their needful fare The creatures raved with hunger and with hate, And through their roof of chains and iron grate Looked to the blood-red sunset in the west; Their cries the distant traveller oppress'd Far as horizon which the blue hill veils.
Fiercely they lashed their bodies with their tails Till the walls shook ; as if their eyes' red light And hungry jaws had lent them added might.
By Og and his great sons was shaped the cave,
They hollowed it, in need, themselves to save,
It was a deep-laid place wherein to hide
This giant's palace in the rock's dark side;
Their heads had broken through the roof of stone.
So that the light in every corner shone.
And dreary dungeon had for dome blue sky.
Nebuchadnezzar, savage king, had eye
For this strong cavern, and a pavement laid
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 183
Upon the centre, that it should be made A place where lions he could safely mew, Though once Deucalions and Khans it knew.
The beasts were four most furious all. The ground Was carpeted with bones that lay all round. While as they walked, and crunched with heavy tread Men's skeletons and brutes', far overhead The tapering shadows of the rocks were spread.
The first had come from Sodom's desert plain ;
When savage freedom did to him remain
He dwelt at Sin, extremest point and rude
Of silence terrible and solitude.
Oh ! woe betide who fell beneath his claw.
This Lion of the sand with rough-skinned paw.
The second came from forest water'd by The stream Euphrates; when his step drew nigh. Descending to the river, all things feared, Hard fight to snare this growler it appeared. The hounds of two kings were employed to catch This Lion of the Woods and be his match.
The third one dwelt on the steep mountain's side. Horror and gloom companion'd every stride: When towards the miry ravines they would stray. And herds and flocks in their wild gambols play, All fled — the shepherd, warrior, priest — in fright If he leaped forth in all his dreadful might.
The fourth tremendous, furious creature came From the sea shore, and prowled with leonine famet Before he knew captivity's hard throes, Along the coast where Gur's strong city rose. Reeking its roofs — and in its ports were met The masts of many nations thickly set.
184 POEMS
There peasants brought their manna fine, and gum.
And there the prophet on his ass would come ;
And folks were happy as caged birds set free.
Gur had a market-place 'twas grand to see;
There Abyssinians brought their ivories rare,
And Amorrhiens amber for their ware,
And linens dark. From Asser came fine wheat.
And from famed Ascalon the butter sweet.
The fleet of vessels stir on ocean made.
This beast in reverie of evening's shade
Was fretted by the noisy town so near.
Too many folks lived in it, that was clear.
Gur was a lofty, formidable tov/n ;
At night three heavy barriers made it frown
And closed the entrance inaccessible.
Between each battlement rose terrible
Rhinoceros horn, or one of buffalo ;
The strong, straight wall did like a hero show.
Some fifteen fathoms deep the moat might be,
And it was filled by sluices from the sea.
Instead of kennell'd watch-dogs barking near,
Two monstrous dragons did for guards appear —
They had been captured 'mong the reeds of Nile,
And by magician tamed to guards servile.
One night the gate thus kept the hon neared.
With single bound the guarding moat he cleared;
Then with barbaric teeth the gate he smashed
And all its triple bars; and next he crashed
The dragons twain, without so much as look
At them, and bolts and hinges all he shook
Into one wreck. And when he made his way
Back towards the strand, remained there of the fray
Only a vision of the peopled town,
Only a memory of the wall knocked down,
'Neath spectral towers fit but for vulture's nest,
Or for the tiger wanting timely rest.
This Lion scorned complaint, but croucliing lay
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 185
And yawned, so heavily time passed away. Master'd by man sharp hunger thus he bore, Yet weariness of woe oppressed him sore.
But to and fro the others stamp all three, And if a fluttering bird outside they see. They gnaw its shadow as they mark it soar. Their burner growing as they hoarsely roar.
In a dark corner of the cavern dim
Quite suddenly there ope'd a portal grim,
And pushed by brawny arms that fright betrayed
Appeared a man in grave clothes white arrayed.
The grating closed as closing up a tomb; The Man was with the Lions in the gloom. The monsters foamed, and rushed their prey to gain. With frightful yell, while bristled every mane, Their howling roar expressing keenest hate Of savage nature rebel to its fate With anger dashed by fear. Then spoke the Man, And stretching forth his hand his words thus ran, " May peace be with you Lions." Paused the beasts.
The wolves that disinter the dead for feasts,
The flat skulled bears, and writhing jackals, they
Who prowl at shipwrecks on the rocks for prey,
Are fierce; hyenas are unpitying found.
And watchful tiger felling at one bound.
But the strong lion in his stately force
Will sometimes lift the paw, yet stay its course.
He the lone dreamer in the shadows grey.
And now the Lions grouped themselves ; and they
Amid the ruins looked like elders set
On grave discussion, in a conclave met.
With knitted brows intent disputes to end,
While over them a dead tree's branches bend.
186 POEMS
First spoke the Lion of the sandy plain And said, " When this man entered I again Beheld the mid-day sun, and felt the blast Of the hot simoom blown o'er spaces vast. Oh, this man from the desert comes, I see ! "
Then spoke the Lion of the woods : *' For me,
One time where fig and palm and cedars grow
And holly, day and night came music's flow
To fill my joyous cave; even when still
All life, the foliage round me seemed to thrill
With song. When this man spoke a sound was made
Like that from birds' nests in the mossy shade.
This man has journey 'd from my forest home!
»
And now the one which had the nearest come, The Lion black from mountains huge exclaimed: " This man is like a Caucasus, far famed. Where no rock stirs ; the maj esty has he Of Atlas. When his arm he raised all free I thought that Lebanon had made a bound. And thrown its shadow vast on fields around. This man comes to us from the mountain side ! "
The Lion dweller near the ocean wide. Whose roar was loud as roar of frothing sea, Spoke last. " My sons, my habit is," said he, '' In sight of grandeur wholly to ignore All enmity ; and this is why the shore Became my home ; I watched the sun arise And moon, and the grave smile of dawn ; mine eyes Grew used to the sublime — while waves rolled by 1 learn'd great lessons of eternity. Now, how this man is named I do not know. But in his eyes I see the heavens glow; This man, with brow so calm, by God is sent,"
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LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 187
When night had darken'd the blue firmament,
The keeper wished to see inside the gate,
And pressed his pale face 'gainst the fasten'd grate.
In the dim depth stood Daniel calm of mien.
With eyes tplifted to the stars serene,
While this the sight for wondering gaze to meet,
The Lions fawning at the Captive's feet !
Mrs, Newton Ceosland.
BOAZ ASLEEP
(" Booz s'etait couche")
At work within his barn since very early. Fairly tired out with toiling all the day. Upon the small bed where he always lay
Boaz was sleeping by his sacks of barley.
Barley and wheat-fields he possessed, and well,
Though rich, loved justice; wherefore all the flood That turned his mill-wheels was unstained with mud
And in his smithy blazed no fire of hell.
His beard was silver, as in April all
A stream may be ; he did not grudge a stook. When the poor gleaner passed, with kindly look,
Quoth he, " Of purpose let some handfuls fall."
He walked his way of life straight on the plain. With justice clothed, like linen white and clean. And ever rustling towards the poor, I ween, Like public fountains ran liis sacks of grain.
Good master, faithful friend, in his estate Frugal yet generous, beyond the youth He won regard of women, for in sooth
The young man may be fair — the old man's great.
188 POEMS
Life's primal source, unchangeable and bright, The old man entereth, the day eterne; And in the young man's eye a flame may burn.
But in the old man's eye one seeth light.
• •••«•>•••••
As Jacob slept, or Judith, so full deep
Slept Boaz 'neath the leaves. Now it betided, Heaven's gate being partly open, that there glided
A fair dream forth, and hovered o'er his sleep.
And in his dream to heaven, the blue and broad, Right from his loins an oak tree grew amain. His race ran up it far, like a long chain;
Below it sung a king, above it died a God.
Whereupon Boaz murmured in his heart,
" Tlie number of my years is past fourscore : How may this he? I have not any more,
Or son, or wife ; yea, she who had her part
" In this my couch, O Lord ! is now in Thine ; And she, half living, I half dead within, Our beings still commingle and are twin, It cannot be that I should found a line !
" Youth hath triumphal mornings ; its days bound From night, as from a victory. But such A trembling as the birch-tree's to the touch Of winter is an eld, and evening closes round.
" I bow myself to death, as kine to meet
The water bow their fronts athirst." He said. The cedar feeleth not the rose's head. Nor he the woman's presence at his feet!
For while he slept, the Moabitess Ruth Lay at his feet, expectant of liis waking. He knowing not what sweet guile she was making;
She knowing not what God would have in sooth.
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 189
Asphodel scents did Gilgal's breezes bring —
Through nuptial shadows, questionless, full fast The angels sped, for momently there passed
A something blue which seemed to be a wing.
Silent was all in Jezreel and Ur —
The stars were glittering in the heaven's dusk meadows.
Far west among those flowers of the shadows, The thin clear crescent lustrous over her.
Made Ruth raise question, looking through the bars
Of heaven, with eyes half-oped, what God, what comer Unto the harvest of the eternal summer.
Had flung his golden hook down on the field of stars.
Bp. Alexander.
THE PARRICIDE
(" II mourut, on le mit dons un ccrcueil.")
King Canute died.^ En coffined he was laid. Of Aarhuus came the Bisliop prayers to sa}^. And sang a hymn upon his tomb, and held That Canute was a saint — Canute the Great, That from his memory breathed celestial perfume. And that they saw him, they the priests, in glory, Seated at God's right hand, a prophet crowned.
Evening came, And hushed the organ in the holy place. And the priests, issuing from the temple doors, Left the dead king in peace. Then he arose. Opened his gloomy eyes, and grasped his sword. And went forth loftily. The massy walls Yielded before the phantom, like a mist.
1 King Canute slew his old father, Sweno, to obtain the crown.
190 POEMS
There is a sea where Aarhuus, Altona, And Elsinore's vast domes and shadowy towers Glass in deep waters. Over this he went Dark, and still Darkness listened for his foot Inaudible, itself being but a dream. Straight to Mount Savo went he, gnawed by time, And thus, " O mountain buffeted of storms, Give me of thy huge mantle of deep snow To frame a winding-sheet." The mountain knew him. Nor dared refuse, and with his sword Canute Cut from its flank Avhite snow, enough to make The garment he desired, and then he cried, " Old mountain ! death is dumb, but tell me thou The way to God." IVIore deep each dread ravine And hideous hollow yawned, and sadly thus Answered that hoar associate of the clouds: Spectre, I know not, I am always here." Canute departed, and with iiead erect. All white and ghastly in his robe of snow. Went forth into great silence and great night By Iceland and Norway. After him Gloom swallowed up the universe. He stood A sovran kingdomless, a lonely ghost Confronted with Immensity. Pie saw The awful Infinite, at whose portal pale Lightning sinks dying; Darkness, skeleton Whose joints are nights, and utter Formlessness Moving confusedly in the horrible dark
Inscrutable and blind. No star was there. Yet something like a haggard gleam ; no sound But the dull tide of Darkness, and her dumb And fearful shudder. " 'Tis the tomb," he said, *' God is beyond ! " Three steps he took, then cried : 'Twas deathly as the grave, and not a voice Responded, nor came any breath to sway The snowy mantle, with unsullied white
LA lEGENDE DES SIECLES 191
Emboldening the spectral wanderer. Sudden he marked how, like a gloomy star, A spot grew, broad upon his livid robe ; Slowly it widened, raying darkness forth ; And Canute proved it with his spectral hands: It was a drop of blood.
R. Garnett.
But he saw nothing ; space Avas black — no sound.
Forward," said Canute, raising his proud head.
There fell a second stain beside the fii'st.
Then it grew larger, and the Cimbrian chief
Stared at the thick vague darkness, and saw nought.
Still as a bloodhound follows on his track.
Sad he went on. There fell a third red stain
On the white winding-sheet. He had never fled ;
Howbeit Canute forward went no more.
But turned on that side where the sword arm hangs.
A drop of blood, as if athwart a dream.
Fell on the shroud, and reddened his right hand.
Then, as in reading one turns back a page,
A second time he changed his course, and turned
To the dim left. There fell a drop of blood.
Canute drew back, trembling to be alone,
And wished he had not left his burial couch.
But, when a blood-drop fell again, he stopped.
Stooped his pale head, and tried to make a prayer.
Then fell a drop, and the prayer died away
In savage terror. Darkly he moved on,
A hideous spectre hesitating, white.
And ever as he went, a drop of blood
Implacably from the darkness broke away
And stained that awful whiteness. He beheld
Shaking, as doth a poplar in the wind,
Those stains grow darker and more numerous:
Another, and another, and another.
They seem to light up that funereal gloom.
192 POEMS
And mingling in the folds of that white sheet, Make it a cloud of blood. He went, and went, And still from that unfathomable vault The red blood dropped upon him drop by drop. Always, for ever — without noise, as though From the black feet of some night- gibbetted corpse. Alas ! Who wept those formidable tears ? The Infinite ! — Toward Heaven, of the good Attainable, through the wild sea of night. That hath not ebb nor flow, Canute went on. And ever walking, came to a closed door, That from beneath showed a mysterious light. Then he looked down upon his winding-sheet, For that was the great place, the sacred place, That was a portion of the light of God, And from behind that door Hosannas rang. The winding-sheet was red, and Canute stopped. This is why Canute from the light of day Draws ever back, and hath not dared appear Before the Judge whose face is as the sun. This is why still remaineth the dark king Out in the night, and never having power To bring his robe back to its first pure state. But feehng at each step a blood-drop fall. Wanders eternally 'neath the vast black heaven.
Dublin University Magazine.
THE BOY-KING'S PRAYER
(from " LE PETIT ROI DE GALICE.")
(" Le cheval galopait tou jours.")
The good steed flew o'er river and o'er plain, TiU far away, — no need of spur or rein. The child, half rapture, half solicitude,
LA LEGENDS DES SIECLES 193
Looks back anon, in fear to be pursued ; Shakes lest ^ome raging brother of his sire Leap from those rocks that o'er the path aspire.
On the rough granite bridge, at evening's fall. The white horse paused by Compostella's wall, ('Twas good St. James that reared those arches tall,) Through the dim mist stood out each belfry dome. And the boy hailed the paradise of home.
Close to the bridge, set on high stage, they meet A Christ of stone, the Virgin at his feet. A taper lighted that dear pardoning face. More tender in the shade that wrapped the place, And the child stayed his horse, and in the shine Of the wax taper knelt down at the shrine.
" O, my good God ! O, Mother Maiden sweet ! " He said, " I was the worm beneath men's feet ; My father's brethren held me in their thrall. But Thou didst send the Paladin of Gaul,
0 Lord ! and show'dst what different spirits move The good men and the evil ; those who love And those who love not. I had been as they.
But Thou, O God ! hast saved both life and soul to-day.
1 saw Thee in that noble knight; I saw
Pure light, true faith, and honour's sacred law, My Father, — and I learnt that monarchs must Compassionate the weak, and unto all be just.
0 Lady Mother ! O dear Jesus ! thus
Bowed at the cross where Thou didst bleed for us,
1 swear to hold the truth that now I learn, Leal to the loyal, to the traitor stern, And ever just and nobly mild to be. Meet scholar of that Prince of Chivalry ;
And here Thy shrine bear witness, Lord, for me.**
194 POEMS
The horse of Roland, hearing the boy tell
His vow, looked round and spoke : " O King, 'tis well I "
Then on the charger mounted the child-king.
And rode into the town, while all the bells 'gan ring.
Dublin University Magazine.
EVIRADNUS
The Knight Errant. (" Qu'est-ce que Sigismond et Ladislas out dit? ")
I.
THE ADVENTURER SETS OUT.
What was it Sigismond and Ladislaus said?
I know not if the rock, or tree o'erhead.
Had heard their speech ; — but when the two spake low,
Among the trees, a shudder seemed to go
Through all their branches, just as if that way
A beast had passed to trouble and dismay.
Darker the shadow of the rock was seen,
And then a morsel of the shade, between
The sombre trees, took shape as it would seem
Some spectre walking in the sunset's gleam.
'TIS not a monster rising from its lair. Nor phantom of the foliage and the air, 'Tis not a morsel of the granite's shade That walks in deepest hollows of the glade. 'Tis not a vampire nor a spectre pale. But living man in rugged coat of mail. It is Alsatia's noble Chevaher, Eviradnus the brave, that now is here.
LA LEGENDS DES SIECLES 195
The men whp spoke he recognized the while
He rested in the thicket; words of guile
]Mosk horrible were theirs as they passed on,
And to the ears o2 Eviradnus one —
One word had come which roused him. Well he knew
The land which lately he had journeyed through.
He down the valley went unto the inn
Where he had left his horse and page, Gasclin.
The horse had wanted drink, and lost a shoe ;
And now, " Be quick ! " he said, " with what you do.
For business calls me, I must not delay."
He strides the saddle and he rides away^
n.
EVIEADNUS.
Eviradnus was growing old apace,
The weight of years had left its hoary trace,
But still of knights the most renowned was he.
Model of bravery and purity.
His blood he spared not; ready day or night
To punish crime, his dauntless sword shone bright
In his unblemished hand; holy and white
And loyal all his noble life had been,
A Christian Samson coming on the scene.
With fist alone the gate he battered down
Of Sickingen in flames, and saved the town.
'Twas he, indignant at the honour paid
To crime, who with his heel an onslaught made
Upon Duke Lupus' shameful monument.
Tore down the statue he to fragments rent ;
Then column of the Strasburg monster bore
To bridge of Wasselonne, and threw it o'er
Into the waters deep. The people round
Blazon the noble deeds that so abound
196 POEMS
From Altorf unto Chaux-de-Fonds, and say. When he rests musing in a dreamy way, " Behold, 'tis Charlemagne ! " Tawny to see And hairy, and seven feet lugh was he, Like John of Bourbon. Roaming hill or wood He looked a wolf endeavouring to do good. Bound up in duty, he of nought complained, The cry for help his aid at once obtained. Only he mourned the baseness of mankind, And — that the beds too short he e'er must find. When people suffer under cruel kings. With pity moved, he to them succour brings. 'Twas he defended Alix from her foes As sword of Urraca — he ever shows His strength is for the feeble and oppressed ; Father of orphans he, and all distressed ! Kings of the Rhine in strongholds were by him Boldly attacked, and tyrant barons grim. He freed the towns — defying in his lair Hugo The Eagle ; boldly did he dare To break the collar of Saverne, the ring Of Colmar, and the iron torture-thing Of Schlestadt, and the chain that Haguenau bore. Confront with evil he an aspect wore Good but most terrible. In the dread scale Which princes weighted with their horrid tale Of craft and violence, and blood and ill, And fire and shocking deeds, his sword was still God's counterpoise displayed. Ever alert More evil from the wretched to avert, Those hapless ones who 'neath Heaven's vault at night Raise suppliant hands. His lance loved not the plight Of mouldering in the rack, of no avail. His battle-axe slipped from supporting nail Quite easily , 'twas ill for action base To come so near that he the thing could trace. The steel-clad champion death drops all around
LA LEGENDS DES SIECLES 197
As glaciers w^ftcr. Hero ever found
Eviradnus is kinsman of the race
Of Amadys of Gaul, and knights of Thrace.
He smiles at age. For he who never asked
For quarter from mankind — shall he be tasked
To beg of Time for mercy? Rather he
Would girdle up his loins, like Baldwin be.
Aged he is, but of a lineage rare ;
The least intrepid of the birds that dare
Is not the eagle barbed. What matters age.
The years but fire him with a holy rage.
Though late from Palestine, he is not spent, —
With age he wrestles, firm in his intent.
m.
IN THE FOREST.
If in the wood a traveller there had been
That eve, had lost himself, strange sight he'd seen.
Quite in the forest's heart a lighted space
Arose to view ; in that deserted place
A lone, abandoned hall with light aglow
The long neglect of centuries did show.
The castle-towers of Corbus in decay
Were girt by weeds and growths that had their way;
Couch-grass and ivy, and wild eglantine
In subtle scaling warfare all combine.
Subject to such attacks three hundred years,
The donjon yields, and ruin now appears.
E'en as by leprosy the wild boars die.
In moat the crumbled battlements now lie ;
Around the snake-like bramble twists its rings;
Freebooter sparrows come on daring wings
To perch upon the swivel-gun, nor heed
Its murmuring growl when pecking in their greed
The mulberries ripe. With insolence the thorn
198 POEMS
Thrives on the desolation so forlorn. But winter brings revenges ; then the Keep Wakes all vindictive from its seeming sleep, Hurls down the heavy rain, night after night, Thanking the season's all-resistless might ; And, when the gutters choke, its gargoyles four From granite mouths in anger spit and pour Upon the hated ivy hour by hour.
As to the sword rust is, so lichens are To towering citadel with which they war. Alas ! for Corbus — dreary, desolate, And yet its woes the winters mitigate. It rears itself among convulsive throes That shake its ruins when the tempest blows. Winter, the savage warrior, pleases well. With its storm clouds, the mighty citadel, — Restoring it to life. The lightning flash Strikes like a thief and flies ; the winds that crash Sound like a clarion, for the Tempest bluff Is Battle's sister. And when wild and rough, The north wind blows, the tower exultant cries
" Behold me ! " When hail-hurling gales arise Of blustering Equinox, to fan the strife. It stands erect, with martial ardour rife, A joyous soldier! When like yelping hound Pursued by wolves, November comes to bound In joy from rock to rock, like answering cheer To howling January now so near —
" Come on ! " the Donj on cries to blasts o'erhead — It has seen Attila, and knows not dread. Oh, dismal nights of contest in the rain And mist, that furious would the battle gain. The tower braves all, though angry skies pour fast The flowing torrents, river-like and vast. From their eight pinnacles the gorgons bay And scattered monsters, in their stony way,
LA LEGENUE DES SIECLES 199
Are growling heard ; the rampart hons gnaw The misty air and slush with granite maw. The sleet upon the griffins spits, and all The Saurian monsters, answering to the squall. Flap wings ; while through the broken ceiling fall Torrents of rain upon the forms beneath, Dragons and snak'd Medusas gnashing teeth In the dismantled rooms. Like armoured knight The granite Castle fights with all its might, Resisting through the winter. All in vain, The heaven's bluster, January's rain, And those dread elemental powers we call The Infinite — the whirlwinds that appal — Thunder and waterspouts ; and winds that shake As 'twere a tree its ripened fruit to take. The winds grow wearied, warring with the tower, The noisy North is out of breath, nor power Has any blast old Corbus to defeat, It still has strength their onslaughts worst to meet. Thus, spite of briars and thistles, the old tower Remains triumphant through the darkest hour; Superb as pontiff, in the forest shown, Its rows of battlements make triple crown ; At eve, its silhouette is finely traced Immense and black — showing the Keep is placed On rocky throne, sublime and high; east, west. And north and south, at corners four, there rest Four mounts ; Aptar, where flourishes the pine, And Toxis, where the elms grow green and fine ; Crobius and Bleyda, giants in their might, Against the stormy winds to stand and fight, And these above its diadem uphold Night's living canopy of clouds unrolled.
The herdsman fears, and thinks its shadow creeps To follow him ; and superstition keeps Such hold that Corbus as a terror reigns ;
200 POEMS
Folks say the Fort a target still remains
For the Black Archer — and that it contains
The cave where the Great Sleeper still sleeps sound.
The country people all the castle round
Are frightened easily, for legends grow
And mix with phantoms of the mind ; we know
The hearth is cradle of such fantasies,
And in the smoke the cotter sees arise
From low-thatched hut he traces cause of dread.
Thus rendering thanks that he is lowly bred,
Because from such none look for valorous deeds,
The peasant flies the Tower, although it leads
A noble knight to seek adventure there,
And, from his point of honour, dangers dare.
Thus very rarely passer-by is seen;
But — it might be with twenty years between,
Or haply less — at unfixed interval
There would a semblance be of festival.
A Seneschal and usher would appear,
And troops of servants many baskets bear.
Then were, in mystery, preparations made.
And they departed — for till night none stayed.
But 'twixt the branches gazers could descry
The blackened hall lit up most brilliantly.
None dared approach — and this the reason whv>
IV.
THE CUSTOM OF LUSACE.
When died a noble Marquis of Lusace 'Twas custom for the heir who filled his place Before assuming princely pomp and power To sup one night in Corbus' olden tower. From tliis weird meal he passed to the degree Of Prince and Margrave ; nor could ever he
l1 LEGENDE DES SIECLES 201
Be thought brave kniglit, or she — if woman claim
The rank — be reckoned of unblemished fame
Till the J had breathed the air of ages gone,
The funeral odours, in the nest alone
Of its dead masters. Ancient was the race ;
To climb the upward stem of proud Lusace
Gives one a vertigo ; descended they
From ancestor of Attila, men say ;
Their race to him — through Pagans — they trace back ;
Becoming Christians, they their line could track
Through Lechus, Plato, Otho to combine
With Ursus, Stephen, in a lordly line.
Of all those masters of the country round
That were on Northern Europe's boundary found —
At first were waves, and then the dykes were reared —
Corbus in double majesty appeared.
Castle on hill and town upon the plain ;
And one who mounted on the tower could gain
A view beyond the pines and rocks, of spires
That pierce the shade the distant scene acquires ;
A walled town is it, but 'tis not ally
Of the old citadel's proud majesty ;
Unto itself belonging this remained.
Often a castle was thus self-sustained
And equalled towns ; witness in Lombardy
Crama, and Prato in fair Tuscany,
And in Apulia Barletta too ; — each one
Was powerful as a town, and dreaded none.
Corbus ranked thus ; its precincts seemed to hold
The reflex of its mighty kings of old ;
Their great events had witness in these walls.
Their marriages were here and funerals.
And mostly here it was that they were born ;
And here crowned Barons ruled with pride and scorn ;
Cradle of Scythian majesty this place.
Now each new master of this ancient race
A. duty owed to ancestors which he
202 POEMS
Was bound to carry on. The law's decree
It was that he should pass alone the night
Which made him king, as in their solemn sight.
Just at the forest's edge a clerk was met
With wine in sacred cup and purpose set,
A wine mysterious, which the heir must drink
To cause deep slumber till the day's soft brink.
Then to the castle tower he wends his way,
And finds a supper laid with rich display.
He sups and sleeps: when to his slumbering eyes
The shades of kings from Bela all arise.
None dare the tower to enter on this night,
But when the morning dawns, crowds are in sight
The dreamer to deliver, — whom half dazed,
And with the visions of the night amazed.
They to the old church take, where rests the dust
Of Borivorus ; then the bishop must,
With fervent blessings on his eyes and mouth,
Put in his hands the stony hatchets both.
With which — even like death impartially —
Struck Attila, with one arm dexterously
The south, and with the other arm the north.
This day the town the threatening flag set forth Of Marquis Swantibore, the monster he Who in the wood tied up his wife, to be Devoured by wolves, together with the bull Of wliich with jealousy his heart was full.
Even when woman took the place of heir
The tower of Corbus claimed the supper there;
'Twas law — the woman trembled, but must dare.
V.
THE MARCHIONESS MAHAUD.
Niece of the Marquis — John the Striker named — Mahaud to-day tlie marquisate has claimed.
LA ILEGENDE DES SIECLES 203
A noble dame — the crown is hers by right :
As woman she has graces that deHght.
A queen devoid of beauty is not queen,
She needs the royalty of beauty's mien ;
God in His harmony has equal ends
For cedar that resists, and reed that bends.
And good it is a woman sometimes rules.
Holds in her hand the power, and manners schools.
And laws and mind ; — succeeding master proud,
With gentle voice and smile she leads the crowd,
The sombre human troop. But sweet Mahaud
On evil days had fallen ; gentle, good,
Alas ! she held the sceptre hke a flower ;
Timid yet gay, imprudent for the hour.
And careless too. With Europe all in throes,
Though twenty years she now already knows.
She has refused to marry, although oft
Entreated. It is time an arm less soft
Than hers — a manly arm — supported her ;
Like to the rainbow she, one miglit aver.
Shining on high between the cloud and rain,
Or like the ewe that gambols on the plain
Between the bear and tiger ; innocent, ^
She has two neighbours of most foul intent:
For foes the Beauty has, in life's pure spring.
The German Emperor and the Pohsh King.
VI.
THE TWO NEIGHBOURS.
The difference tliis betwixt the evil pair. Faithless to God — for laws without a care — One was the claw, the other one the will Controlling. Yet to mass they both went still, And on the rosary told their beads each day. But none the less the world believed that they Unto the powers of hell their souls had sold.
204 POEMS
Even in whispers men each other told
The details of the pact which they had signed
With that dark power, the foe of human kind ;
In whispers, for the crowd had mortal dread
Of them so high, and woes that they had spread.
One might be vengeance and the other hate,
Yet lived they side by side, in powerful state
And close alliance. All the people near
From red horizon dwelt in abject fear.
Mastered by them ; their figures darkly grand
Had ruddy reflex from the wasted land.
And fires, and towns they sacked. Besides the one.
Like David, poet was, the other shone
As fine musician — rumour spread their fame,
Declaring them divine, until each name
In Italy's fine sonnets met with praise.
The ancient hierarch in those old days
Had custom strange, a now forgotten thing,
It was a European plan that King
Of France was marquis, and th' imperial head
Of Germany was duke ; there was no need
To class the other kings, but barons they,
Obedient vassals unto Rome, their stay.
The King of Poland was but simple knight,
Yet now, for once, had strange unwonted right.
And, as exception to the common state,
This one Sarmatian King was held as great
As German Emperor ; and each knew how
His evil part to play, nor mercy show.
The German had one aim, it was to take
All land he could, and it his own to make.
The Pole alread}^ having Baltic shore,
Seized Celtic ports, still needing more and more.
On all the Northern Sea his crafts roused fear :
Iceland beheld his demon navy near.
Antwerp the German burnt ; and Prussias twain
Bowed to his yoke. The Polish King was fain
LA LEGENDS DES SIECLES 20.5
To help the Russian Spotocus — his aid Was hke the help that in their common trade A sturdy butcher gives a weaker one. The King it is who seizes, and this done, The Emperor pillages, usurping right In war Teutonic, settled but by might. The King in Jutland cynic footing gains, The weak coerced, the while with cunning pains The strong are duped. But 'tis a law they make That their accord themselves should never break. From Arctic seas to cities Transalpine, Their hideous talons, curved for sure rapine, Scrape o'er and o'er the mournful continent. Their plans succeed, and each is well content. Thus under Satan's all paternal care They brothers arc, this royal bandit pair. Oh, noxious conquerors ! with transient rule Chimera heads — ambition can but fool. Their misty minds but harbour rottenness Loathsome and fetid, and all barrenness — Their deeds to ashes turn, and, hydra-bred, The mystic skeleton is theirs to dread. The daring German and the cunning Pole Noted to-day a woman had control Of lands, and watched Mahaud like evil spies ; And from the Emp'ror's cruel mouth — with dyes Of wrath empurpled — came these words of late : " The empire wearies of the wallet weight Hung at its back — this High and Low Lusace, Whose hateful load grows heavier apace. That now a woman holds its ruler's place." Threatening, and blood suggesting, every word; The watchful Pole was silent — but he heard.
Two monstrous dangers ; but the heedless one Babbles and smiles, and bids all care begone — Likes lively speech — while all the poor she maket
206 POEMS
To love her, and the taxes off she takes.
A hf e of dance and pleasure she has known —
A woman always ; in her j ewelled crown
It is the pearl she loves — not cutting gems,
For these can wound, and mark men's diadems.
She pays the hire of Homer's copyists,
And in the Courts of Love presiding, Ksts.
Quite recently unto her Court have come
Two men — unknown their names or native home,
Their rank or race ; but one plays well the lute.
The other is a troubadour; both suit
The taste of Mahaud, when on summer eve,
'Neath opened windows, they obtain her leave
To sing upon the terrace, and relate
The charming tales that do with music mate.
In August the Moravians have their fete.
But it is radiant June in which Lusace
Must consecrate her noble Margrave race.
Thus in the weird and old ancestral tower
For Mahaud now has come the fateful hour.
The lonely supper which her state decrees.
What matters this to flowers, and birds, and trees.
And clouds and fountains.? That the people may
Still bear their yoke — have kings to rule alway ?
The water flows, the wind in passing by
In murmuring tones takes up the questioning cry.
vn.
THE BANQUET HALL.
The old stupendous hall has but one door,
And in the dusk it seems that more and more
The walls recede in space unlimited.
At the far end there is a table spread
That in the dreary void with splendour shines;
For ceiling we behold but rafter lines.
LA LEGENDS DES SIECLES 207
The table is arranged for one sole guest,
A solitary chair doth near it rest,
Throne-Hke, 'neath canopy that droopeth down
From the black beams ; upon the walls are shown
The painted histories of the olden might,
The Wendish King Thassilo's stui'dy fight
On land with Nimrod, and on ocean wide
With Neptune. Rivers too personified
Appear — the Rliine as by the Meuse betrayed,
And fading groups of Odin in the shade,
And the wolf Fenrir and the Asgard snake.
One might the place for dragons' stable take.
The only lights that in the shed appear
Spring from the table's giant chandelier
With seven iron branches — brought from hell
By Attila Archangel, people tell.
When he had conquered Mammon — and they say
That seven souls were the first flames that day.
This banquet hall looks an abyss outlined
With shadowy vagueness, though indeed we find
In the far depth upon the table spread
A sudden, strong, and glaring light is shed,
Striking upon the goldsmith's burnished works,
And on the pheasants killed by traitor hawks.
Loaded the table is with viands cold.
Ewers and flagons, all enough of old
To make a love feast. All the napery
Was Friesland's famous make ; and fair to see
The dishes, silver-gilt and bordered round
With flowers ; for fruit, here strawberries were found
And citrons, apples too, and nectarines.
The wooden bowls were carved in cunning hnes
By peasants of the Murg, whose skilful hands
With patient toil reclaim the barren lands
And make their gardens flourish on a rock.
Or mountain where we see the hunters flock.
A golden cup, with handles Florentine,
208 POEMS
Shows horned Acteons, armed and booted fine,
Who fight with sword in hand against the hounds.
Roses and gladioles make up bright mounds
Of flowers, with juniper and aniseed;
While sage, all newly cut for this great need,
Covers the Persian carpet that is spread
Beneath the table, and so helps to shed
Around a perfume of the balmy spring.
Beyond is desolation withering.
One hears within the hollow dreary space
Across the grove, made fresh by summer's grace,
The wind that ever is with mystic might
A spirit ripple of the Infinite.
The glass restored to frames to creak is made
By blustering wind that comes from neighbouring glade.
Strange, in this dream-like place, so drear and lone.
The guest expected was a living one !
The seven lights from seven arms make glow
Almost with life the staring eyes that show
On the dim frescoes — and along the walls
Is here and there a stool, or the light falls
O'er some long chest, with likeness to a tomb ;
Yet were displayed amid the mournful gloom
Some copper vessels, and some crockery ware.
The door — as if it must, yet scarcely dare —
Had opened widely to the night's fresh air.
No voice is heard, for man has fled the place ;
But Terror crouches in the corners' space.
And waits the coming guest. This banquet hall
Of Titans is so high, that he who shall
With wandering eye look up from beam to beam
Of the confused wild roof will haply seem
To wonder that the stars he sees not there.
Giants the spiders are, that weave with care
Their hideous webs, which float the joists amid,
Joists whose dark ends in griffins' jaws are hid.
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 209
The light is lurid, and the air like death, And dark and foul. Even Niglit holds its breath Awhile. One might suppose the door had fear T'o move its double leaves — their noise to hear.
vin.
WHAT MORE WAS TO BE SEEN.
But the great hall of generations dead
Has something more sepulchral and more dread
Than lurid glare from seven-branched chandelier
Or table lone with stately dais near —
Two rows of arches o'er a colonnade
With knights on horseback all in mail arrayed,
Each one disposed with pillar at his back
And to another vis-a-vis. Nor lack
The fittings all complete ; in each right hand
A lance is seen ; the armoured horses stand
With chamf rons laced, and harness buckled sure ;
The cuissarts' studs are by their clamps secure ;
The dirks stand out upon the saddle-bow ;
Even unto the horses' feet do flow
Caparisons, — the leather all well clasped,
The gorget and the spurs with bronze tongues hasped,
The shining long sword from the saddle hung.
The battle-axe across the back was flung.
Under the arm a trusty dagger rests.
Each spiked knee-piece its murderous power attests.
Feet press the stirrups — hands on bridle shown
Proclaim all ready, with the visors down,
And yet they stir not, nor is audible
A sound to make the sight less terrible.
Each monstrous horse a frontal horn doth bear,
If e'er the Prince of Darkness herdsman were
These cattle black were his by surest right,
Like things but seen in horrid dreams of night. 14
210 POEMS
The steeds are swathed in trappings manifold, The armed knights are grave, and stern, and cold. Terrific too ; the clench'd fists seem to hold Some frightful missive, which the phantom hands Would show, if opened out at Hell's commands. The dusk exaggerates their giant size, The shade is awed — the pillars coldly rise. Oh, Night! why are these awful warriors here?
Horses and horsemen that make gazers fear
Are only empty armour. But erect
And haughty mien they all affect
And threatening air — though shades of iron still.
Are they strange larvae — these their statues ill.''
No. They are dreams of horror clothed in brass,
Which from profoundest depths of evil pass
With futile aim to dare the Infinite !
Souls tremble at the silent spectre sight,
As if in this mysterious cavalcade
They saw the weird and mystic halt was made
Of them who at the coming dawn of day
Would fade, and from their vision pass away.
A stranger looking in, these masks to see.
Might deem from Death some mandate there might be
At times to burst the tombs — the dead to wear
A human shape, and mustering ranks appear
Of phantoms, each confronting other shade.
Grave-clothes are not more grim and sombre made
Than are these helms ; the deaf and sealed-up graves
Are not more icy than these arms ; the staves
Of hideous biers have not their joints more strong
Than are the joinings of these legs; the long
Scaled gauntlet fingers look like worms that shine,
And battle robes to shroud-like folds incline.
The heads are skull-like, and the stony feet
Seem for the charnal house but only meet.
The pikes have deatn's-hcads carved, and seem to be
LA LEGKNDE DP:S SIECLKS 211
Too heavy ; but the shapes defiantly
Sit proudly in the saddle — and perforce
The rider looks united to the horse
Upon whose flanks the mail and harness cross.
The cap of Marquis beams near Ducal wreath,
And on the helm and gleaming shield beneath
Alternate triple pearls with leaves displayed
Of parsley, and the royal robes are made
So large that with the knightly hauberk they
Seem to o'erspread the palfrey every way.
To Rome the oldest armour might be traced,
And men and horses' armour interlaced
Blent horribly ; the man and steed we feel
Made but one hydra with its scales of steel.
Yet is there liistory here. Each coat of mail Is representant of some stirring tale. Each delta-shaped escutcheon shines to show A vision of the chief by it we know. Here are the blood-stained Dukes' and Marquis' line, Barbaric lords, who amid war's rapine Bore gilded saints upon their banners still Painted on fishes' skin with cunning skill. Here Geth, who to the Slaves cried " Onward go,' And Mundiaque and Ottocar — Plato And Ladislaus Kunne ; and Welf who bore These words upon his shield his foes before : " Nothing there is I fear." Otho blear-eyed, Zultan and Nazamustus, and beside The later Spignus, e'en to Spartibor Of triple vision, and yet more and more As if a pause at every age were made, And AntfEus' fearful dynasty portrayed.
What do they here so rigid and erect? What wait they for — and what do they expect.? Blindness fills up the helm 'neath iron brows ; Like sapless tree no soul the hero knows.
j»
212 POEMS
Darkness is now where eyes with flame were fraught,
And pierced visor serves for mask of nought.
Of empty void is spectral giant made,
And each of these all-powerful knights displayed
Is only rind of pride and murderous sin ;
Themselves are held the icy grave within.
Rust cats the casques enamoured once so much
Of death and daring — which knew kiss-like touch
Of banner — mistress so august and dear ■ —
But not an arm can stir its hinges here;
Behold how mute are they whose threats were heard
Like savage roar — whose gnashing teeth and word
Deadened the clarion's tones ; the helmets dread
Have not a sound, and all the armour spread,
The hauberks, that strong breathing seemed to sway,
Are stranded now in helplessness alway
To see the shadows, still prolonged, that seem
To take at night the image of a dream.
These two great files reach from the door afar
To where the table and the dais are.
Leaving between their fronts a narrow lane.
On the left side the Marquises maintain
Their place, but the right side the Dukes retain,
And till the roof, embattled by Spignus,
But worn by time that even that subdues.
Shall fall upon their heads, these forms will stand
The grades confronting — one on either hand.
While in advance beyond, with haughty head —
As if commander of this squadron dread —
All waiting signal of the Judgment Day,
In stone was seen in olden sculptors' way
Charlemagne the King, who on the earth had found
Only twelve knights to grace his Table Round.
The crests were an assembly of strange things, Of horrors such as nightmare only brings. Asps, and spread eagles without beak or feet,
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 213
Sirens and mermaids here and dragons meet,
And antlered stags and fabled unicorn,
And fearful things of monstrous fancy born.
Upon the rigid form of morion's sheen
Winged lions and the Cerberus are seen,
And serpents winged and finned ; things made to fright
The timid foe, alone by sense of sight.
Some leaning forward and the others back.
They looked a growing forest that did lack
No form of terror ; but these things of dread
That once on barons' helms the battle led
Beneath the giant banners, now are still.
As if they gaped and found the time but ill,
Wearied the ages passed so slowly by,
And that the gory dead no more did lie
Beneath their feet — pined for the battle-cry,
The trumpet's clash, the carnage and the strife,
Yawning to taste again their dreadful life.
Like tears upon the palfreys' muzzles were
The hard reflections of the metal there ;
From out these spectres, ages past exhumed,
And as their shadows on the roof -beams loomed,
Cast by the trembling hght, each figure wan
Seemed growing, and a monstrous shape to don.
So that the double range of horrors made
The darkened zenith clouds of blackest shade,
That shaped themselves to profiles terrible.
All motionless the coursers horrible.
That formed a legion lured by Death to war,
These men and horses masked, how dread they are!
Absorbed in shadows of the eternal shore,
Among the living all their tasks are o'er.
Silent, they seem all mystery to brave.
These sphynxes whom no beacon light can save
Upon the threshold of the gulf so near,
As if they faced the great enigma here ;
214 POEMS
Ready with hoofs, between the pillars blue To strike out sparks, and combats to renew, Choosing for battle-field the shades below, Which they provoked by deeds Ave cannot know. In that dark realm thought dares not to expound False masks from heaven lowered to depths profound.
IX.
A NOISE ON THE FLOOR.
This is the scene on Avhich now enters in Eviradnus ; and follows page Gasclin.
The outer walls were almost all decayed,
The door, for ancient Marquises once made —
Raised many steps above the courtyard near —
Commanded view of the horizon clear.
The forest looked a great gulf all around.
And on the rock of Corbus there were found
Secret and blood-stained precipices tali.
Duke Plato built the tower and banquet hall
Over great pits, — so was it Rumour said.
The flooring sounds 'neath Eviradnus' tread
Above abysses many.
" Page," said he.
Come here, your eyes than mine can better see,
For sight is woman-like and shuns the old ;
Ah ! he can see enough, when years are told,
Who backwards looks. But, boy, turn towards the glade
And tell me what you see."
The boy obe3'ed.
And leaned across the threshold, while the bright.
Full moon shed o'er the glade its white, pure hght. " I see a horse and woman on it noAV,"
Said Gasclin, " and companions also show." " Who arc they? " asked the seeker of sublime
Adventures. " Sir, I now can hear like chime
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 215
The sound of voices, and men's voices too, Laughter and talk ; two men there are in view, Across the road the shadows clear I mark Of horses three."
" Enough. Now, Gasclin, hark 1 '' Exclaimed the knight, " you must at once return By other path than that which you discern, So that you be not seen. At break of day Bring back our horses fresh, and every way Caparisoned; now leave me, boy, I say." The page looked at his master like a son. And said to him, " Oh, if I might stay on. For they are two."
"Go — I suffice alone ! "
X.
EVIRADNUS MOTIONLESS.
And lone the hero is within the hall.
And nears the table where the glasses all
Show in profusion ; all the vessels there.
Goblets and glasses gilt, or painted fair.
Are ranged for different wines with practised care.
He thirsts; the flagons tempt; but there must stay
One drop in emptied glass, and 'twould betray
The fact that some one living had been here.
Straight to the horses goes he, pauses near
That which is next the table shining bright.
Seizes the rider — plucks the phantom knight
To pieces — all in vain its panoply
And pallid shining to his practised eye ;
Then he conveys the severed iron remain
To corner of the hall where darkness reigns;
Against the wall he lays the armour low
In dust and gloom like hero vanquished now —
But keeping pond'rous lance and shield so old.
Mounts to the empty saddle, r.nd behold!
216 POEMS
A statue Eviradnus has become,
Like to the others in their frigid home.
With visor down scarce breathing seemed maintainedc
Throughout the hall a death-like silence reigned.
XI.
A LITTLE MUSIC.
Listen ! like hum from unseen nests we hear
A mirthful buzz of voices coming near,
Of footsteps — laughter — from the trembling trees.
And now the thick-set forest all receives
A flood of moonlight — and there gently floats
The sound of a guitar of Innsbruck ; notes
Which blend with chimes — vibrating to the hand •
Of tiny bell — where sounds a grain of sand.
A man's voice mixes with the melody.
And vaguely melts to song in harmony.
" If you like we'll dream a dream. Let us mount on palfreys two ; Birds are singing, — let it seem You lure me ■ — and I take you.
** Let us start — 'tis eve, you see, I'm thy master and thy prey. My bright steel shall pleasure be; Yours, it shall be love, I say.
** Journeying leisurely we go,
We will make our steeds touch heads, Kiss for fodder, — and we so Satisfy our horses' needs.
" Come ! the two delusive things Stamp impatiently it seems, Yours has heavenward soaring wingSj Mine is of the land of dreams.
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 217
" What's our baggage ? only vows, Happiness, and all our care. And the flower that sweetly shows Nestling lightly in your hair.
*' Come, the oaks all dark appear. Twilight now will soon depart. Railing sparrows laugh to hear
Chains thou puttest round my hearto
*' Not my fault 'twill surely be
If the hills should vocal prove, And the trees when us they see. All should murmur — let us love !
" Oh, be gentle ! — I am dazed, See the dew is on the grass. Wakened butterflies amazed Follow thee as on we pass.
*' Envious night-birds open wide
Their round eyes to gaze awhile,
Nymphs that lean their urns beside
From their grottoes softly smile,
** And exclaim, by fancy stirred, ' Hero and Leander they ; We in listening for a word Let our water fall away.'
*' Let us journey Austrian way.
With the daybreak on our brow; I be great, and you I say
Rich, because we love shall know.
«
Let us over countries rove.
On our charming steeds content.
In the azure hght of love. And its sweet bewilderment.
218 POEMS
'' For the charges at our inn,
You with maiden smiles shall pay ; I the landlord's heart will win In a scholar's pleasant way.
a
You, great lady — and I, Count — Come, my heart has opened quite.
We this tale will still recount,
To the stars that sliine at night."
The melody went on some moments more Among the trees the calm moon glistened o'er, Then trembled and was hushed ; the voice's thrill Stopped like alighting birds, and all was still.
xn.
GREAT JOSS AND LITTLE ZENO.
Quite suddenly there showed across the door,
Three heads which all a festive aspect wore.
Two men were there ; and, dressed in cloth of gold,
A woman. Of the men one might have told
Some thirty years, the other younger seemed,
Was tall and fair, and from his shoulder gleamed
A gay guitar with ivy leaves enlaced.
The other man was dark, but pallid-faced
And small. At the first glance they seemed to be
But made of perfume and frivolity.
Handsome they were, but through their comely mien
A grinning demon might be clearly seen.
April has flowers where lurk the slugs between.
" Big Joss and little Zeno, pray come here ; Look now — how dreadful! can I help but fear!" Madame Mahaud was speaker. Moonlight their" Caressingly enhanced her beauty rare. Making it shine and tremble, as if she
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 219
So soft and gentle were of things that be
Of air created, and are brought and ta'en
By heavenly' flashes. Now, she spoke again:
Certes, 'tis heavy purcliasc of a throne,
To pass the night here utterly alone.
Had you not slyly come to guard me now,
I should have died of fright outriglit I know."
The moonbeams through the open door did fall,
And shine upon the figiu-e next the wall.
Said Zeno, " If I played the Marquis part,
I'd send this rubbish to the auction mart;
Out of the heap should come the finest wine,
Pleasure and gala-fetes, were it all mine."
And then with scornful hand he touched the thing.
And made the metal like a soul's cry ring.
He laughed — the gauntlet trembled at his stroke.
Let rest my ancestors " — 'twas Mahaud spoke ;
Then murmuring added she, " For you are much
Too small their noble armour here to touch."
And Zeno paled, but Joss with laugh exclaimed.
Why, all these good black men so grandly named
Are onl}^ nests for mice. B}^ Jove, although
They lifehke look and terrible, we know
What is within; just listen, and you'll hear
The vermins' gnawing teeth, yet 'twould appear
These figures once were proudly named Otlio,
And Ottocar, and Bela, and Plato.
Alas ! the end's not pleasant — puts one out ;
To have been kings and dukes — made mighty rout —
Colossal heroes filling tombs with slain.
And, Madame, this to only now remain;
A peaceful nibbling rat to calmly pierce
A prince's noble armour proud and fierce."
" Sing, if you will — but do not speak so loud ;
Besides, such things as these," said fair Mahaud, " In your condition are not understood."
((
220 POEMS
" Well said," made answer Zeno, " 'tis a place Of wonders — I see serpents, and can trace Vampires, and monsters swarming, that arise In mist, through chinks, to meet the gazer's eyes." Then Mahaud shuddered, and she said : " The wine The Abbe made me drink as task of mine, Will soon enwrap me in the soundest sleep — Swear not to leave me — that you here will keep."
" I swear," cried Joss, and Zeno, " I also ; But now at once to supper let us go."
xin.
THEY SUP.
With laugh and song they to the table went. Said Mahaud gaily : " It is my intent To make Joss chamberlain. Zeno shall be A constable supreme of high degree." All three were joyous, and were fair to see. Joss ate — and Zeno drank ; on stools the pair, With Mahaud musing in the regal chair. The sound of separate leaf we do not note — And so their babble seemed to idly float. And leave no thought behind. Now and again Joss his guitar made trill with plaintive strain Or Tyrolean air ; and lively tales they told Mingled with mirth all free, and frank, and bold. Said Mahaud : " Do you know how fortunate You are? " " Yes, we are young at any rate — Lovers half crazy — this is truth at least."
*' And more, for you know Latin like a priest, And Joss sings well."
" Ah, yes, our master true, Yields us these gifts beyond the measure due."
" Your master ! — who is he? " Mahaud exclaimed.
" Satan, we say — but Sin you'd think him named,' Said Zeno, veiling words in raillery.
j>
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 221
" Do not laugh thus," she said with dignity ;
" Peace, Zeno. Joss, you speak, my chamberlain."
" Madame, Viridis, Countess of Milan,
Was deemed superb ; Diana on the mount
Dazzled the shepherd boy ; ever we count
The Isabel of Saxony so fair,
And Cleopatra's beauty all so rare —
Aspasia's, too, that must with theirs compare —
That praise of them no fitting language hath.
Dirine was Rhodope — and Venus' wrath
Was such at Erylesis' perfect throat.
She dragged her to the forge where Vulcan smote
Her beauty on his anvil. Well, as much
As star transcends a sequin, and just such
As temple is to rubbish-heap, I say,
You do eclipse their beauty every way.
Those airy sprites that from the azure smile
Peris and elfs the while they men beguile,
Have brows less youthful pure than yours ; besides
Dishevelled they whose shaded beauty hides
In clouds."
" Flatt'rer," said Mahaud, " you but sing
Too well."
Then Joss more homage sought to bring ; " If I were angel under heav'n," said he, " Or girl or demon, I would seek to be
By you instructed in all art and grace.
And as in school but take a scholar's place.
Highness, you are a fairy bright, whose hand
For sceptre vile gave up your proper wand."
Fair Mahaud mused- — then said, "Be silent now;
You seem to M'atch me; little 'tis I know,
Only that from Bohemia Joss doth come.
And that in Poland Zeno hath his home.
But you amuse me ; I am rich, you poor —
What boon shall I confer and make secure.''
222 POEMS
What gift? ask of me, poets, what you will .
And I will grant it — promise to fulfil." " A kiss," said Joss.
" A kiss ! " quick anger wrought
In Mahaud at the minstrel's shameless thought.
And flush of indignation warmed her cheek. " You do forget to whom it is jou speak,"
She cried.
" Had I not known your high degree,
Should I have asked this royal boon," said he, " Obtained or given, a kiss must ever be.
No gift like king's — no kiss like that of queen ! "
Queen ! And on Mahaud's face a smile was seen.
XIV. AFTER SUPPER.
But now the potion proved its subtle power,
And Mahaud's heavy eyelids 'gan to lower.
Zeno, with finger on his lip, looked on —
Her head next drooped, and consciousness was gone.
Smiling she slept, serene and very fair.
He took her hand, which fell all unaware.
" She sleeps," said Zeno, " now let chance or fate Decide for us which has the marquisate. And which the girl."
Upon their faces now A hungry tiger's look began to show.
" My brother, let us speak like men of sense," Said Joss ; " while Mahaud dreams in innocence, We grasp all here — and hold the foolish thing — Our Friend below to us success will bring;. He keeps his word ; 'tis thanks to him I say. No awkward chance has marred our plans to-day. All has succeeded — now no human power Can take from us this woman and her dower.
i<
((
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 223
Let us conclude. To wrangle and to fight For just a yes or no, or to prove right The Arian doctrines, all the time the Pope Laughs in his sleeve at you — or with the hope Some blue-eyed damsel with a tender skin And milkwhite dainty hands by force to win — This might be well in days when men bore loss And fought for Latin or Byzantine Cross ; When Jack and Rudolf did like fools contend, And for a simple wench their valour spend — When Pepin held a synod at Leptine, And times than now were much less wise and fine. We do no longer heap up quarrels thus, But better know how projects to discuss. Have you the needful dice ? "
" Yes, here they wait
For us."
" Who wins shall have the Marquisate ; Loser, the girl."
" Agreed."
" A noise I hear.? " Only the wind that sounds like some one near — Are you afraid .f" " said Zeno.
" Naught I fear Save fasting — and that solid earth should gape. Let's throw and fate decide — ere time escape." Then rolled the dice.
" 'Tis four."
'Twas Joss to throw. Six ! — and I neatly win, you see ; and lo ! At bottom of this box I've found Lusace, And henceforth my orchestra will have place ; To it they'll dance. Taxes I'll raise, and they In dread of rope and forfeit well will pay ; Brass trumpet-calls shall be my flutes that lead. Where gibbets rise the imposts grow and spread.' Said Zeno, " I've the girl and so is best."
»>
224 POEMS
" She's beautiful," said Joss.
" Yes, 'tis conf ess'd."
*' What shall you do with her? " asked Joss.
" I know. Make her a corpse," said Zeno ; " marked you how The jade insulted me just now! Too small She called me — such the words her lips let fall. I say, that moment ere the dice I threw Had yawning Hell cried out, ' My son for you The chance is open still: take in a heap The fair Lusace's seven towns, and reap The corn, and wine, and oil of counties ten, With all their people diligent, and then Bohemia with its silver mines, and now The lofty land whence mighty rivers flow And not a brook returns ; add to these counts The Tyrol with its lovely azure mounts And France with her historic fleurs-de-lis; Come now, decide, what 'tis your choice must be.'' ' I should have answered, ' Vengeance ! give to me Rather than France, Bohemia, or the fair Blue Tyrol ! I my choice, O Hell ! declare For government of darkness and of death, Of grave and worms.' Brother, this woman hath As marchioness with absurdity set forth To rule o'er frontier bulwarks of the north. In any case to us a danger she. And having stupidly insulted me 'Tis needful that she die. To blurt all out — I know that you desire her; without doubt The flame that rages in my heart warms yours ; To carry out these subtle plans of ours. We have become as gipsies near this doll. You as her page — I dotard to control — Pretended gallants changed to lovers now. So, brother, this being fact for us to know
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 225
Sooner or later, 'gainst our best intent About her we should quarrel. Evident Is it our compact would be broken through. There is one only thing for us to do, And that is, kill her."
" Logic very clear," Said musing Joss, " but what of blood shed here.'* " Then Zeno stooped and lifted from the ground An edge of carpet — groped until he found A ring, which, pulled, an opening did disclose, With deep abyss beneath ; from it there rose The odour rank of crime. Joss walked to see While Zeno pointed to it silently. But eyes met eyes, and Joss, well pleased, was fain By nod of head to make approval plain.
XV.
THE OUBLIETTES.
If sulphurous light had shone from this vile well
One might have said it was a mouth of hell.
So large the trap that by some sudden blow
A man might backward fall and sink below.
Who looked could see a harrow's threatening teeth,
But lost in night was everything beneath.
Partitions blood-stained have a reddened smear,
And Terror unrelieved is master here.
One feels the place has secret histories
Replete with dreadful murderous mysteries.
And that this sepulchre, forgot to-day.
Is home of trailing ghosts that grope their way
Along the walls where spectre reptiles crawl.
" Our fathers fashioned for us after all Some useful things," said Joss; then Zeno spoke:
" I know what Corbus hides beneath its cloak,
I and the osprey know its ancient walls
And bow was justice done within its halls." 16
226 POEMS
»
" And are you sure that Mahaud will not wake? " Her eyes are closed as now my fist I make ;
She is in mystic and unearthly sleep ;
The potion still its power o'er her must keep." "But she will surely wake at break of day ? " " In darkness."
*' What will all the courtiers say
When in the place of her they find two men? " " To them we will declare ourselves — and then
They at our feet will fall."
" Where leads this hole? " " To where the crow makes feast and torrents roll,
To desolation. Let us end it now."
These young and handsome men had seemed to grow Deformed and hideous — so doth foul black heart Disfigure man, till beauty all depart. So to the hell within the human face Transparent is. They nearer move apace; And Mahaud soundly sleeps as in a bed. " To work."
Joss seizes her and holds her head Supporting her beneath her arms, in his ; And then he dared to plant a monstrous kiss Upon her rosy lips, — while Zeno bent Before the massive chair, and with intent Her robe disordered as he raised her feet; Her dainty ankles thus their gaze to meet. And while the mystic sleep was all profound, The pit gaped wide like grave in burial ground.
XVI. WHAT THEY ATTEMPT BECOMES DIFFICULT.
Bearing the sleeping Mahaud they moved now
Silent and bent with heavy step and slow.
Zeno faced darkness — Joss turned towards the light
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 227
So that the hall to Joss was quite in sight.
Sudden he stopped — and Zeno, " What now ! " called,
But Joss replied not, though he seemed appalled,
And made a sign to Zeno, who with speed
Looked back. Then seemed they changed to stone indeed,
For both perceived that in the vaulted hall
One of the grand old knights ranged by the wall
Descended from his horse. Like phantom he
Moved with a horrible tranquillity.
INIasked by his helm towards them he came; his tread
Made the floor tremble — and one might have said
A spirit of th' abyss was here ; between
Them and the pit he came — a barrier seen ;
Then said, with sword in hand and visor down.
In measured tones that had sepulchral grown
As tolling bell, " Stop, Sigismond, and you.
King Ladislaus ; " at those words, though few.
They dropped the Marchioness, and in such a way
That at their feet like rigid corpse she lay.
The deep voice speaking from the visor's grate Proceeded — while the two in abject state Cowered low. Joss paled, by gloom and dread o'ercast, And Zeno trembled like a yielding mast. ■ You two who listen now must recollect The compact all your fellow-men suspect. 'Tis this : ' I, Satan, god of darkened sphere, The king of gloom and winds that bring things drear. Alliance make with my two brothers dear. The Emperor Sigismond and Polish King Named Ladislaus. I to surely bring Aid and protection to them both alway. And never to absent myself or say I'm weary. And yet more — I, being lord Of sea and land, to Sigismond award The earth ; to Ladislaus all the sea.
228 POEMS
With this condition that they yield to me When I the forfeit claim — the King his head, But shall the Emperor give his soul instead.' "
Said Joss, " Is't he? — Spectre with flashing eyes, And art thou Satan come us to surprise? " " Much less am I and yet much more. Oh, kings of crimes and plots ! your day is o'er. But I your lives will only take to-day ; Beneath the talons black your souls let stay To wrestle still."
The pair looked stupefied And crushed. Exchanging looks 'twas Zeno cried, Speaking to Joss, " Now who — who can it be? " Joss stammered, " Yes, no refuge can I see ; The doom is on us. But oh, spectre ! say Who are you? "
« I'm the judge."
" Then mercy, pray." The voice replied : " God guides His chosen hand To be th' Avenger in your path to stand. Your hour has sounded, nothing now indeed Can change for you the destiny decreed, Irrevocable quite. Yes, I looked on. Ah ! little did you think that any one To this unwholesome gloom could knowledge bring That Joss a kaiser was, and Zeno king. You spoke just now — but why? — too late to plead. The forfeit's due and hope should all be dead. Incurables ! For you I am the grave. Oh, miserable men ! whom naught can save. Yes, Sigismond a kaiser is, and you A king, O Ladislaus ! — it is true. You thought of God but as a wheel to roll Your chariot on ; you who have king's control O'er Poland and its many towns so strong.
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 229
You, Milan's Duke, to whom at once belong
The gold and iron crowns. You, Emperor made
By Rome, a son of Hercules 'tis said ;
And you of Spartiboi-. And your two crowns
Are shining lights ; and yet your shadow frowns
From every mountain land to trembling sea.
You are at giddy heights twin powers to be
A glory and a force for all that's great —
But 'neath the purple canopy of state,
Th' expanding and triumphant arch you prize,
'Neath royal power that sacred veils disguise,
Beneath your crowns of pearls and jewelled stars,
Beneath your exploits terrible and wars.
You, Sigismond, have but a monster been.
And, Ladislaus, you are scoundrel seen.
Oh, degradation of the sceptre's might
And sword's — when Justice has a hand like night.
Foul and polluted ; and before this thing.
This hydra, do the Temple's hinges swing —
The throne becomes the haunt of all things base !
Oh, age of infamy and foul disgrace !
Oh, starry heavens looking on the shame,
No brow but reddens with resentful flame —
And yet the silent people do not stir !
Oh, million arms ! what things do you deter —
Poor sheep, whom vermin-majesties devour,
Have you not nails with strong desiring power
To rend these royalties, that you so cower?
But two are taken, — such as will amaze
E'en hell itself, when it on them shall gaze.
Ah, Sigismond and Ladislaus, you
Were once triumphant, splendid to the view,
Stifling with your prosperity — but now
The hour of retribution lays you low.
Ah, do the vulture and the crocodile
Shed tears ! At such a sight I fain must smile.
2«0 POEMS
It seems to me 'tis very good sometimes That princes, conquerors stained with bandits' crimes, Sparkling with splendour, wearing crowns of gold, Should know the deadly sweat endured of old, That of Jehoshaphat ; should sob and fear. And after crime th' unclean be brought to bear. 'Tis well — God rules — and thus it is that I These masters of the world can make to lie In ashes at my feet. And this was he Who reigned — and this a Caesar known to be ! In truth, my old heart aches with very shame ■ To see such cravens with such noble name. But let us finish — what has just passed here Demands thick shrouding, and the time is near. Th' accursed dice that rolled at Calvary You rolled a woman's murder to decree : It was a dark disastrous game to play ; But not for me a moral to essay. This moment to the misty grave is due, And far too vile and little human you To see your evil ways. Your fingers lack The human sense to test your actions black. What use in darkness mirror to uphold? What use that now your deeds should be retold .f* Drink of the darkness — greedy, of the ill To which from habit you're attracted still. Not recognizing in the draught you take The stench that your atrocities must make. I only tell you that this burthened age Tires of your Highnesses, that soil its page, And of your villainies — and this is why You now must swell the stream that passes by Of refuse filth. Oh, horrid scene to show Of these young men and that young girl just now! Oh! can you really be of human kind Breathing pure air of heaven.? Do we find
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 231
That you arc men ? Oh, no ! for when you laid
Foul lips upon the mouth of sleeping maid,
You seemed but ghouls that had come furtively
From out the tombs ; only a horrid lie
Your human shape ; of some strange frightful beast
You have the soul. To darkness I at least
Remit you now. Oh, murderer Sigismond
And Ladislaus pirate, both beyond
Release — two demons that have broken ban !
Therefore 'tis time their empire over man.
And converse with the living, should be o'er;
Tyrants, behold your tomb your eyes before ;
Vampires and dogs, your sepulchre is here.
Enter."
He pointed to the gulf so near.
All terrified upon their knees they fell. " Oh ! take us not in your dread realm to dwell,"
Said Sigismond. " But, phantom ! do us tell
What thou wouldst have from us — we will obey.
Oh, mercy ! — 'tis for mercy now we pray." " Behold us at your feet, oh, spectre dread ! "
And no old crone in feebler voice could plead
Than Ladislaus did.
But not a word
Said now the figure motionless, with sword
In hand. This sovereign soul seemed to commune
With self beneath his metal sheath ; yet soon
And suddenly, with tranquil voice said he, " Princes, your craven spirit wearies me.
No phantom — only man am I. Arise !
I like not to be dreaded otherwise
Than with the fear to which I'm used ; know me.
For it is Eviradnus that you see ! "
232 POEMS
XVII. THE CLUB.
As from the mist a noble pine we tell Grown old upon the heights of Appenzel, When morning freshness breathes round all the wood. So Eviradnus now before them stood, Opening his vizor, which at once revealed The snowy beard it had so well concealed. Then Sigismond was still as dog at gaze. But Ladislaus leaped, and howl did raise. And laughed and gnashed his teeth, till, like a cloud That sudden bursts, his rage was all avowed. " 'Tis but an old man after all ! " he cried.
Then the great kniglit, who looked at both, replied, " Oh, kings ! an old man of my time can cope With two much younger ones of yours, I hope. To mortal combat I defy you bo Singly ; or, if you will, I'm nothing loth With two together to contend ; ch.oose here From out the heap what weapon shall appear Most fit. As you no cuirass wear, I see, I will take off my own, for all must be In order perfect — e'en your punishment.'
»
Then Eviradnus, true to his intent.
Stripped to his Utrecht jerkin; but the while
He calmly had disarmed — with dexterous guile
Had Ladislaus seized a knife that lay
Upon the damask cloth, and slipped away
His shoes ; then barefoot, swiftly, silently
He crept behind the knight, with arm held high.
But Eviradnus was of all aware.
And turned upon the murderous weapon there,
And twisted it away ; then in a trice
LA LEGENDE DES SiECLES 238
His strong colossal hand grasped like a vice The neck of Ladislaus, who the blade Now dropped ; over his eyes a misty shade Showed that the royal dwarf was near to death.
" Traitor ! " said Eviradnus in his wrath,
" 1 ruther should have hewn your limbs away,
And left you crawling on your stumps, I say, —
But now die fast."
Ghastly, with starting eyes. The King without a cry or struggle dies. One dead — but lo ! the other stands bold-faced. Defiant ; for the knight, when he unlaced His cuirass, had his trusty sword laid down. And Sigismond now grasps it as his own. The monster-youth laughed at the silv'ry beard. And, sword in hand, a murderer glad appeared. Crossing his arms, he cried, " 'Tis my turn now ! " And the black mounted knights in solemn row Were judges of the strife. Before them lay The sleeping Mahaud — and not far away The fatal pit, near which the champion knight With evil Emperor must contend for right. Though weaponless he was. And yawned the pit Expectant which should be engulphed in it. " Now we shall see for whom this ready grave," Said Sigismond, " you dog, whom nought can save ! " Aware was Eviradnus that if he Turned for a blade unto the armoury. He would be instant pierced — what can he do.'' The moment is for him supreme. But, lo ! He glances now at Ladislaus dead, And with a smile triumphant and yet dread, And air of lion caged to whom is shown Some loophole of escape, he bends him down.
234 POEMS
" Pla ! ha ! no other club than this I need ! " He cried, as seizing in liis hands with speed The dead King's heels, the body lifted high, Then to the frightened Emperor he came nigh, And made him shake with horror and with fear, The weapon all so ghastly did appear. The head became the stone to this strange sling, Of which the body was the potent string; And while 'twas brandished in a deadly way. The dislocated arms made monstrous play With hideous gestures, as now upside down The bludgeon corpse a giant force had grown. " 'Tis well ! " said Eviradnus, and he cried, " Arrange between yourselves, you two allied ; If hell-fire were extinguished, surely it By such a contest might be all relit; From kindling spark struck out from dead King's brow, Batt'ring to death a living Emperor now."
And Sigismond, thus met and horrified. Recoiled to near the unseen opening wide; The human club was raised, and struck again . . . And Eviradnus did alone remain All empty-handed — but he heard the sound Of spectres two falling to depths profound ; Then, stooping o'er the pit, he gazed below, And, as half-dreaming now, he murmured low " Tiger and jackal meet their portion here, 'Tis well together they should disappear ! "
xvin.
DAYBREAK.
Then lifts he Mahaud to the ducal chair, And shuts the trap with noiseless, gentle care; And puts in order everything around. So that, on waking, nought should her astound.
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 235
" No drop of blood the thing has cost," mused he,
" And that is best indeed."
But suddenly Some distant bells clang out. The mountains grey Have scarlet tips, proclaiming dawning day ; The hamlets are astir, and crowds come out — Bearing fresh branches of the broom — about To seek their Lady, who herself awakes Rosy as morn, just when the morning breaks; Half -dreaming still, she ponders, can it be Some mystic change has passed, for her to see One old man in the place of two quite young! Her wondering ej'^es search carefully and long. It may be she regrets the change: meanwhile. The valiant knight salutes her with a smile. And then approaching her with friendly mien. Says, " Madam, has your sleep all pleasant been .? "
Mrs. Newton Crosland.
THE INFANTA'S ROSE
(" Elle est toute petite, une duegne la garde")
So small she is ! 'neath a duenna's care.
She looks around with but a listless air.
While holding in her hand a fragrant rose ;
What she is gazing at she scarcely knows.
Before her lies a sheet of water ; pine
And birch in dark reflection on it shine,
A white-winged swan makes cradle of its waves.
That sway to song of branches which it laves.
And the great garden's radiant flowery show;
She seems an angel moulded out of snow.
A stately palace dominates the scene,
With park and fish ponds, where the deer oft lean
236 POEMS
To drink the waters clear ; starred peacocks too Beneath the ample foliage are in view. Around this child the grass bears jewels fine, Rubies and diamonds seem thereon to shine, While sapphire water flows from dolphins near; Her innocence takes added whiteness here ; And clust'ring graces trembling aspect wear.
Beside the water, gazing at her flower,
Wliich quite delights her for the passing hour,
She stands a figure full of childish grace:
Her bodice is of Genoese point lace,
Her satin skirt has arabesque design.
Worked in gold thread by fingers Florentine.
From urn-like calyx spreads the full-blown rose,
And fills the little hand that holds it close.
Then part the carmine lips as with a smile,
Nostrils dilate, yet with a frown the while
Deep breathing she inhales its fragrance full.
The damask rose, roj^ally beautiful.
So nearly hides her blooming face that we
Scarcely discover where the cheeks may be.
Her sweet blue eyes shine brighter 'neath the lines
Of her brown eyebrows, everything combines
To make her incarnation of delight.
What softness in those azure eyes so bright.
What charm in Marie — her dear name that falls
Upon the ear with sound that prayer recalls !
The splendour dazzles — yet we say, " Poor thing ! "
Beneath the sky — with all that life may bring
Before her, — vaguely great herself she feels ;
For her comes spring, and light or shadow steals
Upon the scene ; for her the sunsets fine,
And gorgeous lustre of the starlight shine;
For her brooks murmur, though themselves unseen,
And nature's fields, eternal and serene.
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 2o/
She views with gravity that queens must show.
No man she'd seen v. ho did not humbly bow;
Duchess of Brabant she would one day be
And govern Flanders, or by southern sea
Sardinia, for the young Infanta she.
Five years of age, disdaining common things,
For thus it happens to the babes of kings :
Their white brows something like a shadow bear,
And with their tottering step begins the air
Of royalty. Rejoicing in her flower.
She waits the gathering empire for her dower.
Her royal look already says " 'tis mine,"
While with the love she wins vague awe doth twine.
Should sudden danger looker-on appal,
The scaffold's shadow on his brow would fall
Who her, unbidden, snatched from peril dread.
The sweet child smiled, as though in thought she said. It is enough to live 'mong flowers I love. With this my rose in hand and heaven above.
Day fades, the wrangling twitter of the nests, With purple shadow on the trees, attests The sunset ; while each marble goddess' brow Flushes at eve with ruddy life-like glow. As she the mystery of night must show. All things grow calm ; the sun the wave receives As birds are hidden by the sheltering leaves.
While smiles the child, contented with her flower,
In the vast palace dwells a dreadful power,
Papistical. The lancet windows shine
Like mitres. Through the glass a dim outline
Is seen of figure pacing to and fro.
From room to room its sliadow seems to go ;
Or else immovable the long hours through
238 POEMS
With brow against the glass, and motionless
As monumental stone, yet not the less
The phantom is a horror, v.an and dread ;
Its step as slow as bell that tolls the dead.
And Death it is — unless it be the king
With lengthened shadow that the night hours bring
'Tis he — the man a trembling nation fears
Who thus a phantom horrible appears ;
Upright, with shoulder 'gainst the chamber wall,
On whom the twilight can but dimly fall.
This frightful being, in the shadow seen.
Sees nothing of the lovely garden sheen.
Or thickets where the pecking birds liave been,
Or child, or shining rippled waters spread
Reflecting back the evening sky o'erhead:
Oh, no; those glassy orbs, 'neath cruel brows.
Like ocean depths no plummet ever knows,
Sees mirage that the senses seems to blind.
Could we but know the image in his mind
'Twould be a fleet of noble Spanish ships
That doth all former armaments eclipse ;
He sees the vessels fly before the breeze,
Breasting the crested, foaming waves with ease;
The rattling of the bellowing sails he liears.
And sees the Isle his great Armada nears,
Beneath the stars, a white rock clothed in mist
Which o'er the waves doth to his thunders list.
This is the vision which now fills the soul
Of him who would humanity control.
And blinds him to all else ; the floating host
He looks upon as lever he may boast
Shall raise the world ; he follows it in thought
Across the darkness of the sea ; thus wrought
In spirit he a conqueror feels — and so
His mournfulness a gleam of light doth know.
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 239
The Koran's Ibis and the Bible's Cain Hardly had stigmas that as black remain As that wliich rests on Second Philip's fame ; A being terrible he was whose name Meant evil with the ready sword in hand, A nightmare that o'ershadowed every lando This royal spectre of the Escurial, Son of the spectre called Imperial, Inspired such terror that a lurid light Seemed from his presence only to affright. Men trembled if they merely saw pass by One of his stewards, for his power seemed nigh To that of the Almighty, so confused Were they by his determined will, so used To think of him as changeless and as stable As are the stars and Heaven's abyss, and able All things to compass, for they thought his will Cramped destiny its purpose to fulfil. The Indies and America he swayed. Pressed upon Africa, and made afraid All Europe ; yet did gloomy England still His mind with feelings of disquiet fill. His mouth was closed, his soul a mystery, His throne a fraiid, based on chicanery. He was sustained by darkness, as might be His figure on a dark horse, did we see Equestrian statue of him ; black his wear, Giving to this so potent Prince the air Of mourning his existence silently ; And like consuming silent sphinx was he — > Being all-potent what had he to say.'' No one had ever seen him smiling gay ; On iron lips Kke his smiles could not dwell, Lips only lighted like the gates of hell. When he shakes off his torpid adder state, 'Tis to assist tormentors, and to sate
240 POEMS
His hateful passion for the death-pyre's air, Till in his eyeball rests its horrid glare. With all humanity he is at strife, With thought and freedom and progressive life; A slave to Papal Rome, his was the shame To rule as Satan in Christ's holy name. The thoughts that flowed from his nocturnal mind Were stealthy, gliding broods of viper kind ; Th' Escurial, Burgos, Aranjuez, his homes, Never beneath their frigid palace domes Knew festal scenes where merriment enthralls ; Auto-da- fes made courtly festivals, And treachery was pastime. Troubled kings Have often in dim vision night time brings Their projects opened, and his di'eams had power A weight of evil on the world to shower. They prompted conquest and oppression vast, Lightnings came from them to destroy and blast ; Even the people that he thought of said " We stifle," such the abject terror dread, Throughout liis Empire, of his glance and scowl. Charles was the vulture — Philip is the owl.
Mournful he looked in pourpoint black for coat. The Golden Fleece suspended from his throat, The fi'igid sentinel of destiny He seemed, with figure motionless and eye Resembling vent hole of a cavern dark, With finger stretched his will to dimly mark, Though none there be the gesture who can see He holds commjind by immobility. And vaguely writes behest to shadows — while. Oh strange, unheard of thing, — a smile Grinds on his lips, sardonic, bitter, stern. Born of the vision, which he can discern. Ever more plainly now he gloats to see
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 24l
His armament in all its majesty;
In thought he views it following his designs,
As if he from the zenith ruled its lines ;
And all goes well — calm rolls the ocean dark
As if th' Armada awed it, as the Ark
Of old the Deluge. He beholds his fleet
Spread out in sailing order, all complete,
The vessels guarding certain spaces fixed
Like chessmen on a chessboard deftly mixed.
The decks and masts and bridges undulate
Like one vast hurdle; waves are subjugate.
And form a hedge around this sacred force;
The currents' Avork it is to make their course
An aid to debarkation ; rocks change mien,
And round the ships the circling waves are seenj
As if all love ; the surf in pearl-drops falls.
And all the galleys have their prodigals
Of strength ; see those of Escaut and Adour,
And hundred colonels that the vessels bore
With constables ; and Germany has lent
Her ships redoubtable, and Naples sent
Her brigs, and Cadiz galleons — Lisbon men,
For they were lions that were needed then.
Philip, o'erleaping space, leans o'er the scene.
And hears as well as sees ; with gloating mien
He hears the drums and speaking-trumpets shoutj
And signal cries, and hurrying about;
He hears the boatswain's whistle, and the rush
Of agile youths and sailors in the crush
Of hammock hauling; black sepulchral show
Of hubbub on his senses now docs grow.
Are they great cormorants or citadels .f'
The sails make dull harsh noise, as each one swells,
Like beating of great wings ! and groans the sea
Beneath the mighty mass that noisily
Expands itself and swiftly rolls along.
la
242 POEMS
The sombre king smiles at the mighty throng,
Gloating like hungry vampire o'er his prey.
Four hundred vessels ! and he knows that they
Bear eighty thousand swords. Oh England, pale !
He holds thee fast — what now can aught avail.?
The match is near the powder — '-tis his right
The thunderbolt to hold, Avho has the might
To loose the sheaf from out his potent hand,
Whose orders none can dare to countermand;
Is he not heir to Cssar — he to-day
Whose shadow spreads from Ganges far away
Even to Posilipo's famous hill.'^
Is not all ended when he says " I will.'' "
Is it not he who holds fast Victory still
By the hair.'' What can his purposes withstand —
Was it not Philii), he alone who plann'd
This terrifying fleet to pilot now
Its onward course.'' The waves obedient flow;
Did he his little finger but incline
All the winged dragons would obey the sign.
Is he not king — the dismal man whom they,
This monstrous whirlwind swarm, must all obey !
When Beit-Cif resil — so history tells. Son of Abdallah-Beit, — sank the great wells Of Cairo's mosque, he 'graved above the sod, " The earth is mine — 'tis Heaven belongs to God." And, as all tyrants are the same at heart. Though things may be confused and seem apart. What said the Sultan then this king doth think.
Meanwhile, upon the basin's silent brink.
Her rose the young Infanta gravely holds.
And, blue-eyed angel, kisses oft its folds.
Quite suddenly a blustering breath of air
The shuddering eve casts o'er the plains so fair;
LA LEGENDS DES SIECLES 243
A boisterous ground-wind ruffles every lake,
And bids the rushes tremble, and doth make
The asphodels and distant myrtle trees
To shudder, reaching the calm child from these
With sudden blast, it shakes a tree that's near,
While shattering the flower she held so dear,
Leaving alone a thorn. She stooped to gaze,
And saw upon the stream, with great amaze,
The total ruin of her cherished flower.
She could not comprehend this dreadful power
That dared offend her; and she felt afraid
As looking up to Heaven all dismayed.
The lake so calm just now is full of rage.
And the black foaming waves seem war to wage
With the poor rose-leaves on the water strewed,
Drowning and wrecked by turbulence renewed.
The hundred leaves a thousand waves still meet,
And one can dream upon this watery sheet
We see the ruin of a mighty fleet.
Whereon the staid duenna gravely said
Unto the musing, frightened little maid,
Amazed and puzzled, " Madame, bear in mind
That Princes govern all tilings — save the wind."
Mrs. Newton Crosland.
THE INQUISITION
THE DEFENCE OF MOMOTOMBO
(" Trouvant les tremblements de terre trop frequents")
" The custom of baptising volcanoes is traced to the earliest times of the conquest. All the cr.aters of Nicaragua were thus sanctified with the exception of Momotombo, whence none of the priests commissioned to plant there the cross ever returned." — SauiER, " Travels in South A merica."
Finding that earthquakes far too much prevailed. The Spanish kings with sacred rites assailed
»
244 POEMS
Volcanic mountains of the New World land,
Baptising them ; and to the priestly hand
They all submitted, saving only one,
But Momotombo would not have it done.
Divers the surpliced priests who — choice of Rome —
Essayed to reach the frowning mountain's dome,
Bearing the Sacrament the Church decrees,
With eyes on Heaven fixed, but of all these —
And many were they — none were heard of more.
" Oh Momotombo, thou colossus hoar, Who ponderest by the sea, whilst thou hast made Tiara of thy crater's flame and shade. Why, when thy dreadful threshold we draw near, And bring thee God, why wilt thou not us hear? Stayed was the belching of its lava tide, While gravely Momotombo thus replied:
" I Hked not much the god you chased away. His jaws were black with gory rot alway. Eater of human flesh was he, this god, And miser hiding gold beneath the sod. His cave, the porch to frightful yard, was made Sepulchral Temple where his Pontiff stayed. The slaughterer deaf, deformed, of hideous mien. Bleeding between his teeth was ever seen A corpse, while round his wrists the serpents twined; And horrid skeletons of human kind Grinn'd at his feet. Oh cruel were the ways Of shocking murder in those dreadful days. Blackening the firmament sublime. At this I groaned from out the depths of my abyss. Thus when came proudly o'er the trembling sea White men, from that side whence unfailingly The morning ever breaks, it seemed to me That to receive them well were only wise.
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 245
* White men,' said I, ' resemble azure skies, Surely the colour of their souls we trace, It must be like the colour of their face, The god that these men worship must be good ; IMii -ders will cease,' and I in happy mood Rejoiced — the ancient priest I hated so; But when the new one's work began to show. When I could see the Inquisition flame. That ne'er was quenched, taking the Holy name, A mournful torch that to my level reached, Just Heaven ! when thus you daily taught and preached. And Torquemada tried with fiery might To dissipate the darkness of the night Of savage heathendom — when I saw then How He would civilize — at Lima, when I saw the osier giants, in the strife. Filled to the brim with childish baby life Crackling above the mighty furnace heat. And curls of smoke round burning women meet, Choked by the stench of every horrid deed, Auto-da-fe according to your creed, I — who but shadow brightly burn away — Repented of my gladness, forced to say, When looking at the strangers' god more near, * To change is not worth while it doth appear ! ' "
Mrs. Newton Crosland.
THE SWISS MERCENARIES (" Lorsque le regiment des hallebardiers")
When the regiment of Halberdiers
Is proudly marching by, The eagle of the mountain screams
From out his stormy sky ;
246 POEMS
Who speaketh to the precipice,
And to the chasm sheer; Who hovers o'er the thrones of kings,
And bids the caitiffs fear. King of the peak and glacier,
King of the cold, white scalps — He lifts his head, at that close tread,
The eagle of the Alps.
O shame ! those men that march below — =•
O ignominy dire ! Are the sons of my free mountains
Sold for imperial hire. Ah ! the vilest in the dungeon !
Ah ! the slave upon the seas — Is great, is pure, is glorious.
Is grand compared with these. Who, born amid my holy rocks.
In solemn places high. Where the tall pines bend like rushes
When the storm goes sweeping by ;
Yet give the strength of foot they learned
By perilous path and flood. And from their blue-eyed mothers won,
The old, mysterious blood ; The daring that the good south wind
Into their nostrils blew. And the proud swelling of the heart
With each pure breath they drew; The graces of the mountain glens.
With flov/ers in summer gay ; And all the glories of the hills
To earn a lackey's pay.
Their country free and joyous — She of the rugged sides —
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 247
She of the rough peaks arrogant
Whereon the tempest rides: Mother of the unconquercd thought
And of the savage form, Who brings out of her study heart
The hero and the storm; Who giveth freedom unto man,
And hfe unto the beast; Who hears her silver torrents ring
Like joy -bells at a feast;
Who hath her caves for palaces,
And where her chalets stand — The proud, old archer of Altorf,
With his good bow in his hand. Is she to suckle gaolers?
Shall shame and glory rest, Amid her lakes and glaciers,
Like twins upon her breast? Shall the two-headed eagle.
Marked with her double blow. Drink of her milk through all those hearts
Whose blood he bids to flow?
Say, was it pomp ye needed,
And all the proud array Of courtly joust and high parade
Upon a gala day? Look up ; have not my valleys
Their torrents white with foam — Their lines of silver bullion
On the blue hillocks of home? Doth not sweet May embroider
My rocks with pearls and flowers? Her fingers trace a richer lace
Than yours in all my bowers.
248 POEMS
Are not my old peaks gilded
When the sun arises proud, And each one shakes a white mist plume
Out of the thunder-cloud? O, neighbour of the golden sky —
Sons of the mountain sod — Why wear a base king's colours
For the livery of God? O shame ! despair ! to see my Alps
Their giant shadows fling Into the very waiting-room
Of tj'rant and of king!
O thou deep heaven, unsullied yet,
Into thy gulfs sublime — Up azure tracks of flaming light —
Let my free pinion climb ; Till from my sight, in that clear light.
Earth and her crimes be gone — The men who act the evil deeds —
The caitiff's who look on. Far, far into that space immense,
Beyond the vast white veil, Where distant stars come out and shine.
And the great sun grows pale.
Bp. Alexander,
AFTER THE BATTLE
(" Mon pere, ce heros au sourire si douXo")
My father, hero of benignant mien,
On horseback visited the gory scene.
After the battle as the evening fell.
And took with him a trooper loved right well,
Because of bravery and presence bold.
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 249
The field was covered with the dead, all cold,
And shades of night were deepening: came a sound,
Feeble and hoarse, from something on the ground;
It was a Spaniard of the vanquished force,
Who dragged himself with pain beside their course ;
Wounded and bleeding, livid and half dead, " Give me to drink — in pity, drink ! " he said.
My father, touched, stretched to his follower now,
A flask of rum that from his saddle-bow
Hung down : " The poor soul — give him drink," said he.
But while the trooper prompt, obediently
Stooped towards the other, he of Moorish race
Pointed a pistol at my father's face,
And with a savage oath the trigger drew;
The hat flew off", a bullet passing through.
As swerved his charger in a backward stride, " Give him to drink the same," my father cried.
Mrs. Newton CroslanDo
POOR FOLK
(" II est nuit. La cahane est pauvre")
'Tis night — within the close stout cabin door.
The room is wrapped in shade save where there fall
Some twilight rays that creep along the floor, And show the fisher's nets upon the wall.
In the dim corner, from the oaken chest,
A few white dishes glimmer ; through the shade
Stands a tall bed with dusky curtains dressed, And a rough mattress at its side is laid.
Five children on the long low mattress lie — A nest of little souls, it heaves with dreams ;
250 POEMS
In the high chimney the last embers die,
And redden the dark room with crimson gleams.
The mother kneels and thinks, and pale with fear, She prays alone, hearing the billows shout:
While to wild winds, to rocks, to midnight drear, The ominous old ocean sobs without.
• ••••••
Poor wives of fishers ! Ah ! 'tis sad to say. Our sons, our husbands, all that we love best,
Our hearts, our souls, are on those waves away.
Those ravening wolves that know not ruth, nor rest.
Think how they sport with these beloved forms ;
And how the clarion-blowing wind unties Above their heads the tresses of the storms :
Perchance even now the child, the husband dies.
For we can never tell where they may be
Who, to make head against the tide and gale,
Between them and the starless, soulless sea
Have but one bit of plank, with one poor sail.
5>
Terrible fear ! We seek the pebbly shore,
Cry to the rising billows, " Bring them home.'
Alas ! what answer gives their troubled roar.
To the dark thought that haunts us as we roam
Janet is sad : her husband is alone,
Wrapped in the black shroud of this bitter night: His children are so little, there is none
To give him aid. " Were they but old, they might." Ah, mother ! when they too are on the main, How wilt thou weep : " Would they were young again ! "
She takes his lantern — 'tis his hour at last : She will go forth, and see if the day breaks,
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 251
And if his signal-fire be at the mast ;
Ah, no — not yet — no breath of morning wakes.
No hne of hght o'er the dark water lies ;
It rains, it rains, how black is rain at morn : The day comes trembling, and the young dawn cries —
Cries like a baby fearing to be born.
Sudden her humane eyes that peer and watch
Through the deep shade, a mouldering dwelling find,
No Ught within — the thin door shakes — the thatch O'er the o-reen walls is twisted of the wind.
fci
Yellow, and dirty, as a swollen rill,
" Ah, me," she saith, " here does that widow dwell; Few days ago my good man left her ill :
I will go in and see if all be well."
She strikes the door, she listens, none replies. And Janet shudders. " Husbandless, alone.
And with two children — they have scant supplies. Good neighbour ! She sleeps heavy as a stone."
She calls again, she knocks, 'tis silence still ;
No sound — no answer — suddenly the door, As if the senseless creature felt some thrill
Of pity, turned — and open lay before.
She entered, and her lantern lighted all
The house so still, but for the rude waves' din.
Through the thin roof the plashing rain-drops fall, But something terrible is couched within.
• ••••••
" So, for the kisses that delight the flesh,
For mother's worsliip. and for cliildren's bloom. For song, for smile, for love so f.-iir and fresh,
For laugh, for dance, there is one goal — the tomb."
252 POEMS
And why does Janet pass so fast away?
What hath she done within that house of dread?
What foldeth she beneath her mantle grey? And hurries home, and hides it in her bed: With half -averted face, and nervous tread, What hath she stolen from the awful dead?
The dawn was whitening over the sea's verge As she sat pensive, touching broken chords
Of half -remorseful thought, while the hoarse surge Howled a sad concert to her broken words.
a
Ah, my poor husband ! we had five before,
Already so much care, so much to find, For he must work for all. I give him more.
What was that noise? His step! Ah, no! the wind.
" That I should be afraid of him I love I
I have done ill. If he should beat me now,
I would not blame him. Did not the door move? Not yet, poor man." She sits with careful brow
Wrapped in her inward grief ; nor hears the roar Of winds and waves that dash against his prow,
Nor the black cormorant shrieking on the shore.
Sudden the door flies open Avide, and lets
Noisily in the dawn-light scarcely clear, \nd the good fisher, dragging his damp nets,
Stands on the threshold, with a joyous cheer.
" 'Tis thou ! " she cries, and, eager as a lover.
Leaps up and holds her husband to her breast; Her greeting kisses all his vesture cover ;
" 'Tis I, good wife ! " and his broad face expressed How gay his heart that Janet's love made light.
"What weather was it?" "Hard." "Your fish- ing? " " Bad.
LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES 253
The sea was like a nest of thieves to-night ; But I embrace thee, and my heart is glad.
" There was a devil in the wind that blew ;
I tore my net, caught nothing, broke my line, And once I thought the bark was broken too ; What did you all the night long, Janet mine? "
She, trembling in the darkness, answered, " I !
Oh, nought — I sew'd, I watch'd, I was afraid, The waves were loud as thunders from the sky ;
But it is over." Shyly then she said —
" Our neighbour died last night ; It must have been When you were gone. She left two little ones, So small, so frail — William and Madeline ; The one just lisps, the other scarcely runs."
The man looked grave, and In the corner cast His old fur bonnet, wet with rain and sea.
Muttered awhile, and scratched his head, — at last : " We have five children, this makes seven," said he.
" Already in bad weather we must sleep
Sometimes without our supper. Now ! Ah, well — 'Tis not my fault. These accidents are deep ; It was the good God's will. I cannot tell.
" Why did He take the mother from those scraps. No bigger than my fist. 'Tis hard to read; A learned man might understand, perhaps — So little, they can neither work nor need.
" Go fetch them, wife ; they will be frightened sore, If with the dead alone they waken thus. That was the mother knocking at our door, And we must take the children home to us.
254 POEMS
*' Brother and sister shall they be to ours,
And they will learn to climb my knee at even ; When He shall see these strangers in our bowers, More fish, more food, will give the God of Heaven.
" I will work harder ; I will drink no wine —
Go fetch them. Wherefore dost thou linger, dear? Not thus were wont to move those feet of thine," She drew the curtain, saying, " They are here ! "
Bp. Alexander.
SONG OF THE PROW-GILDERS
(" Nous sommes les doreurs de proues.")
We are the gilders of the prows. Wheel-like awhirl, strong winds arouse The verdant sea's rotundity. Mingling the shadows and the gleams. And 'mid the folds of sombre streams Drawing slant vessels steadfastly.
The shrilling squall close-circling flies. The tortuous winds deep guiles devise, The Archer black in his horn doth blow; These sounds bode death's dark mystery, And through these prodigies 'tis we That make the golden spectres go.
For the ship's prow is like a ghost. Still wave-engirdled, tempest-tossed; Proudly from our bazaars she sails To serve the lightnings with a mark, And midst the hazards of the dark To be an eye that never fails.
LA LEGENDS DES SIECLES 255
King, 'neath the plane-trees pleasure thee; Sultan to the Sultanas see, And hide beneath long veils tlie grace Of myriad girls witli names untold Who yestermorn stark-bare were sold By auction on the market-place.
What cares the wave ! What cares the air !
This girl is dark and that is fair,
Of Halep she, or Ispahan ;
Before thy face they all make quake ;
What heed thereof forsooth should take
The vast mysterious ocean !
Ye have each one your revelry. Be thou the prince, the tempest he. He lightning hath, the yataghan Thou, to chastise your multitudes ; Beneath its lord the people broods, The wave beneath the hurricane.
For one and the other do we strive. This double task is ours alive ; — And thus we sing: O stern Emir, Thine eyes of steel, thy heart of ice Keep not the little swallow's eyes From trustful sleep when night is near.
For holy Nature is eterne And tranquil ; living souls that yearn God sheltereth beneath His wing; Amid the all-serene sweet shade, With hearts for ever undismayed By spectral terrors, do we sing.
Unto our lords we leave the palm And statelier laurel! We are calm And steadfast while within their hand
256 POEMS
They have not ta'en the minished stars. And the swift flight of the cloud-cars Depends not on a king's command.
The summer glows, the flowers bloom bright. Small rose-buds tip the bosoms white ; One hunts, one laughs ; the craftsmen still Sing, and the priests still sigh and sleep ; Slight shadowy fawns through copses deep Fleeing, make greyhounds strain and thrill.
If soothly. Sultan, thou hadst quaffed All proffered pleasures, the sweet draught Would surely quickly poison thee ! Live thou and reign, — thy life is sweet. Couched on the moss the roebuck fleet In forest slumbers dreamfully.
Who mounts aloft must needs descend ; The hours are flame, dust is their end; The tomb saith unto man : " Behold ! " — Times change, blithe birds not alway sing, Waves lisp, and straight are thundering. While aye around are omens rolled:
The hour is sultry ; women bare
Lave lovely limbs nigh blooms less fair;
All lightest sorrows now repose ;
O'er blue tranced lakes white clouds are driven;
With the most golden star of heaven ;
Crowneth itself earth's reddest rose.
Thy galley we have gold-arrayed
By sixty pairs of oars is swayed
Which from Lepanto, 'mid the surge.
Subdue the tempest and the tide,
And each of which is hotl}^ plied
By four slaves shackled, 'neath the scourge.
N. R. T.
LA VOIX DE GUERNESEY.— 1868
MENTANA^
(victor HUGO TO GARIBALDI.)
(" Ces jeunes gens, comhien etaient-ils? ")
I.
YOUNG soldiers of the noble Latin blood, 1
How many are ye — Boys? Four thousand odd. How many are there dead ? Six hundred : count ! Their limbs lie strewn about the fatal mount, Blackened and torn, eyes gummed with blood, hearts rolled Out from their ribs, to give the wolves of the wold A red feast; nothing of them left but these Pierced relics, underneath the olive trees, Show where the gin was sprung — the scoundrel-trap Which brought those hero-lads their foul mishap. See how they fell in swathes — like barley-ears ! Their crime.'' to claim Rome and her glories theirs; To fight for Right and Honour ; — foolish names ! Come — Mothers of the soil ! Italian dames ! Turn the dead over ! — try your battle luck ! (Bearded or smooth, to her that gave him suck The man is always child) — Stay, here's a brow Split by the Zouaves' bullets ! This one, now, With the bright curly hair soaked so in blood. Was yours, ma donna ! — sweet and fair and good.
1 The Battle of Mentana, so named from a village by Rome, was fought between the allied French and Papal Armies and the Volunteer Forces of Garibaldi, Nov. 3rd, 1867.
17 257
•258
POEMS
The spirit sat upon his fearless face
Before they murdered it, in all the grace
Of manhood's dawn. Sisters, here's yours ! his lips,
Over whose bloom the bloody death-foam slips.
Lisped house-songs after you, and said your name
In loving prattle once. That hand, the same
Which hes so cold over the eyelids shut.
Was once a small pink baby-fist, and wet
With milk beads from thy yearning breasts.
Take thou Thine eldest, — thou, thy youngest born. Oh, flow Of tears never to cease ! Oh, Hope quite gone, Dead like the dead ! — Yet could they live alone — Without their Tiber and their Rome.'' and be Young and Italian — and not also free ^ They longed to see the ancient eagle try His lordly pinions in a modern sky. They bore — each on himself — the insults laid On the dear foster-land : of naught afraid. Save of not finding foes enough to dare For Italy. Ah, gallant, free, and rare Young martyrs of a sacred cause, — Adieu ! No more of life — no more of love — for you ! No sweet long-straying in the star-lit glades At Ave-Mary, with the Italian maids; No welcome home !
n.
This Garibaldi now, the Italian boys Go mad to hear him — take to dying - To passion for " the pure and high ; '
take — God's sake !
It's monstrous, horrible ! One sees quite clear Society — our charge — must shake with fear, And shriek for help, and call on us to act When there's a hero, taken in the fact. If Light shines in the dark, there's guilt in that ! What's viler than a lantern to a bat?
LA VOIX DE GUEllNESEY 259
III. Your Garibaldi missed the mark ! You see The end of life's to cheat, and not to be Cheated : The knave is nobler than the fool ! Get all you can and keep it ! Life's a pool, The best luck wins ; if Virtue starves in rags, I laugh at Virtue ; here's my money-bags ! Here's righteous metal ! We have kings, I say. To keep cash going, and the game at play ; There's why a king wants money — he'd be missed Without a fertilizing civil list.
Do but try The question with a steady moral eye ! The colonel strives to be a brigadier. The marshal, constable. Call the game fair. And pay your winners ! Show the trump, I say ! A renegade's a rascal — till the day They make him Pasha: Is he rascal then? What with these sequins? Bah! you speak to Men, And Men want money — power — luck — life's joy — Those take who can : we could, and fobbed Savoy ; For those who live content with honest state. They're public pests ; knock we 'cm on the pate ! They set a vile example ! Quick — arrest That Fool, who ruled and failed to line his nest. Just hit a bell, you'll see the clapper shake — Meddle with Priests, you'll find the barrack wake - Ah ! Princes know the People's a tight boot, March 'em sometimes to be shot and to shoot. Then they'll wear easier. So let them preach The righteousness of howitzers ; and teach At the fag end of prayer : " Now, slit their throats ! My holy Zouaves ! my good yellow-coats ! " We like to see the Ploly Father send Powder and steel and lead without an end, To feed Death fat ; and broken battles mend. So they !
260 POEMS
IV.
But thou, our Hero, baffled, foiled, The Glorious Chief who vainly bled and toiled. The trust of all the Peoples — Freedom's Knight ! The Paladin unstained — the Sword of Right ! What wilt thou do, whose land finds thee but gaols ! The banished claim the banished ! deign to cheer The refuge of the homeless — enter here, And light upon our households dark will fall Even as thou enterest. Oh, Brother, all. Each one of us — hurt with thy sorrows' proof, Will make a country for thee of his roof. Come, sit with those who live as exiles learn : Come ! Thou whom kings could conquer but not yet turiic We'll talk of " Palermo " ' — " the Thousand " true, Will tell the tears of blood of France to you ; Then by his own great Sea we'll read, together. Old Homer in the quiet summer weather, And after, thou shalt go to thy desire Wliile that faint star of Justice grows to fire.^
V.
Oh, Italy ! hail your Deliverer, Oh, Nations ! almost he gave Rome to her ! Strong-arm and prophet heart had all but come To win the city, and to make it " Rome." Calm, of the antique grandeur, ripe to be Named with the noblest of her liistory.
1 Palermo was taken immediately after the Garibaldian volunteers, 1,000 strong, landed at Marsala to inaugurate the rising which made Italy free.
2 Both poet and his idol lived to see the French Republic for the fourth time proclaimed. When Hugo rose in the Senate, on the first occasion after his return to Paris after the expulsion of the Napoleons, and his white head was seen above that of Rouher, ex-Prime Minister of the Empire, t-.Il the house shuddered, and in a nearly unanimous voice shouted. "The judgment of God! expiation!"
LA VOIX DE GUERNESEY 261
He would have Romanized your Rome — controlled
Her glory, lordships, Gods, in a new mould.
Pier spirits' fervour would have melted in
The hundred cities with her ; made a twin
Vesuvius and the Capitol ; and blended
Strong Juvenal's with the soul, tender and splendid,
Of Dante — smelted old with new alloy — -
Stormed at the Titans' road full of bold joy
Whereby men storm Olympus. Italy,
Weep ! — This man could have made one Rome of thee !
VI.
But the crime's wrought! Who wrought It.''
Honest Man — Priest Pius.'' No ! Each does but what he can. Yonder's the criminal ! The warlike wight Who hides behind the ranks of France to fight, Greek Sinon's blood crossed thick with Judas-Jew's, The Traitor who with smile which true men woos. Lip mouthing pledges — hand grasping the knife — Waylaid French Liberty, and took her life. Kings, he is of you ! fit companion ! one Whom day by day the lightning looks upon Keen ; while the sentenced man triples his guard And trembles ; for his hour approaches hard. Ye ask me " when.'' " I say soon! Hear ye not Yon muttering in the skies above the spot-f* Mark ye no coming shadow, Kings? the shroud Of a great storm driving the thunder-cloud? Hark ! like the thief-catcher who pulls the pin, God's thunder asks to speak to one within!
vn.
And meanwhile this death-odour — this corpse-scent Which makes the priestly incense redolent Of rotting men, and the Te Dcunis stink — -
262 POEMS
Reeks through the forests — past the river's brink. O'er wood and plain and mountain, till it fouls Fair Paris in her pleasures; then it prowls, A deadly stench, to Crete, to Mexico, To Poland — wheresoe'er kings' armies go : And Earth one Upas-tree of bitter sadness, Opening vast blossoms of a bloody madness. Throats cut by thousands — slain men by the ton ! Earth quite corpse-cumbered, though the half not done ! They lie, stretched out, where the blood-puddles soak. Their black lips gaping with the last cry spoke. " Stretched ; " nay ! sown broadcast; yes, the word is " sown." The fallows Liberty — the harsh wind blown Over the furrows. Fate : and these stark dead Are grain sublime, from Death's cold fingers shed To make the Abyss conceive : the Future bear More noble Heroes ! Swell, oh. Corpses dear ! Rot quick to the green blade of Freedom ! Death ! Do thy kind will with them ! They without breath, Stripped, scattered, ragged, festering, slashed and blue. Dangle towards God the arms French shot tore through And wait in meekness. Death ! for Him and You !
vin.
Oh, France ! oh. People ! sleeping unabashed ! Liest thou like a hound when it was lashed.'' Thou liest! thine own blood fouling both thy hands. And on thy limbs the rust of iron bands. And round thy wrists the cut where cords went deep. Say did they numb thy soul, that thou didst sleep.? Alas ! sad France is grown a cave for sleeping, Which a worse night than Midnight holds in keeping, Thou sleepest sottish — lost to life and fame — While the stars stare on thee, and pale for shame. Stir ! rouse thee ! Sit ! if thou know'st not to rise ; Sit up, thou tortured sluggard ! ope thine eyes !
LA VOIX DE GUERNESEY 263
Stretch thy brawn, Giant! Sleep is foul and vile!
Art fagged, art deaf, art dumb? art blind this wliile?
They lie who say so! Thou dost know and feel
The things they do to thee and thine. The heel
That scratched thy neck in passing — whose? Canst say?
Yes, yes, 'twas his, and this is his fete-day.
Oh, thou that wert of humankind — couched so —
A beast of burden on this dunghill ! oh !
Bray to them, Mule ! Oh, Bullock ! bellow then !
Since they have made theo blind, grope in thy den!
Do something, Outcast One, that Avast so grand!
Who knows if thou putt'st forth they poor maimed hand,
There may be venging weapon within reach !
Feel with both hands — with both huge arms go stretch
Along the black wall of thy cellar. Nay,
There mai/ be some odd thing hidden away?
Who knows — there wae/.' Those great hands might so
come In course of ghastly fumble through the gloom. Upon a sword — a sword! The hands once clasp Its hilt, must wield it with a Victor's grasp.
Edwin Arnold, C.S.I.
LES CHAUSONS DES RUES ET DES
BOIS.— 1865
LOVE OF THE WOODLAND
(" Orphee au hois du Ca2/stre.")
ORPHEUS, in Cayster's tangled Woodways, 'neath the stars' pale light, Listened laughters weird and jangled Of the viewless ones of night.
Phtas, the Theban sibyl, dreaming Nigh the hushed Phygalian heights,
Saw on far horizon streaming
Ebon forms 'mong silvery lights.
^schylus, soft hazes threading
Of sweet Sicily, soul-subdued Wandered beneath moonbeams shedding
Mellow flute-notes through the wood.
Pliny, lo ! — high thoughts denying For Miletus' nymphs most fair, —
Dainty rosy limbs espying.
Begs a boon on the amorous air.
Plautus, nigh Viterbo, straying
Through the orchard-bowers sun-bright,
In each palm gold fruit is weighing Such as gods rejoiced to bite.
264
CHANSONS DES RUES ET DES BOIS 265
Ah, Versailles! Haunt most delightful!
Faunus there, one foot i' the wave, While Boileau waxed shrill and spiteful,
Golden rhymes to Moliere gave.
Dante sombre-souled, abiding
Scatheless in the deepest hell. Turned to watch fair women gliding
Thro' the boughs 'neath eve's calm spell.
Chenier, under willows sleeping,
Saw in dream a vision sweet: Lovely lasses laughing, weeping.
For whom Virgil's heart quick-beat.
Shakespeare, watching 'neath the lazy
Branches of the forest-lord, Heard, while blusht each meadow-daisy.
Fairy-trippings o'er green sward.
O deep woodlands soul-entrancing.
Haunted yet by Gods are ye ! Yet the goat-foot Satyr's dancing
To Pan's rustic melody !
N. R. T.
BABY'S SLEEP AT DAWN (" Uhumhle chambre a Vair de sourire.'*)
Faint smiles the humble little room ;
On an old chest some roses blush: Beholding here dissolve night's gloom.
Priests had said. Peace I and women. Hush !
266 POEMS
Yonder what small recess is seen,
Whereto the tendcrest radiance creeps?
O more than angel-guard serene! Aurora watches; baby sleeps.
Deep in that nook a tiny thing
Lies lulled within a cradle white; Amid the shadow quivering
Heaven only knows with what delight.
Lo, in her dimpled hand tight-prest
She holds a toy, sweet source of mirth!
Cherubs in heaven with palms are blest, Babies with rattles upon earth.
What sleep is hers ! Ah, who dare say
What dreams make such smiles come and go ;
Haply she sees some bright dawn-way With angels passing to and fro.
Her rosy arm moves momently
As if to wave some sweet adieu ; Gentle her breathing as may be
A butterfly's amid the blue.
Aurora's loth to chase those dreams: Naught's so august, so pure, so mild,
As this bright eye of God that beams Upon the closed eyes of a child.
N. R. T.
LION'S SLEEP AT NOON (" Le lion dort, seul sous sa voute.")
Deep in his cave the lion rests ;
Enthralled by that prodigious slumber The sultry midday sun invests
With fiery visions without number.
CHANSONS DES RUES ET DES BOIS 267
The deserts list awhile with dread,*
Then f reelier breathe ; their tyrant's home.
For the lone tracts quake 'neath his tread What time this mighty one doth roam.
His hot breath heaves his tawny hide;
In darkness steeped is his red eye; Deep in the cavern, on liis side
He sleeps, outstretched formidably.
Sleep lulls to rest his sateless rage;
He dreams, oblivious of all wrong. With calm brow that denotes the sage,
With dread fangs that bespeak the strong.
The wells are drunk by noontide's drouth;
Of nought but slumber is he fain. Like a cavern is his huge mouth,
And like a forest his ruddy mane.
He scans vast craggy heights difForm,
Ossa or Pelion scales with might, Amid those darkling dreams enorme
Wherein but lions take delight.
Upon the bare rock nought is heard
Where lordly feet are wont to stray. If now one heavy paw were stirred.
What myriad flies would flit away !
N. R. T.
L'ANNEE TERRIBLE.— 1872
TO LITTLE JEANNE (" Vous eutea done hier (in an")
YOU'VE lived a year, then, yesterday, sweet child, Prattling thus happily! So fledgelings wild, New-hatched in warmer nest 'neath sheltering bough, Chirp merrily to feel their feathers grow. Your mouth's a rose, Jeanne ! In these volumes grand Whose pictures please you — while I trembling stand To see their big leaves tattered by your hand — Are noble lines ; but nothing half your Avorth, When all your tiny frame rustles with mirth To welcome me. No work of author wise Can match the thought half springing to your eyes, And your dim reveries, unfettered, strange. Regarding man with all the boundless range Of angel innocence. Methinks, 'tis clear That God's not far, Jeanne, when I see you here.
Ah ! twelve months old : 'tis quite an age, and brings Grave moments, though your soul to rapture clings, You're at that hour of life most like to heaven, When present joy no cares, no sorrows leaven: When man no shadow feels: if fond caress Round parent twines, children the world possess. Your waking hopes, your dreams of mirth and love
268
L'ANNEE TERRIBLE 269
From Charles to Alice, father to mother, rove;
No wider range of view your heart can take
Than what her nursing and his bright smiles make;
They two alone on this your opening hour
Can gleams of tenderness and gladness pour:
They two — none else, Jeanne! Yet 'tis just, and I,
Poor grandsire, dare but to stand humbly by.
You come — I go : though gloom alone my right,
Blest be the destiny which gives you light.
Your fair-haired brother George and you beside Me play — in watcliing you is all my pride ; And all I ask — by countless sorrows tried — The grave ; o'er which in shadowy form may show Your cradles gilded by the morning's glow.
Pure new-born wonderer ! your infant life
Strange welcome found, Jeanne, in this time of strife:
Like wild-bee humming through the woods your play.
And baby smiles have dared a world at bay:
Your tiny accents lisp their gentle charms
To mighty Paris clashing mighty arms.
Ah ! when I see you, child, and when I hear
You sing, or try, with low voice whispering near.
And touch of fingers soft, my grief to cheer,
I dream this darkness, where the tempests groan.
Trembles, and passes with half -uttered moan.
For though these hundred towers of Paris bend,
Though close as foundering ship her glory's end,
Though rocks the universe, which we defend ;
Still to great cannon on our ramparts piled,
God sends His blessing by a little child.
Marwood Tucker.
270 POEMS
FROM THE INVESTED WALLS OF PARIS
(" L'Occident etait blanc.")
Bright white the West, dense black the Eastern sky: As some invisible arm from heaven let fall,
To serve eve's columns for a canopy.
O'er this horizon a shroud, o'er that a pall.
Night shut in earth, as 'twere a prison cold.
Last plaint of bird, last light of leaf, were quenched. Descending, again I looked toward heaven — behold !
In the low West a bright blade shone, blood-drenched.
That made me muse of some vast duel dread
Fought by a God matched 'gainst some giant-birth:
The awful sword o' the vanquished one had said. Bloodied with battle, fallen from heaven to earth !
N. R. T.
TO A SICK CHILD DURING THE SIEGE OF PARIS
(" Si vous continuez toute pale")
If you continue thus so wan and white;
If I, one day, behold You pass from out our dull air to the light,
You, infant — I, so old : If I the thread of our two lives must see
Thus blent to human view, I who would fain know death was near to me.
And far away for you ;
L'ANNEE TERRIBLE 271
If your small hands remain such fragile things ;
If, in your cradle stirred, You have the mien of waiting there for wings,
Like to some new-fledged bird ; Not rooted to our earth you seem to be.
If still, beneath the skies, You turn, O Jeanne, on our mystery
Soft, discontented eyes] If I behold you, gay and strong no more;
If you mope sadly thus ; If you behind you have not shut the door.
Through which you came to us; If you no more like some fair dame I see
Laugh, walk, be well and gay ; If like a little soul you seem to me
That fain would fly away — I'll deem that to this world, where oft are blent
The pall and swaddling-band, You came but to depart — an angel sent
To bear me from the land.
Lucy H. Hoopee.
BRUTE WAR
(" Ouvriere sans yeux.**)
Toiler sans eyes, dull-brained Penelope,
Cradler of chaos, powerless to create, War, whom the clash of iron fires to glee.
The furious blast of clarions makes elate, — Quafl^er of blood, foul hag that to thy feast
Lur'st men and madden'st them with vile delight, — Cloud, swollen with thunder North, South, West and East,
Fulfilled with rage darker than darkest night, —
272 POEMS
Vast Madness, that for swords keen lightnings wieldest,
What is thy use, dire birth of heUish race. If, while thou ruinest sin, crime thou upbuildest. Setting the monster i' the beast's pride of place ; If with thine awful darkness thou dost smother One Emperor, but to yield earth thence another?
N. R. T.
MOURNING (" Charle! 6 mon fils! ")
Charijes, Charles, my son ! hast thou, then, quitted me?
Must all fade, nought endure? Hast vanished in that radiance, clear for thee,
But still for us obscure?
My sunset lingers, boy, thy morn declines !
Sweet mutual love we've known ; For man, alas ! plans, dreams, and smiling twines
With others' souls his own.
He cries, " This has no end ! " pursues his way.
He soon is downward bound : He lives, he suffers ; in his grasp one day
Mere dust and ashes found.
I've wandered twenty years, in distant lands,
With sore heart forced to stay : Why fell the blow Fate only understands !
God took my home away.
To-day one daughter and one son remain
Of all my goodly show : Well-nigh in solitude my dark hours wane;
God takes my children now.
L'ANNEE TERRIBLE 273
Linger, ye two still left me ! though decays
Our nest, our hearts remain ; In gloom of death your mother silent prays,
I in this life of pain.
Martyr of Sion ! holding Thee in sight,
I'll drain this cup of gall. And scale with step resolved that dangerous height,
Which rather seems a fall.
Truth is sufficient guide ; no more man needs
Than end so nobly shown. Mourning, but brave, I march ; where duty leads,
I seek the vast unknown.
Marwood Tucker.
ON A BARRICADE
Upon a barricade thrown 'cross the street
Where patriot's blood with felon's stains one's feet,
Ta'en with grown men, a lad aged twelve, or less !
"Were you among them — you?" He answered: *' Yes."
" Good," said the officer, " when comes your turn.
You'll be shot too." — The lad sees lightnings burn, —
Stretched 'neath the wall his comrades one by one:
Then says to the officer, " First let me run
And take this watch home to my mother, sir.'' "
"You want to escape.? "—" No, I'll come back."— " What
fear These brats have! Where do you live.''" — "By the well,
below : I'll return quickly if you let me go." " Be off, young scamp ! " Off went the boy. " Good
joke!" And here from all a hearty laugh outbroke.
IS
274. POEMS
And with this laugh the dying mixed their moan. But the laugh suddenly ceased, when, paler grown, 'Midst them the lad appeared, and breathlessly Stood upright 'gainst the wall with : " Here am I."
Dull death was shamed ; the officer said, " Be free
»
Child, I know not, in all this agony
Where good and ill as with one blast of hell
Are blent, thy part, but this I know right well,
That thy young soul's a hero-soul sublime.
Gentle and brave, thou trod'st, despite all crime.
Two steps, — one toward thy mother, one toward death.
For the child's deeds the grown man answereth;
No fault was thine to "march where others led.
But glorious aye that child who chose instead
Of flight that lured to life, love, freedom. May,
The sombre wall 'neath which slain comrades lay !
Glory on thy young brow imprints her kiss.
In Hellas old, sweetheart, thou hadst, y-wis, '
After some deathless fight to win or save.
Been hailed by comrades bravest of the brave ; —
Hadst smiling in the holiest ranks been found.
Haply by some ^schylean verse bright-crowned !
On brazen disks thy name had been engraven ; —
One of those godlike youths who, 'neath blue heaven.
Passing some well whereo'er the willow droops
What time some virgin 'neath her pitcher stoops
Brimmed for her herds athirst, brings to her eyes
A long long look of awed yet sweet surmise.
N. R. T.
L'ANNEE TERRIBLE 275
TO HIS ORPHAN GRANDCHILDREN (" O Charles, je te sens pres de moL")
I FEEL thy presence, Charles. Sweet martyr! down
In earth, where men decay, I search, and see from cracks w hich rend thy tomb.
Burst out pale morning's ray.
Close linked are bier and cradle: here the dead,
To charm us, live again: Kneehng, I mourn, when on my threshold sounds
Two little children's strain.
George, Jeanne, sing on! George, Jeanne, unconscious play!
Your father's form recall. Now darkened by his sombre shade, now gilt
By beams that wandering fall.
Oh, knowledge ! what thy use? did we not know
Death holds no more the dead ; But Heaven, where, hand in hand, angel and star
Smile at the grave we dread.''
A Heaven, which childhood represents on earth.
Orphans, may God be nigh! That God, who can your bright steps turn aside
From darkness, where I sigh.
All joy be yours, though sorrow bows me down!
To each his fitting wage: Children, I've passed life's span, and men are plagued
By shadows at that stage.
276 POEMS
Hath any done — nay, only half performed —
The good he might for others? Hath an}^ conquered hatred, or had strength
To treat his foes like brothers?
E'en he, who's tried his best, hath evil wrought:
Pain springs from happiness: My heart has triumphed in defeat, my pulse
Ne'er quickened at success.
I seemed the greater when I felt the blow:
The prick gives sense of gain; Since to make others bleed my courage fails,
I'd rather bear the pain.
To grow is sad, since evils grow no less ;
Great height is mark for all : The more I have of branches, more of clustering boughs.
The ghastlier shadows fall.
Thence comes my sadness, though I grant your charms:
Ye are the outbursting Of the soul in bloom, steeped in the draughts
Of nature's boundless spring.
George is the sapling, set in mournful soil;
Jeanne's folding petals shroud A mind which trembles at our uproar, yet
Half longs to speak aloud.
Give, then, my children — lowly, blushing plants,
Whom sorrow waits to seize • — Free course to instincts, whispering 'mid the flowers.
Like hum of murmuring bees.
Some day you'll find that chaos comes, alas !
That angry lightning's hurled, When any cheer the People, Atlas huge,
Grim bearer of the world!
L^ANNEE TERRIBLE 277
You'll see that, since our fate is ruled by chance,
Each man, unknowing, great, Should frame life so, that at some future hour
Fact and his dreamings meet.
I, too, when death is past, one day shall grasp
That end I know not now ; And over you will bend me down, all filled
With dawn's mysterious glow.
I'll learn what means this exile, what this shroud
Enveloping your prime; And why the truth and sweetness of one man
Seem to all others crime.
I'll hear — though midst these dismal boughs you sang —
How came it, that for me, Who every pity feel for every woe,
So vast a gloom could be.
I'll know why night relentless holds me, why
So great a pile of doom : Why endless frost enfolds me, and methlnks
My nightly bed's a tomb :
Why all these battles, all these tears, regrets.
And sorrows were my share ; And why God's will of me a cypress made,
When roses bright ye were.
Maewgod Tuckee.
TO THE CANNON " VICTOR HUGO "
[Bought with the proceeds of Readings of "Les ChStiments " during
the Siege of Paris.]
Thou deadly crater, moulded by my muse. Cast thou thy bronze into my bowed and wounded heart, And let my soul its vengeance to thy bronze impart!
L'ART D'ETRE GRAND PERE.— 1877
THE EPIC OF THE LION
(" Un lion avait pris un enfant.")
I.
ALIGN in his jaws caught up a child — Not harming it — and to the woodland, wild With secret streams and lairs, bore off his prey.: The beast, as one might cull a flower in May, Had plucked this bud, not thinking wrong or right. Mumbling its stalk, too proud or kind to bite, — A lion's way, roughly compassionate. Yet truly dismal was the victim's fate ; Thrust in a cave that rumbled with each roar, His food wild herbs, his bed the earthly floor, He lived, half -dead with daily frightening. It was a rosy boy, son of a king; A ten-year lad with bright eyes shining wide. And save this son his majesty beside Had but one girl — two years of age — and so The monarch suffered, being old, much woe. His heir the monster's prey, while the whole land In dread both of the beast and king did stand ; Sore terrified were all : —
By came a Knight That road, who halted, asking " What's the fright? " They told him, and he spurred straight for the den :
278
L'ART D'ETRE GRANDPERE 279
Oh, such a place; the sunlight entering in Grew pale and crept, so grim a sight was shown Where the gaunt Lion on the rock lay prone: The wood, at this part thick of growth and wet, Barred out the sky with black trunks closely set; Forest and forester matched wondrous well! Great stones stood near, with ancient tales to tell — Such as make moorlands weird in Brittany — And at its edge a mountain you might see, One of those iron walls which shut off heaven ; The Lion's den was a deep cavern driven Into the granite ridge, fenced round with oaks: Cities and caverns are discordant folks, They bear each other^ grudges ! this did wave A leafy threat to trespasser, — " Hence, knave ! Or meet my Lion ! "
In the champion went. The den had all the sombre sentiment Which palaces display — deaths — murderings — Terrors — you felt " here lives one of the kings : " Bones strewn around showed that this mighty lord Denied himself nought which his woods afford. A rock-rift pierced by stroke of lightning gave Such misty glimmer as a den need have: What eagles might think dawn and owls the dusk Makes day enough for kings of claw and tusk. All else was regal, though ! you understood Why the majestic brute slept, as he should. On leaves, with no lace curtains to his bed; And how his wine was blood — nay, or instead, Spring-water lapped sans napkin, spoon, or cup, Or lackeys : —
Being from spur to crest mailed up, The champion enters.
In the den he spies Truly a Mighty One 1 Crowned to the eje«
280 POEMS
With shaggy golden fell — the Beast ! — it muses
With look infallible; for, if he chooses,
The master of a wood may play at Pope,
And this one had such claws, there was small hope
To argue with him on a point of creed !
The Knight approached — yet not too fast, indeed ;
His footfall clanged, flaunted his rose-red feather.
None the more notice took the Beast of either,
Still in his own reflections plunged profound ;
Theseus a-marching upon that black ground
Of Sisyphus, Ixion, and dire hell.
Saw such a scene, murk and implacable:
But duty whispered " Forward ! " so the Knight
Drew out his sword: the Lion at that sight
Lifted his head in slow wise, grim to see ;
The Knight said : " Greeting ! monstrous brute ! to thee ;
In this foul hole thou hast a child in keeping, —
I search its noisome nooks with glances sweeping
But spy him not. That child I must reclaim.
Friends are we if thou renderest up the same ;
If not — I too am lion, thou wilt find ;
The king his lost son in his arms shall bind;
While here thy wicked blood runs, smoking-hot.
Before another dawn."
" I fancy not," Pensive the Lion said.
The Knight strode near. Brandished his blade and cried : " Sire ! have a care ! " The Beast was seen to smile — ominous sight ! — Never make lions smile! Then joined they fight, The man and monster, in most desperate duel. Like warring giants, angry, huge, and cruel ; like tigers crimsoning an Indian wood, The man with steel, the beast with claws as good; Fang against falchion, hide to mail, that lord
L'ART D'ETRE GRANDPERF «81
Hurled liimself foaming on the flashing sword:
Stout though the Knight, the Lion stronger was,
And tore that brave breast under its cuirass,
And striking blow on blow with ponderous paw,
Forced plate and rivet off, until you saw
Through all the armour's cracks the bright blood spirt.
As when clenched fingers make a mulberry squirt ;
And piece by piece he stripped the iron sheath.
Helm, armlets, greaves — gnawed bare the bones beneath
Scrunching that hero, till he sprawled — alas !
Beneath his shield, all blood, and mud, and mess:
Whereat the Lion feasted : — then it went
Back to its rocky couch and slept content.
n.
Next came a hermit:
He found out the cave ; With girdle, gown, and cross — trembling and grave — He entered. There that Knight lay, out of shape, Mere pulp : the Lion waking up did gape, Opened his yellow orbs, heard some one grope. And — seeing the woollen coat bound with a rope, A black peaked cowl, and inside that a man — He finished yawning and to growl began: Then, with a voice like prison-gates which creak, Roared, " What would'st thou? "
" My King »
« King? "
"May I speak?" " Of whom? "
" The Prince."
" Is that what makes a King? " The monk bowed reverence, " Majesty! I bring A message — wherefore keep this child ? "
" For that Whene'er it rains I've some one here to chat."
282 POEMS
" Return him."
" Not so."
" What then wilt thou do? Would'st eat him? "
" Ay — if I have naught to chew ! " Sire ! think upon His Majesty in woe ! " " They killed my dam," the Beast said, " long ago." *' Bethink thee, sire, a king implores a king." " Nonsense — he talks — he's man ! when my notes ring A Lion's heard ! "
"His only boy!"
"Well, well! He hath a daughter."
** She's no heir."
" / dwell Alone in this my home, 'mid wood and rock, Thunder my music, and the lightning-shock My lamp ; — let his content him."
" All ! show pity." " What means that word ? is't current in your city ? " " Lion thou'dst wish to go to heaven — see here ! I offer thee indulgence, and, writ clear, God's passport to His paradise ! "
" Get forth, Thou holy rogue," thundered the Beast in wrath: The hermit disappeared.
in.
Thereat left free, Full of a lion's vast serenity He slept again, leaving still night to pass: The moon rose, starting spectres on the grass. Shrouding the marsh with mist, blotting the ways, And melting the black woodland to grey maze; No stir was seen below, above no motion Save of the white stars trooping to the ocean: And while the mole and cricket in the brake
L'ART D'ETRE GRANDPERE 283
Kept watch, the Lion's measured breath did make
Slow symphony that kept all creatures calm.
Sudden — loud cries and clamours ! striking qualm
Into the heart of the quiet, horn and shout
Causing the solemn wood to reel with rout.
And all the nymphs to tremble in their trees.
The uproars of a midnight chase are these
Which shakes the shades, the marsh, mountain and stream,
And breaks the silence of their sombre dream.
The thicket flashed with many a lurid spark
Of torches borne 'mid wild cries through the dark ;
Hounds, nose to earth, ran yelping through the wood,
And armed groups, gathering in the alleys, stood.
Terrific was the noise that rolled before ;
It seemed a squadron; nay, 'twas something more —
A whole battalion, sent by that sad king
With force of arms his little Prince to bring,
Together with the Lion's bleeding hide.
Which here was right or wrong? who can decide? Have beasts or men most claim to live ? God wots ! He is the unit, we the cypher-dots.
Well warmed with meat and drink those soldiers were. Good hearts they bore — and many a bow and spear ; Their number large, and by a captain led Valiant, whilst some in foreign wars had bled, And all were men approved and firm in fight; The Lion heard their cries, affronting night, For by this time his awful lids were lifted ; But from the rock his chin he never shifted, And only his great tail wagged to and fro.
Meantime, outside the cavern, startled so. Came close the uproar of this shouting crowd. As round a web flies buzzing in a cloud. Or hive-bees swarming o'er a bear ensnared.
284 POEMS
This hunter's legion buzzed, and swarmed, and flared.
In battle order all their ranks were set:
'Twas understood the Beast they came to get,
Fierce as a tiger's cunning — strong to seize —
Could munch up heroes as an ape cracks fleas,
Could with one glance make Jove's own bird look down;
Wherefore they laid him siege as to a town.
The pioneers with axes cleared the way,
The spearmen followed in a close array.
The archers held their arrows on the string;
Silence was bid, lest any chattering
Should mask the Lion's footstep in the wood;
The dogs — who know the moment when 'tis good
To hold their peace — went first, nose to the ground,
Giving no tongue ; the torches all around
Hither and thither flickered, their long beams
Through sighing foliage sending ruddy gleams ; —
Such is the order a great hunt should have:
And soon between the trunks they spy the cave,
A black, dim-outlined hole, deep in the gloom,
Gaping, but blank and silent as the tomb,
Wide open to the night, as though it feared
As little all that clamour as it heard.
There's smoke where fire smoulders, and a town,
When men lay siege, rings tocsin up and down;
Nothing so here ! therefore with vague dismay
Each stood, and grasp on bow or blade did lay.
Watching the sombre stillness of that chasm:
The dogs among themselves whimpered: a spasm
From the horror lurking in all voiceless places —
Worse than the rage of tempests — blanched all faces :
Yet they were there to find and fight this Thing,
So they advance, each bush examining,
Dreading full sore the very prey they sought ;
The pioneers held high the lamps they brought:
" There ! that is It ! the very mouth of the den ! "
The trees all round it muttered, warning men:
L'ART D'ETRE GRANDPERE 285
Still they kept step and neared it — look you now,
Company's pleasant, and there were a thou —
Good Lord ! all in a moment, there's its face !
Frightful ! — they saw the Lion ! Not one pace
Further stirred any man; the very trees
Grew blacker with his presence, and the breeze
Blew shudders into all hearts present there:
Yet, whether 'twas from valour or wild fear.
The archers drew — and arrow, bolt, and dart
Made target of the Beast. He, on his part —
As calm as Pelion in the rain or hail —
Bristled majestic from the nose to tail.
And shook full fifty missiles from his hide ;
Yet any meaner brute had found beside
Enough still sticking fast to make him yell
Or fly ; the blood was trickling down his fell,
But no heed took he, glaring steadfastly ;
And all those men of war, amazed to be
Thus met by so stupendous might and pride.
Thought him no beast, but some god brutified.
The hounds, tail down, slunk back behind the spears;
And then the Lion, 'mid the silence, rears
His awful face, and over wood and marsh
Roared a vast roar, hoarse, vibrant, vengeful, harsh, —
A rolling, raging peal of wrath, which spread
From the quaking earth to the echoing vault o'erhead.
Making the half-awakened thunder cry
" Who thunders there? " from its black bed of sky.
This ended all ! — sheer horror cleared the coast : As fogs are driven by wind, that valorous host Melted, dispersed to all the quarters four. Clean panic-stricken by that monstrous roar ; Each with one impulse — leaders, rank and file. Deeming it haunted ground, where Earth somewhile Is wont to breed marvels of lawless might — They scampered, mad, blind, reckless, wild with fright. Then quoth the Lion, " Woods and mountains ! see,
286 POEMS
A thousand men enslaved fear one Beast free ! "
As lava to volcanoes, so a roar
Is to these creatures ; and, the eruption o'er
In heaven-shaking wrath, they mostly calm.
The gods themselves to lions yield the palm
Por magnanimity. When Jove was king,
Hercules said, " Let's finish off the thing,
Not the Nemaean merely ; every one
We'll strangle — all the lions." Whereupon
The lions yawned a " much obliged ! " his way.
But this Beast, being whelped by night, not day — Offspring of glooms — was sterner ; one of those Who go down slowly when their storm's at close ; His anger had a savage ground-swell in it : He loved to take his naps, too, to the minute. And to be roused up thus with horn and hound, — To find an ambush sprung — to be hemmed round — Targetted — 'twas an insult to his grove ! He paced towards the hill, climbed high above, Lifted liis voice, and, as the sowers sow The seeds down wind, thus did that Lion throw His message far enough the town to reach.
" King ! your behaviour really passes speech ! Thus far no harm T\e wrought to him your son; But now I give you notice — when night's done I will make entry at your city-gate. Bringing the Prince alive ; and those who wait To see him in my jaws — your lackey-crew — Shall see me eat him in your palace too ! "
Quiet the night passed, while the streamlets bubbled. And the clouds sailed across the vault untroubled.
Next morning this is what was viewed in town:
Dawn coming — people going — some adown Praying, some crying; pallid cheeks, swift feet, And a huge Lion stalking through the street.
L'ART D'ETRE GRANDPERE 287
rv.
The quaking townsmen in the cellars hid ;
How make resistance? briefly, no one did;
The soldiers left their posts, the gates stood wide ;
'Twas felt the Lion had upon his side
A majesty so godlike, such an air —
That den, too, was so dark and grim a lair —
It seemed scarce short of rash impiety
To cross its path as the fierce Beast went by.
So to the palace and its gilded dome
With stately steps unchallenged did he roam,
In many a spot with those vile darts scarred still,
As you may note an oak scored with the bill.
Yet nothing recks that giant-trunk ; so here
Paced this proud wounded Lion, free of fear,
While all the people held aloof in dread,
Seeing the scarlet jaws of that great head
Hold up the princely boy — aswoon.
Is't true Princes are flesh and blood ? Ah, yes ! and you Had wept with sacred pity, seeing him Swing in the Lion's mouth, body and limb : The tender captive gripped by those grim fangs. On either side the jowl helplessly hangs. Deathlike, albeit he bore no wound of tooth. And for the brute thus gagged it was, in sooth, A grievous thing to wish to roar, yet be Muzzled and dumb, so he walked savagely. His pent heart blazing through his burning eyes, While not one bow is stretched, no arrow flies; They dreaded, peradventure, lest some shaft Shot with a trembling hand and faltering craft Might miss the Beast and pierce the Prince :
So, still As he had promised, roaring from his hill. This Lion, scorning town and townsfolk sick To view such terror, goes on straight and quick
288 POEMS
To the King's house, hoping to meet there one Who dares to speak with him : — outside is none ! The door's ajar, and flaps with every blast; He enters it — within those walls at last ! — No man !
For, certes, though he raged and wept, His Majesty, like all, close shelter kept, Solicitous to live, holding his breath Specially precious to the realm: now death Is not thus viewed by honest beasts of prey. And when the Lion found him fled away, Ashamed to be so grand, man being so base, He muttered to himself in that dark place Where lions keep their thoughts : " This wretched King ! 'Tis well, I'll eat his boy ! " Then, wandering. Lordly he traversed courts and corridors. Paced beneath vaults of gold on shining floors, Glanced at the throne deserted, stalked from hall To hall — green, yellow, crimson — empty all ! Rich couches void, soft seats unoccupied ! And as he walked he looked from side to side To find some pleasant nook for his repast. Since appetite was come to munch at last The princely morsel : — Ah ! what sight astounds That grisly lounger?
In the palace grounds An alcove on a garden gives, and there A tiny thing — forgot in the general fear, Lulled in the flower-sweet dreams of infancy. Bathed with soft sunlight falling brokenly Through leaf and lattice — was that moment waking ; A little lovely maid, most dear and taking. The Prince's sister ; all alone — undressed — She sate up singing : children sing so best.
A voice of joy, than silver lute-string softer! A mouth all rose-bud, blossoming in laughter!
L*ART D'ETRE GRANDPERE 289
A baby-angel hard at play ! a dream
Of Bethlehem's cradle, or what nests would seem
If girls were hatched ! — all these ! Eyes, too, so blue
That sea and sky might own their sapphire new !
Neck bare, arms bare, pink legs and stomach bare !
Nought hid the roseate satin skin, save where
A little white-laced shift was fastened free ;
She looked as fresh, singing thus peacefully,
As stars at twilight or as April's heaven ;
A floweret — you had said — divinely given,
To show on earth how God's own lilies grow;
Such was this beauteous baby-maid ; and so
The Beast caught sight of her and stopped —
And then Entered : — the floor creaked as he stalked straight in.
Above the playthings by the little bed
The Lion put his shaggy massive head,
Dreadful with savage might and lordly scorn.
More dreadful with that princely prey so borne;
Which she, quick spying, " Brother ! brother ! " cried,
" Oh, my own brother ! " and, unterrified —
Looking a hving rose that made the place
Brighter and warmer with its fearless grace —
She gazed upon that monster of the wood.
Whose yellow balls not Typhon had withstood.
And — well ! who knows what thoughts these small heads
hold.? She rose up in her cot — full height, and bold, And shook her pink fist angrily at him. Whereon — close to the little bed's white rim. All dainty silk and laces — this huge Brute Set down her brother gently at her foot. Just as a mother might, and said to her — " Don't he put out, now! there he is. Dear! — there! "
Edwin Arnold, C.S.L 10
LES QUATRE VENTS DE L'ESPRIT.— 1881
NEAR AVRANCHES
(" La nuit morne tombait.^')
/'^N ocean mournful, vast, fell the vast mournful night.
The darkling wind awoke, and urged to hurried flight, Athwart the granite-crags, above the granite-crests. Some sails unto their haven, some birds unto their nests.
Sad unto death, I gazed on all the world around.
Oh ! how yon sea is vast and the soul of man profound !
Afar St. Michael towered, the wan salt waves amid. Huge Cheops of the west, the ocean-pyramid.
On Egypt, home of fathomless mysteries, did I brood. Its sandy desart's grand eternal solitude. All-darkling camp of kings ne'er stirred by battle-breath, Planted for aye i' the sombre stricken field of death.
Alas ! In even these spots where widest-winged doth rove
God's breath, supreme in wrath, omnipotent in love.
To erect against high heaven what hath been man's sole
care? — Lo, here a prison frowns, and there a sepulchre !
N. R. T. 290
LES QUATRE VENTS DE L'ESPRIT 291
MY HAPPIEST DREAM
(" J'aime a me figurer.")
I LOVE to watch in fancy, to some soft dreamy strain
A choir of lovely virgins issuing angel-calm, Veiled all in white, at even, from some old shadowy fane ; In hand — a palm !
A dream which in my darkest hours doth aye beguile
Is this : a group of children, ere they seek repose, Merrily dancing ; on each rosebud mouth a smile, Each brow — a rose !
Haply a dream yet sweeter, that yields yet more delight,
Is of a radiant girl, who, betwixt joy and fear, Dreameth of Love, not knowing, beneath God's stars love- bright ;
In eye — a tear !
Another vision which doth lend my sorrow ease:
liO, Marguerite and Jeanne, like birds at evening Flitting across the lawn, across the shadowy leas ; Each foot — a wing !
But of all dreams whereon I gaze with pensive eyes,
This to my poet-soul most pleasure doth afford: A tyrant stretched beneath God's awful starlit skies; In heart — a sword !
• a B • • • •
A sword ; but never a dagger ! Poet, thy right Is, 'neath the broad blue sky, a fair free fight, Where, face to face, and foot to foot, and breast To breast, thou stand'st, — and leav'st to God the rest.
292 POEMS
Thou Justice' champion, {he, the chos'n of hell!) In the sun's eye cross falchions, and smite well; Thy sword-clash ringing true as even thy song. So, if yet once again Right fall 'neath Wrong, Right's Warrior, mingling with death's shadowy bands, Find Bayard and the Cid with outstretched hands.
N. R. T
ON HEARING THE PRINCESS ROYAL i SING
(" Dans ta haute demeure.'^)
In thine abode so high
Where yet one scarce can breathe,
Dear child, most tenderly
A soft song thou dost wreathe.
Thou singest, little girl —
Thy sire, the King is he: Around thee glories whirl,
But all things sigh in thee.
Thy thought may seek not wings
Of speech ; dear love's forbidden ; Thy smiles, those heavenly things,
Being faintly born, are chidden.
Thou feel'st, poor little Bride,
A hand unknown and chill Clasp thine from out the wide
Deep shade so deathly still.
Thy sad heart, wingless, weak, Is sunk in this black shade
1 Marie, daughter of King Louis Philippe, afterwards Princess of Wurtemburg.
LES QUATRE VENTS DE L'ESPRIT 293
So deep, thy small liands seek, Vainly, the pulse God made.
Thou art yet but highness, thou
That shalt be majesty: Though still on thy fair brow
Some faint dawn-flush may be,
Child, unto armies dear,
Even now we mark heaven's light
Dimmed with the fume and fear And glory of battle-might.
Thy godfather is he.
Earth's Pope, — he hails thee, child ! Passing, armed men you see
Like unarmed women, mild.
As saint all worship thee ;
Thyself even hast the strong Thrill of divinity
Mingled with thy small song.
Each grand old warrior
Guards thee, submissive, proud; Mute thunders at thy door
Sleep, that shall wake most loud.
Around thee foams the wild
Bright sea, the lot of kings. Happier wert thou, my child,
V the woods a bird that sings !
N. R. T.
294 POEMS
AN OLD-TIME LAY
(" Jamais elle ne raille.")
Never sigh or tear Irks this happy fay; But she laugheth aye. — There are wisps of straw, while mossy twigs are here: Reed-warbler, breeze-blest, Build on the waves thy nest.
Beneath beams most fair Of thine eyes so bright Passing, what delight ! — Here are mossy twigs, while wisps of straw are there : Swallow sweet, sun-blest, Build 'neath mine eaves thy nest.
May drinks April's tear, While her azure eyes Wake birds' blithest cries. — Here is her sweet smile, her blush yet sweeter, here — Happy Love, thus blest. Build in my heart thy nest !
N. R. T.
JERSEY
(** Jersey dort dans les flots.**)
Jeeset, lulled by the waves' eternal chime.
Sleeps ; in her smallness being twice sublime ;
A rocky mountain, — born amid blue sea.
Old England northward, southward Normandy,
Our sweet she is, and in her summer-trance
Hath the bright smiles, and oft the tears, of France.
LES QUATRE VENTS DE L'ESPRIT 295
For the third time now her flowers and fruits I've seen. O land of Exile, little island queen, Be blest of me as by thy billows blest! This small bright nook where the tired soul finds rest, If 'twere my country, were my haven of life. Here, as some mariner from sea-stormy strife Rescued, I'd dwell, and suffer with delight The sun shine all my darkling soul snow-white Like yonder linen bleaching on the grass.
Musing profoundly seems each rocky mass; Within whose hollow caverns waves forever Gurgle and sob. When evening falleth, shiver The trees, weird sibyls with the wind for wail ; While the huge cromlech, like a spectre pale. Towers on the hill, till 'neath the wan moon -ray It turns to Moloch grinning o'er his prey.
Along the beach, when blow the strong west-winds.
In every craggy corner where one finds
Frail fisher-huts, across the thatch that slopes
Seaward, are stretched stone-weighted briny ropes,
Lest by the blast the roof be torn away.
With bosom bare, some old-world ocean-lay
Each mother to her sailor babe doth drawl.
What time from out the surf a boat they haul ; —
While laugh the meadows.
Hail, O sacred Isle, That brightliest to heaven's rosiest dawn dost smile ! Hail beacons, stars by fisher-folk best blest ! Old mossy church-towers where blithe swallows nest! Poor altars rudely carved by fishermen ! Elm-shadowed roads where creaks the heavy wain ; Gardens bright-flushed with flowers of every dye; Streams with blue sea for goal, dreams with blue sky, — All hail!
On the horizon wings snow-white Of vessels ; nearer shore the sea-mews' flight, —
296 POEMS
Old Ocean's fearless wave-delighting flock! Lo, Venus smiling on each storm-scarred rock, What time, — to song of birds and billows born, — She gives to heaven the rosy-dimpled Morn.
O heather on the hills ! foam on the waves ! Cybele's crumbling palace ocean laves ! Rough mountain soothed by ocean melodies ! Lowing of kine! Sweet slumber beneath trees!
The island seems immersed in voiceless prayer,
Not to be turned therefrom, though ocean, air,
Around her blend their vast defiant chaunts.
The cloud weeps, passing ; lo, the rock that vaunts
Upon its spur how many a brave ship riven,
Keeps on its crest for the bird a little dew of heaven !
N. R. T.
THEN, MOST, I SMILE
(" II est un peu tard.")
It Is a little late to smile so bright,
Queen Marguerite; wait in thy field awhile. And the green grass with hoarfrost shall be white.
— Pilgrim, cold winter comes, — still must I smile.
It is a little late to smile so bright.
Sweet Star of eve; wait in thy heaven awhile, Soon will all roseate rays be lost in night.
— Pilgrim, night comes, — still brightlier shall I smile.
It is a little late to smile so bright.
Proud soul of mine ; wait in thy woe awhile. And one shall stay thy strong wings' heavenward flight.
— Pilgrim, Death comes, — forever shall I smile !
N. R. T.
DRAMATIC PIECES 297
CROMWELL AND THE CROWN
(" Ah! je le tiens enfin")
[Cromwell, Act II., Oct. 1827.
Thurlow communicates the intention of Parliament to offer Cromwell the crown.
Cromwell. And is it mine.'' And have my feet at length Attained the summit of the rock i' the sand.?
Thurlow. And yet, my lord, you have long reigned.
Crom. Nay, nay !
Power I have 'joyed, in sooth, but not the name. Thou smilest, Thurlow. Ah, thou little know'st What hole it is Ambition digs i' th' heart! What end, most seeming empty, is the mark For which we fret and toil and dare ! How hard With an unrounded fortune to sit down ! Then, what a lustre from most ancient times Heaven has flung o'er the sacred head of kings ! King — Majesty — what names of power! No king, And yet the world's high arbiter ! The thing Without the word ! no handle to the blade ! Away — the empire and the name are one ! Alack ! thou little dream'st how grievous 'tis. Emerging from the crov/d, and at the top Arrived, to feel that there is something still Above our heads ; something, nothing ! no matter — That word is everything.
Leitch RitchiEc
298 POEMS
MILTON'S APPEAL TO CROMWELL
(" Non! je n'y puis tenir.")
fCROMWELL, Act III., sc. ir.
Stay ! I no longer can contain myself,
But cry you: Look on John, who bares his mind
To Oliver — to Cromwell, Milton speaks !
Despite a kindling eye and marvel deep
A voice is lifted up without your leave;
For I was never placed at council board
To speak my promptings. When awed strangers come
Who've seen Fox-Mazarin wince at the stings
In my epistles — and bring admiring votes
Of learned colleges, they strain to see
My figure in the glare — the usher utters,
" Behold and hearken ! that's my Lord Protector's
Cousin — that, his son-in-law — that next " — who cares ?
Some perfumed puppet ! " Milton ? " " He in black —
Yon silent scribe who trims their eloquence ! "
Still * chronicling small-beer ' — such is my duty !
Yea, one whose thunder roared through martyr bones
Till Pope and Louis Grand quaked on their thrones,
And echoed " Vengeance for the Vaudois," where
The Sultan slumbers sick with scent of roses.
He is but the mute in this seraglio —
" Pure " Cromwell's Council !
But to be dumb and blind is overmuch!
Impatient Issachar kicks at the load!
Yet diadems are burdens painfuller,
And I would spare thee that sore imposition.
Dear brother Noll, I plead against thyself !
Thou aim'st to be a king; and, in thine heart.
What fool has said: " There is no king but thou? **
DRAMATIC PIECES 299
For thee the multitude waged war and won —
The end thou art of wresthngs and of prayer,
Of sleepless watch, long marches, hunger, tears
And blood prolifically spilled, homes lordless.
And homeless lords ! The mass must always suffer
That one should reign ! the collar's but newly clamp'd,
And nothing but the name thereon is changed —
Master ? still masters ! mark you not the red
Of shame unutterable in my sightless white?
Still hear me, Cromwell, speaking for your sake !
These fifteen years, we, to you whole-devoted,
Have sought for Liberty — to give it thee ?
To make our interests your huckster gains?
The king a lion slain that you may flay.
And wear the robe — well, worthily — I say*t,
For I will not abase my brother!
No ! I would keep him in the realm serene.
My own ideal of heroes ! loved o'er Israel,
And liigher placed by me than all the others !
And such, for tinkling titles, hollow haloes
Like that around yon painted brow — thou ! thou 1
Apostle, hero, saint — dishonour thyself !
And snip and trim the flag of Naseby-field
As scarf on which the maid-of-honour's dog
Will yelp, some summer afternoon ! That sword
Shrink into a sceptre ! briUiant bauble ! Thou,
Thrown on a lonely rock in storm of state,
Brain-turned by safety's miracle, thou risest
Upon the tott'ring stone whilst ocean ebbs.
And, recking of no storms to come to-morrow.
Or to-morrow — deem that a certain pedestal
Whereon thou'lt be adored for e'er — e'en while
It shakes — o'ersets the rider ! Tremble, thou !
For he who dazzles, makes men Samson-blind,
Will see the pillars of his palace kiss
E'en at the whelming ruin ! Then, what word
Of answer from your wreck when I demand
800 POEMS
Account of Cromwell! glory of the people
Smothered in ashes ! through the dust thou'lt hear :
*' What didst thou with thy virtue? " Will it respond:
" When battered helm is doffed, how soft is purple
On which to lay the head, lulled by the praise
Of thousand fluttering fans of flatterers !
Wearied of war-horse, gratefully one glides
In gilded barge, or in crowned, velvet car.
From gay Whitehall to gloomy Temple Bar — "
( Where — had you slipt, that head were bleaching now !
And that same rabble, splitting for a hedge.
Had joined their rows to cheer the active herdsman;
Perchance, in mockery, they'd gird the skull
With a hop-leaf crown! Bitter the brewing, Noll!)
Are crowns the end-all of ambition? Remember
Charles Stuart ! and that they who make can break I
This same Whitehall may black its front with crape,
And this broad window be the portal twice
To lead upon a scaffold ! Frown ! or laugh !
Laugh on as they did at Cassandra's speech !
But mark — the prophetess was right ! Still laugh.
Like the credulous Ethiop in his faith in stars !
But give one thought to Stuart, two for yourself !
In his appointed hour, all was forthcoming —
Judge, axe, and deathsman veiled ! and my poor eyes
Descry — as would thou saw'st ! — a figure veiled,
Uplooming there — afar, like sunrise, coming !
With blade that ne'er spared Judas 'midst free brethren I
Stretch not the hand of Cromwell for the prize
Meant not for him, nor his ! Thou growest old.
The people are ever young ! Like her i' the chase
Who drave a dart into her lover, embowered.
Piercing the incense-clouds, the popular shaft
May slay thee in a random shot at Tyranny !
Man, friend, remain a Cromwell ! in thy name,
Rule ! and if thy son be worthy, he and his.
So rule the rest for ages ! be it grander thus
DRAMATIC PIECES 301
To be a Cromwell than a Carolus.
No lapdog combed by wantons, but the watch
Upon the freedom that we won ! Dismiss
Your flatterers — let no harpings, no gay songs
Prevent your calm dictation of good laws
To guard, to fortify, and keep enlinked
England and Freedom ! Be thine old self alone !
And make, above all else accorded me.
My most desired claim on all posterity,
That thou in Milton's verse wert foremost of the free !
FIRST LOVE (" Vous etes singulier")
[Marion Delobme, Act I., June, 1829, played 1831.
Marion (smiling). You're strange, and yet I love you thus.
DiDiEE. You love me?
Beware, nor with light lips utter that word.
You love me ! — know you what it is to love
With love that is the life-blood in one's veins.
The vital air we breathe, a love long-smothered.
Smouldering in silence, kindling, burning, blazing,
And purifying in its growth the soul.
A love that from the heart eats every passion
But its sole self; love without hope or limit,
Deep love that will outlast all happiness ;
Speak, speak; is such the love you bear me?
Marion. Truly.
DiDiER. Ha ! but you do not know how I love you ! The day that first I saw you, the dark world Grew shining, for your eyes lighted my gloom. Since then, all things have changed ; to me you are Some brightest, unknown creature from the skies. This irksome life, 'gainst which my heart rebelled.
302 POEMS
Seems almost fair and pleasant ; for alas ! Till I knew you wandering, alone, oppressed, I wept and struggled, I had never loved.
Fanny Kemble-Butler.
THE FIRST BLACK FLAG
(" Avez-vous out dire? ")
[Les Burgeaves, Part I., March, 1843o
Job. Hast thou ne'er heard men say That, in the Black Wood, 'twixt Cologne and Spire, Upon a rock flanked by the towering mountains, A castle stands, renowned among all castles .-^ And in this fort, on piles of lava built, A burgrave dwells, among all burgraves famed.'' Hast heard of this wild man who laughs at laws — Charged with a thousand crimes — for warlike deeds Renowned — and placed under the Empire's ban By the Diet of Frankfort ; by the Council Of Pisa banished from the Holy Church; Reprobate, isolated, cursed — yet still Unconquered 'mid his mountains and in will; The bitter foe of the Count Palatine And Treves' proud archbishop; who has spurned For sixty years the ladder which the Empire Upreared to scale his walls.'' Hast heard that he Shelters the brave — the flaunting rich man strips — Of master makes a slave.? That here, above All dukes, aye, kings, eke emperors — in the eyes Of Germany to their fierce strife a prey. He rears upon his tower, in stem defiance, A signal of appeal to the crushed people, A banner vast, of Sorrow's sable hue. Snapped by the tempest in its whirlwind wrath.
DRAMATIC PIECES 308
So that kings quiver as tlie jades at whips? Hast heard, he touches now his hundredth year — And that, defjang fate, in face of heaven, On his invincible peak, no force of war Uprooting other holds — nor powerful Caesar — Nor Rome — nor age, that bows the pride of man — Nor aught on earth — hath vanquished, or subdued. Or bent this ancient Titan of the Rhine, The excommunicated Job?
Democratic Review.
THE SON IN OLD AGE
(" Ma Regina, cette noble figure")
[Les Burgra\t;s, Part IL
Thy noble face, Regina, calls to mind,
IMy poor lost httle one, my latest born.
He was a gift from God — a sign of pardon —
That child vouchsafed me in my eightieth year!
I to his little cradle went, and went.
And even while 'twas sleeping, talked to it.
For when one's very old, one is a child !
Then took it up and placed it on my knees,
And with both hands stroked down its soft, light hair —
Thou wert not born then — and he would stammer
Those pretty little sounds that make one smile !
And though not twelve months old, he had a mind.
He recognized me — nay, knew me right well,
And in my face would laugh — and that child-laugh,
Oh, poor old man! 'twas sunlight to my heart.
I meant him for a soldier, ay, a conqueror,
And named him George. One day — oh, bitter thought !
The child played in the fields. When thou art mother,
Ne'er let thy children out of sight to play !
304. POEMS
The gipsies took him from me — oh, for what ?
Perhaps to kill him at a witch's rite.
I weep ! — now, after twenty years — I weep
As if 'twere yesterda}'. I loved him so !
I used to call him " my own little king ! "
I was intoxicated with my joy
When o'er my white beard ran his rosy hands,
Tlirilling me all through.
Foreign Quarterly Review
THE EMPEROR'S RETURN
(" Un bouffon manquait a cette fete.")
[Les Burgea\t:s, Part II.
The Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, believed to be dead, appearing as a beggar among the Rhenish nobility at a castle, suddenly reveals himself.
Hatto. This goodly masque but lacked a fool ! First gipsj^ ; next a beggar ; — good ! Thy name.'*
Barbarossa. Frederick of Swabia, Emperor of Almain. All. The Red Beard?
Barbarossa. Aye, Frederick, by mj"^ mountain birthright Prince
0' th' Romans, chosen king, crowned emperor, Heaven's sword-bearer, monarch of Burgundy And Aries — the tomb of Karl I dared profane, But have repented me on bended knees In penance 'midst the desert twenty years; My drink the rain, the rocky herbs my food. Myself a ghost the shepherds fled before. And the world named me as among the dead. But I have heard my country call — come forth, Lifted the shroud — broken the sepulchre.
DRAMATIC PIECES 305
This hour is one when dead men needs must rise.
Ye own me? Ye mind me marching tlu'ough these vales
When golden spur was ringing at my heel?
Now know me what I am, your master, earls !
Brave knights you deem ! You say, " The sons we are
Of puissant barons and great noblemen.
Whose honours we prolong." You do prolong them?
Your sires were soldiers brave, not prowlers base,
Rogues, miscreants, felons, village-ravagers !
They made great wars, they rode like heroes forth,
And, worthy, won broad lands and towers and townsj
So firmly won that thirty years of strife
Made of their followers dukes, their leaders kings !
While you ! like jackal and the bird of prey.
Who lurk in copses or 'mid muddy beds —
Crouching and hushed, with dagger ready drawn,
Hide in the noisome marsh that skirts the way.
Trembling lest passing hounds snuff out your lair !
Listen at eventide on lonesome path
For traveller's footfall, or the mule-bell's chime,
Pouncing by hundreds on one helpless man.
To cut him down, then back to your retreats —
You dare to vaunt your sires ? I call your sires.
Bravest of brave and greatest 'mid the great,
A line of warriors ! you, a pack of thieves !
Athenceum. 20
DRAMAS OF VICTOR HUGO
TRANSLATED BY
FREDERICK L. SLOUS
AND
MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND
CONTENTS
PAGE
Hernani, translated by Mrs. Newton Crosland 1
The King's Diversion, translated by Fredk. L. Slous .... 151 RuY Blas, translated by Mrs. Newton Crosland . o o . . . 273
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
As ti*^ Translator of " Hernani " and " Ruy Bias," I maj be permitted to offer a few remarks on the three great dramas which are now presented in an English form to the English-speaking public. Each of these works is preceded by the Author's Preface, which perhaps exhausts all that had to be said of the play which follows — from his own original point of view. It is curious to contrast the confident egotism, the frequent self-assertion, and the indignation at repression which mark the prefaces to " Hernani " and " Le Roi s' Amuse " with the calm dignity of the very fine dramatic criticism which introduces the reader to " Ruy Bias." But when the last-named tragedy was produced, Victor Hugo's fame was ^tablished and his literary position secure; he no longer had need to assert himself, for if a few enemies still remained, their voices were but as the buzzing of flies about a giant. Trusting that the Author's Prefaces will be care- fully read, I will endeavour only to supplement what is said in them.
" Hernani " belongs emphatically to the romantic school, and to the period in European Hterature when the bonds of olden custom in all the arts were being broken — often for good results, though not always. Hernani is a rebel, and called a bandit throughout the play — but he is a rebel noble, sworn to avenge his father's wrongs, and his band may fairly be supposed to have been recruited from a disaffected army. He is a young lover as ardent as Romeo, with less trust and more jealousy, and Dona Sol corresponds in some respects to Juliet. Yet it is well to mark the difference between the man's love and the woman's, as the great poet has faithfully
Vll
viii TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
shown it. With Dona Sol her love is her " sole existence." It is because Hernani refuses when urged to subdue his mas- ter passion, vengeance, and thus be released from his pledge, that the play becomes a tragedy. Not until too late for life and happiness is his vengeance overcome by the magnanimity of Charles.
One of the admirable characteristics of this work is that all the personages portrayed are such distinct individuals that any one knowing the play tolerably well would, there is little doubt, identify any line that might be quoted, ap- portioning it to the right speaker. But this power of dis- tinctly and forcibly delineating his characters is one of Hugo's never-failing attributes, and is shown hardly less in the subordinate courtiers who play their part in the drama, than in the leading personages. Don Carlos may not be quite the Charles the Fifth of history, but he is something greater — a poet's fine creation.
It seems to me that the old man, Ruy Gomez, is one of the most subtle conceptions which a great poet ever vivified. He is a man who has reached sixty years of age in the enjoy- ment of unsullied fame and the noblest repute — a man to whom the preservation of what was called Castilian honour was beyond all other duties, all other happiness. The scene of the Portraits must warm every noble nature to pathetic sympathy ; and yet when we have finished the play we dis- cover of how little worth was that chivalry of Spain which " Cervantes laughed away " — how completely was it a mere form — a code of set rules — not what chivalry surely ought to be, an influence springing from Christianity and capable of being adapted to all circumstances. Such was not the chivalry of Don Ruy Gomez de Silva, Duke de Pastrana, when crossed and thwarted in his heart's desire. Tempted then by furious passions he fell. There was no chivalry in his Shylock-like holding of Hernani to his bond.
I think there are two or three brief sentences in the Fifth Act, which are like flashes of lurid lightning by which we see the depths of the malignity which rages in the heart of
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE ix
the old Duke — depths which it would have taken an inferior writer half a page to describe.
Perhaps, however, the finest portion of this work is the Fourth Act, which includes the magnificent monologue of Charles the Fifth before the tomb of Charlemagne. A trans- lator must be very incompetent if his rendering of this speech does not stir the pulse of the reader who remembers that it embodies the ideas of a noble despot in the days when des- potism was the only form of government. And this brings one to the point of what has often been said about Victor Hugo being untranslatable.
It cannot be denied that in a certain sense all poetry of the first order must be untranslatable. It is scarcely possi- ble that any phrase of another language can be quite so happy as that into which the molten thought of genius first flowed. Neither is it likely, if possible, that the melody of the first inspiration can find a complete equivalent in a strange tongue. But surely the language of Shakespeare and Milton, of Pope and of Byron, and of our Hving Vic- torian poets is not so poor that it cannot express subtle thoughts precisely, eloquent pleadings with fervour, and poetical imagery with force and grace !
Shakespeare must be as untranslatable — in the sense to which I have alluded — as undoubtedly is Victor Hugo. Yet the French know something of our greatest poet even through translations. Byron also is tolerably familiar to them, not to mention lesser lights. It may seem a paradox, but I think it is only a truth, to say that the greater a poet is, the more capable are his works of translation ; and for this rea- son. They contain the larger store of deep thought, which, like pure gold, may be put into the crucible and melted into a new shape. Smaller poets do not supply this precious sub- stance, and so what little charm they have evaporates in the necessary treatment.
It has, I believe, been said by one or two detracting critics that Victor Hugo is, for a great writer, deficient in humour. He is generally too terribly in earnest to be turned aside to
X TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
make fun on slight provocation ; but the manner in which Don Carlos, in the First Act of " Hernani," mystifies the proud Duke surely belongs to the richest vein of comedy ; and of sarcasm there is abundance throughout the play.
It would occupy too much space to relate half the amusing stories associated with the first production of " Hernani." The great actress, Mdlle. Mars — though more than fifty years of age — personated the heroine to perfection ; but she did not in the first instance like her part, nor did she appreciate the play until success enabled her to do so. Cer- tainly she could not have comprehended the work in its en- tirensss, or she would not have raised the objection she did to a certain line in the Third Act, Scene the Fourth. In her egotism she probably looked on Hernani as a common bandit, instead of a rebel Lord defying a King. It is a powerful scene in which Hernani had been lamenting that he had only a dole of misery to offer to his love, and Dona Sol exclaims :
" Vous etes mon lion superbe et g^n^reux ! " ("You are ray lion generous and superb!")
And time after time, at rehearsal, Mdlle. Mars halted at this passage, shaded her eyes with her hand, and pretended to look round for the author — though she knew perfectly well where he was seated in the orchestra — and then would in- quire if M. Hugo were present. " I am here, Madam," Hugo would reply — and then would ensue a dialogue but slightly varied on each occasion. It is Dumas, who attended many of these rehearsals, that tells the story :
" Do you really like that line? " the actress would say.
" Madam, I so wrote it."
" So you stick to your lion? "
" Find me something better, and I will alter it."
" That is not for me to do," retorted the actress. " I am not the author."
" Well, then, Madam> as that is the case, let us leave it as it is."
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE xi
A little more argument, but next day all had to be gone over again. And wlien Mdlle. Mars declared that it was a dangerous line, which would certainly be hissed, the author replied that this would only be the case if she did not deliver it with her usual power. At last she ventured to suggest that instead of " mon lion " Dona Sol should say " Mon- seigneur," and wondered what objection there could be to the substitution.
*' Only," replied Hugo, " that mon lion elevates the verse, and Monseigneur lowers it," — adding, " I would rather be hissed for a good verse than applauded for a bad one."
In fact these vexatious interruptions were so irritating to the poet, that towards the close of one of the rehearsals, he asked to speak to Mdlle. Mars, and told her that he wished her to give back the part. The actress turned pale; she was accustomed to be urgently solicited to undertake char- acters, but never before had she been required to give one up. She apologized, and the little quarrel was in a measure made up ; though she preserved a cold, discontented manner which chilled the other actors ; happily, however, she did exert all her powers when the hour for their display arrived.
On the first night that " Hernani " was performed, a sig- nificant incident showed the effect that it produced. The monologue of Charles the Fifth, in the Fourth Act, was re- ceived with thunders of applause and while the tumult was unabated, it was intimated to Victor Hugo that he was wanted. It was a little man with eager eyes who wished to speak to him.
" My name is JVIame," said the stranger. " I am the part- ner of M. Baudoin the publisher — but we cannot talk here — can you spare me a minute outside the theatre ? "
They passed into the street, when the little man con- tinued : —
" ]\I. Baudoin and I have witnessed the performance — we should like to publish * Hernani,' will you sell it.'' " " What V. ill you give ? " said the author. •* Six thousand francs."
xii TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
Victor Hugo suggested that lie should wait till the per- formance was over, but M. Mame desired to conclude the business at once, notwitlistanding Hugo's generous reminder that the success at the close might be less complete than it appeared at present.
" Tl.at is true," said the publisher, " but it may be greater. At the second act I meant to offer jou tv/o thousand francs ; at the third I advanced to four thousand ; and now at the fourth I offer you six. If I wait till the fifth act is over I fear I should offer you ten thousand."
Victor Hugo was so amused that he could not help laugh- ing, and promised that the matter should be arranged the next morning. But this little delay did not suit the im- patient publisher who had the money in his pocket, and wished to settle the affair at once. So the pair entered a tobacconist's shop, where stamped paper and pen and ink were procured, and the bargain duly made ; one exceedingly acceptable to the poet, who was then very poor, and had but fifty francs in his possession.
In the author's preface to " Le Roi s'Amuse " he elo- quently defends himself from the charge of having produced an immoral play. Certainly in this work vice is neither really triumphant nor made for one moment attractive, and yet, as the translator forcibly observes, there can be little wonder that after one representation its performance was prohibited.
It was intimated to the Author that " Le Roi s'Amuse " was suppressed because it contained a verse that was looked upon as an insult to the Citizen King Louis Philippe. Vic- tor Hugo denied emphatically any such intention, and as for long years afterwards the Orleans family remained on the most familiar and friendly terms with him, it is difficult to suppose that they believed in the accusation. And just as Hugo had refused from Charles the Tenth an addition to his pension in consideration of the suppression of " INIarion de Lonne " — so novv, after the performance of " Le Roi s'Amuse " had been prohibited, on being taunted by the
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE xiii
Ministerial journals with receiving his original pension of two thousand francs, he threw it up, declining to take an- other sou. It is true also that in his preface he speaks contemptuously of the government — but the fact remains — testified anew in the recently published volume, " Glioses Vues " — that Hugo continued the intimate associate of the King and the Orleans princes. Few readers will blame the censor for prohibiting the play, though they may differ con- cerning the verity of his alleged motives — and for pastime may sharpen their wits in seeking to find the clue to the puzzle.
I look upon it as a curious coincidence that the " Lady of L^'ons " in London, and " Ruy Bias " in Paris, sliould have been produced in the same year. Both dramas turn on the incident of a man of humble station loving a woman greatly his superior in social rank, and winning her affections in an assumed character; and quite possibly both plays were suggested by the true story of Angelica Kauffman, v.ho was entrapped into a marriage with a valet, believing him to be a foreign nobleman. But save in tlie one circumstance no two works can be more dissimilar than these are. The Eno;- lish like plays to end happily, or at any rate, for only the repulsive villains to suffer, and the cleverly constructed yet highly melodramatic " Lady of L3^ons " hit the taste of the town exactly. Two great artists, Macready and Helen Faucit, embodied Lord Lytton's creations in so poetical a manner that they assumed a dignity which inferior actors must fail to give them. The love was pure, and there was repentance with atonement before the happy climax. Be- sides, the difference between the gardener's son and the mer- chant's daughter was not so outrageously great, as to shut out the hope of its being spanned. The audience was deeply, pathetically touched — the play was effective in the highest degree — and the acting supremely fine — but every one felt that things would come right at last.
Not so with " Ruy Bias." Near the close of the first act, at scene the third, we know perfectly well that it is a tragedy
xiv TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
before us. The fatal words of the hero overheard by the remorseless Don Salluste unloose the stream which is to carry him to perdition : —
" Oh ! mon ame au demon ! Je la vendrais, pour etre Un des jeunes seigneurs que, de cette fenetre, Je vois en ce moment."
" My soul Is given over, I would sell it might I thus become like one of those young lords That from this window I behold."
It is a realization of the mediaeval legend. He has his wish and his heart's desire, but in consequence wave after wave arises to bear him on to his doom. To those who will read between the lines, Ruy Bias is surely full of the noblest and most Christian teaching. We pity, it is true, the sorely tried and tempted, but we know as a fact in ethics — and there- fore a truth to be upheld in Art — that retribution must fol- low wrong-doing. And as Victor Hugo may be considered the greatest dramatist since Shakespeare, he knew well that his work must be a tragedy. But it is so supreme and per- fectly moulded a word of art because he has, in its proper place, brightened the drama with rich comedy. In this he resembles our own great poet. The wonderful manner in which the character of Don Caesar is sustained and revealed through dialogues flashing with wit, and incidents only to have been conceived by a real humourist — proclaims the master.
Surely there is consummate art in separating the third from the fifth act by a series of scenes, which, though keeping the motive of the play well in view, gives the spectator rest from the culminating excitement ef the one, before witnessing the struggle and pathos of the other. Never let the moralist for- get that in the end Ruy Bias is the conqueror — conquering even himself, and saving the poor outraged Queen. But the death penalty is inevitable, for Nemesis is never absent from the " personages " of Hugo's dramas.
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE xv
And now I beg leave to say a very few words of myself. If these translations of mine should prove the last work of a pen that for nearly fifty years has been busy in many depart- ments of literature, I hope I shall be justified in the estima- tion of thoughtful readers. There is such a glow of eternal youth about Hugo's works, that I rather rejoice at finding mj'self capable of being fascinated by them. The world is always young! Somewhere always noble natures are aspir- ing, and young hearts beating with their first awakening to a master passion. To faithfully portray the struggles of the heart is one of the poet's missions, and surely in depicting in " Hernani " and " Ruy Bias," love and revenge, ambi- tion and loyalty, remorse and despair, the noblest teaching is embodied — teaching that appeals to many natures more forcibly in the manner in which it is here presented than in a more solemn and didactic form. I do not deny that here and there a daring thought may displease timid readers — but let them rather turn to those eternal truths which arc the basis, the life and spirit of all religious creeds, and which shine luminously in the poetry of Victor Hugo. Let us thank him for the jewels he gives us, and not bring a lens through which to search for the flaws !
Ever is Victor Hugo the defender of the weak and op- pressed, the scorner of selfishness and vice, the teacher of self-sacrifice in the cause of duty, and the upholder of the dignity of woman. It may be that in these matter-of-fact days we require such teaching quite as much as did mankind in the ages which Avere called darker, and there is little doubt that the greatest of French poets reaches many hearts that have proved insensible to weaker influences.
Camilla Crosland.
I
HERNANI :
A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.
AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION OF HERNANI, 1830
Only a few weeks since, the Author of this drama wrote, con- cerning a poet who died before maturity, as follows : —
"... At this moment of literary tuimoil and con- tention, whom should we the more pity, those who die, or those who wrestle? Truly it is sad to see a poet of twenty years old pass away, to behold a broken lyre, and a future that vanishes ; but, is not repose also some advantage ? Are there not those around whom calumnies, injuries, hatreds, jealousies, secret wrongs, base treasons incessantly gather; true men, against whom disloyal war is waged ; devoted men, who only seek to bestow on their country one sort of free- dom the more, that of art and intelligence; laborious men, who peaceably pursue their conscientious work, a prey on one side to the vile stratagems of official censure, and on the other exposed too often to the ingratitude of even those for whom they toil ; may not such be permitted sometimes to turn their eyes with envy towards those who have fallen behind them, and who rest in the tomb? Invideo, said Luther, in the cemetery of Worms, invideo quia quiescunt.
" What does it signify ? Young people, take heart. If the present be made rough for us, the future will be smooth. Romanticism, so often ill-defined, is only — and this is its true definition if we look at it from its combative side — lib- eralism in literature. This truth is already understood by nearly all the best minds, and the number is great ; and soon, for the work is well advanced, liberalism in literature will not be less popular than in politics. Liberty in Art, liberty in
4 AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE FIRST
Society, behold the double end towards which consistent and logical minds should tend ; behold the double banner that ral- lies the intelligence — with but few exceptions, which will be- come more enlightened — of all the young who are now so strong and patient; then, with the young, and at their head the choice spirits of the generation which has preceded us, all those sagacious veterans, who, after the first moment of hesi- tation and examination, discovered that what their sons are doing to-day is the consequence of what they themselves have achieved, and that liberty in literature is the offspring of political liberty. This principle is that of the age, and will prevail. The Ultras of all sorts, classical and monarch- ical, will in vain help each other to restore the old system, broken to pieces, hterary and social; all progress of the country, every intellectual development, every stride of lib- erty will have caused their scaffolding to give way. And, indeed, their efforts at reaction will have been useful. In revolution every movement is an advance. Truth and lib- erty have this excellence, that all one does for and against them serves them equally well. Now, after all the great things that our fathers have done, and that we have beheld, now that we have come out of the old social form, why should there not proceed a new out of the old poetic form? For a new people, new art. In admiring the literature of Louis the Fourteenth's age, so well adapted to his monarchy, France will know well how to have its own and national htera- ture of the nineteenth century, to which Mirabeau gave its liberty, and Napoleon its power." — Letter to the Publishers of the Poems of M. Dovalle.
Let the author of this drama be pardoned for thus quot- ing himself. His words have so little the power of Impress- ing, that he often needs to repeat them. Besides, at present it is perhaps not out of place to put before readers the two pages just transcribed. It is not this drama which can In any respect deserve the great name of new art or new poetry. Far from that; but it is that the principle of freedom in literature has advanced a step ; It Is that some progress has
EDITION OF HERNANI, 1830 5
been made, not in art, this drama is too small a thing for that, but in the public; it is that in this respect at least one part of the predictions hazarded above has just been realized.
There is, indeed, some danger in making changes thus suddenly, and risking on the stage those tentative efforts hitherto confided to paper, which endures everything; the reading public is very different from the theatrical public, and one might dread seeing the later reject what the former had accepted. This has not been the case. The principle of hterary freedom already comprehended by the world of readers and thinkers, has not been less fully accepted by that immense crowd, eager for the pure enjoyment of art, which every night fills the theatres of Paris. This loud and pow- erful voice of the people, likened to the voice of God, de- clares that henceforth poetry shall bear the same device as politics : Toleration and Liberty.
Now let the poet come ! He has a public.
And whatever may be this freedom, the public wills that in the State it shall be reconciled with order, and in litera- ture with art. Liberty has a wisdom of its own, without which it is not complete. That the old rules of D'Aubignac should die with the old customs of Cujas is well; that to a literature of the court should succeed a literature of the people is better still; but, above all, it is best that an inner voice should be heard from the depths of all these novelties. Let the principle of hberty work, but let it work well. In letters, as in society, not etiquette, not anarchy, but laws. Neither red heels ^ nor red caps.
This is what the public wants, and it wishes rightly. As for us, in deference to that public which has accepted with so much indulgence an attempt which merits so little, we give this drama now as it has been represented. Perhaps the day will come when the author will publish it as he conceived it,^
1 Red heels, typical of the aristocracy; red caps, of liberty — or anarchy. — Thans.
2 This day has long since come, and the translation of Hernani,
6 AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE FIRST
indicating and discussing the modifications to which he had to submit. These critical details may be neither uninstruc- tive nor uninteresting, though they seem trifling at present — freedom in art is admitted, the principal question is set- tled; why pause to dwell on secondary questions? We shall return to them some day, and also speak of them in detail, demolishing by evidence and reason tliis system of dramatic censure — which is the only obstacle to the freedom of the theatre now that it no longer exists in the pubhc mind. We shall strive at all risks and perils, and by devotion to art, to expose the thousand abuses of this petty inquisition of the intellect, which has, like the other holy office, its secret judges, its masked executioners, its tortures, its mutilations, and its penalty of death. We will tear away, if we can, those swad- dling clothes of the police, in which it is shameful that the theatre should be wrapped up in the nineteenth century.
At present there is only place for gratitude and thanks. To the public it is that the author addresses his own acknowl- edgments, and he does so from the depths of his heart. This work, not from its talent, but for conscience' and freedom's sake, has been generously protected from enmities by the public, because the public is also itself always conscientious and free. Thanks, then, be rendered to it, as well as to that mighty youthful band which has brought health and favour to +ho work of a young man as sincere and independent as itself. It was for youth above all that he laboured, because it would be a great and real glory to be applauded by the leading young men, who are intelligent, logical, consistent, truly liberal in literature as well as politics — a noble gen- eration, that opens wide its eyes to look at the truth, and to receive light from all sides.
As for his work, he will not speak of it. He accepts the criticisms which it has drawn forth, the most severe as well as the most kindly, because he may profit by all. He dares not flatter himself that everyone can at once have understood
which is now ofTered to English readers, is from the unmutilated edition of 1836.— Than 3.
f
I
EDITION OF HERNANI, 1830 7
this drama, of wliich the Romancero General is the true key. Pie would willingly ask persons whom this work has shocked, to read again Le Cid, Don Sanche, Nicomede, or rather all Corneille and all Moli^re, those great and admirable poets. Such reading, however much it might show the immense in- feriority of the author of Hernani, would perhaps render them more indulgent to certain things which have offended them in the form, or the motive, of this drama. In fact, the moment is perhaps not yet come to judge it. Hernani is but the first stone of an edifice wliich exists fully constructed in the author's mind, the whole of which can alone give value to this drama. Perhaps one day it will not be thought ill that his fancy, like that of the architect of Bourges, puts a door almost Moorish to his Gothic Cathedral.
Meanwhile, what he has done is but little, and he knows it. May time and power to proceed with his work not fail him ! It will but have worth when it is completed. He is not one of those privileged poets who can die or break oif before they have finished without peril to their memory ; he is not of those who remain great even without having completed their work — happy men, of whom one may say what Virgil said of Carthage traced out : —
Pendent opera interrupta minaeque Murorum ingentes.
March 9tK 1830.
PERSONAGES OF THE DRAMA
Hernani.
Don Carlos.
Don Ruy Gomez de Silva.
Dona Sol de Silva.
The King of Bohemia.
The Duke of Bavaria.
The Duke of Gotha.
The Baron of Hohenbourg.
The Duke of Lutzelbourg.
Don Sancho.
Don Matias.
Don Ricardo.
Don Garcie Suarez.
Don Francisco.
Don Juan de Haro.
Don Pedro Gusman de Lara,
Don Gil Tellez Giron.
Dona Josefa Duarte.
Jaquez.
A Mountaineer. A Lady.
First Conspirator. Second Conspirator. Third Conspirator.
Conspirators of the Holy League, Germans and Spaniards, Mountaineers, Nobles, Soldiers, Pages, Attendants, &c.
Spain, a, d. 1519.
8
HERNANI:
ACT FIRST: THE KING
Scene 1. — Saragossa. A Chamber. Night: a lamp on
the table.
Dona Josefa Duarte, an old woman dressed in black, with body of her dress worked in jet in the fashion of Isabella the Catholic. Don Carlos.
Dona Josefa, alone. She draws the crimson curtains of the window, and puts some armchairs in order. A knock at a little secret door on the right. She listens. A second knock.
Dona Josefa. Can it be he already? \^Another knock.
T' is, indeed, At th' hidden stairway. [^A fourth knock.
I must open quick. [^She opens the concealed door. Don Carlos enters, his face muffled in his cloak, and his hat drawn over his brows. Good evening to you, sir !
l^She ushers him in. He drops his cloak and reveals a rich dress of silk and velvet in the Castilian style of 1519. She looks at him closely, and recoils astonished.
What now .'' — not you, Signer Hernani! Fire! fire! Help, oh help!
9
10 DKAIMAS [act i.
Don Carlos (seizing her by the arm). ■
But two words more, Duenna, and you die ! |
[He looks at her intently. She is frightened into silence. |
Is this the room of Dona Sol, betrothed j
To her old uncle, Duke de Pastrana? '■:
A very worthy lord he is — senile, |
White-hair'd and jealous. Tell me, is it true ]
The beauteous Dona loves a smooth-faced youth, All whiskerless as yet, and sees him here Each night, in spite of envious care? Tell me. Am I informed aright?
[^She is silent. He shakes her by the arm. Will you not speak?
Dona Josefa. You did forbid me, sir, to speak two words.
Don Carlos. One will suffice. I want a yes, or no. Say, is thy mistress Dona Sol de Silva?
Dona Josefa. \
Yes, why? |
Don Carlos. i
No matter Avhy. ,Just at this hour
The venerable lover is away? ;
Dona Josefa. He is.
Don Carlos. And she expects the young one now?
Dona Josefa. Yes.
Don Carlos. Oh, that I could die !
Dona Josefa. Yes.
sc. I.] HERNANI 11
Don Carlos.
Say, Duenna, Is this the place where they will surely meet?
|
Dona Josefa. |
||
|
Yes. |
||
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Don Carlos. |
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|
Hide me somewhere here. |
||
|
Dona Josefa. |
||
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You? |
||
|
Don Carlos. |
Yes, me. |
|
|
Dona Josefa. |
Why? |
|
|
Don Carlos. |
||
|
No matter why. |
||
|
Dona Josefa. |
||
|
I hide you here ! |
||
|
Don Carlos. |
||
|
Yes, |
here. |
|
|
Dona Josefa. |
No, never!
Don Carlos (drawing from his girdle a purse and a dag- ger).
Madam, condescend to choose Between a purse and dagger.
Dona Josefa (taking the purse).
Are you then The devil?
Don Carlos. Yes, Duenna.
Dona Josefa (opening a narrow cupboard in the wall).
Go — go in.
12 DRAMAS [act i.
Don Carlos (examining the cupboard). This box !
Dona Josefa (shutting up the cupboard). If you don't like it, go away.
Don Carlos (re-opening cupboard). And yet ! [^Again examining it.
Is this the stable where you keep The broom-stick that you ride on?
He crouches down in the cupboard with difficulty.
Oh! oh! oh!
Dona Josefa (joining her hands and looking ashamed). A man here !
Don Carlos (from the cupboard, still open). And was it a woman then Your mistress here expected?
Dona Josefa.
Heavens ! I hear The step of Dona Sol ! Sir, shut the door ! Quick — quick \^She pushes the cupboard door, which closes.
Don Carlos (fro7n the closed cupboard). Remember, if you breathe a word You die!
Dona Josefa (alone). Who is this man? If I cry out, Gracious ! there's none to hear. All are asleep Within the palace walls — Madam and I Excepted. Pshaw ! the other'll come. He wears A sword; 'tis his affair. And Heav'n keep us From powers of hell. [^Weighing the purse in her hand.
At least no thief he is.
Enter Dona Sol in zvhite. (Dona Josefa hides the purse.)
sc. II.] HERNANI 13
Scene 2. — Dona Josefa ; Don Carlos, hidden; Dona Sol ;
afterwards Heenani.
Dona Sol. Josefa !
Dona Josefa.
Madam ?
Dona Sol, I some mischief dread, For 'tis full time Hernani should be here.
\^Noise of steps at the secret door.
He's coming up ; go — quick ! at once, undo Kre he has time to knock.
[Josefa opens the little door. Enter Hernani in large cloak and large hat; underneath, costume of moun- taineer of Aragon — grey, with a cuirass of leather; a sword, a dagger, and a horn at his girdle.
Dona Sol {going to him). Hernani ! Oh !
Hernani. Ah, Dona Sol ! it is yourself at last 1 see — your voice it is I hear. Oh, why Does cruel fate keep you so far from me.'' I have such need of you to help my heart Forget all else !
Dona Sol (touching his clothes).
Oh ! Heav'ns ! your cloak is drench'd ! The rain must pour!
Hernani. I know not.
Dona Sol.
And the cold
You must be cold !
14 DRAMAS [act i.
Hebnani. I feel it not.
Dona Sol.
Take off
This cloak then, pray.
Heenani.
Dona, beloved, tell me, When night brings happy sleep to you, so pure And innocent — sleep that half opes your mouth, Closing your eyes with its light finger-touch — Does not some angel show how dear you are To an unhappy man, by all the world Abandoned and repulsed?
Dona Sol.
Sir, you are late ; But tell, me are you cold?
Hernani.
Not near to you. Ah! when the raging fire of jealous love Burns in the veins, and the true heart is riven By its own tempest, we feel not the clouds O'erhead, though storm and lightning they fling forth!
Dona Sol. Come, give me now the cloak, and your sword too.
Hernani (his hand on his sword). No. 'Tis my other love, faithful and pure. The old Duke, Dona Sol — your promised spouse, Your uncle — is he absent now ?
Dona Sol.
Oh, yes; This hour to us belongs.
Hernani.
And that is all !
sc. II.] HERNANI 15
Only this hour! and then comes afterwards! — What matter! For I must forget or die! Angel ! one hour with thee — with whom I would Spend life, and afterwards eternity !
Dona Sol.. Hernani !
Hernani. It is happiness to know The Duke is absent. I am like a thief Who forces doors. I enter — see you — rob An old man of an hour of your sweet voice And looks. And I am happy, though, no doubt He would deny me e'en one hour, although He steals my very life.
Dona Sol. Be calm, [^Giving the cloak to the Duenna. Josef a ! This wet cloak take and dry it. \^Exit Josefa.
[She seats herself, and makes a sign for Hernani to
draw near.
Now come here.
Hernani (without appearing to hear her^. The Duke, then, is not in the mansion now.f*
Dona Sol,. How grand you look !
Hernani. He is away?
Dona Sol,.
Dear one, Let us not think about the Duke.
Hernani.
Madam,
16 DRAMAS [act i.
But let us think of hira, the grave old man
Who loves — you — who will marry you ! How now ?
He took a kiss from you the other day.
Not think of him !
Dona Sol.
Is't that which grieves you thus? A kiss upon my brow — an uncle's kiss — Almost a father's
Heunani. No, not so ; it was A lover's, husband's, jealous kiss. To him — To him it is that you will soon belong. Think'st thou not of it! Oh, the foolish dotard, With head drooped down to finish out his days ! Wanting a wife, he takes a girl ; himself Most like a frozen spectre. Sees he not, The senseless one ! that while with one hand he Espouses you, the other mates with Death ! Yet without shudder comes he 'twixt our hearts ! Seek out the grave-digger, old man, and give Thy measure.
Who Is it that makes for you This marriage.'' You are forced to it, I hope.'*
Dona Sol. They say the King desires it.
Hernani.
King! this king! My father on the scaffold died condemned By his ; ^ and, though one may have aged since then —
1 It is questionable if the author really meant the father of Charles the Fifth, Philip the Handsome, son of the Emperor of Germany, though Philip was for a short time Regent, in consequence of the mental incapacity of his wife Joanna. Possibly, taking a poetical licence, Victor Hugo wished to indicate the grandfather. King Ferdinand. They were equally capable of exercising tyranny and oppression, and
sc. 11.] HERNANI 17
For (j'cn the shadow of that king, his son,
His widow, and for all to him allied.
My hate continues fresh. Him dead, no more
We count with ; but while still a child I swore
That I'd avenge my father on his son.
I sought him in all places — Charles the King
Of the Castiles. For hate is rife between
Our families. The fathers wrestled long
And without pity, and without remorse.
For thirty years ! Oh, 'tis in vain that they
Are dead ; their hatred lives. For them no peace
Plas come ; their sons keep up the duel still.
Ah ! then I find 'tis thou who hast made up
This execrable marriage ! Thee I sought —
Thou comest in my way !
Dona Sol.
You frighten me !
Hernani. Charged with the mandate of anathema, I frighten e'en myself; but listen now: This old, old man, for whom they destine you, This Ruy de Silva, Duke de Pastrana, Count and grandee, rich man of Aragon, In place of youth can give thee, oh ! young girl, Such store of gold and jewels that your brow Will shine 'mong royalty's own diadems And for your rank and wealth, and pride and state, Queens many will perhaps envy you. See, then. Just what he is. And now consider me. My poverty is absolute, I say. Only the forest, where I ran barefoot In childhood, did I know. Although perchance I too can claim illustrious blazonry,
Philip was powerful in Spain long before he became Regent; he, how- ever, died too young for the animosity to have raged so many years as the text implies. — Trans. 2
18 DRAMAS [act i.
That's dimm'd just now by rusting stain of blood.
Perchance I've rights, though they are shrouded still,
And hid 'neath ebon folds of scaffold cloth,
Yet which, if my attempt one day succeeds,
May, with my sword from out their sheath leap forth.
Meanwhile, from jealous Heaven I've received
But air, and light, and water — gifts bestowed
On all. Now, wish you from the Duke, or me,
To be delivered? You must choose 'twixt us,
Whether you marry him, or follow me.
Dona Sol.
You, I will follow !
Hernani.
'Mong companions rude, Men all proscribed, of whom the headsman knows The names already. Men whom neither steel Nor touch of pity softens ; each one urged By some blood feud that's personal. Wilt thou Then come? They'd call thee mistress of my band. For know you not that I a bandit am ? When I was hunted throughout Spain, alone In thickest forests, and on mountains steep, 'Mong rocks which but the soaring eagle spied, Old Catalonia like a mother proved. Among her hills — free, poor, and stern — I grew ; And now, to-morrow if this horn should sound. Three thousand men would rally at the call. You shudder, and should pause to ponder well. Think what 'twill prove to follow me through woods And over mountain paths, with comrades like The fiends that come in dreams ! To live in fear, Suspicious of a sound, of voices, eyes : To sleep upon the earth, drink at the stream. And hear at night, while nourishing perchance Some wakeful babe, the whistling musket balls. To be a wanderer with me proscribed,
sc. II.] HERNANI 19
And when my father I shall follow — then, E'en to the scaffold, you to follow me!
Dona Sol. I'll follow you.
Hernani. The Duke is wealthy, great And prosperous, without a stain upon Plis ancient name. He offers you his hand, And can give all things — treasures, dignities, And pleasure
Dona Sol. We'll set out to-morrow. Oh! Hernani, censure not th' audacity Of this decision. Are you angel mine Or demon.'* Only one thing do I know, That I'm your slave. Now, listen : wheresoe'er You go, I go — pause you or move I'm yours. Why act I thus.? ' Ah ! that I cannot tell; Only I want to see 3'ou evermore. When sound of your receding footstep dies I feel my heart stops beating; without you Myself seems absent, but when I detect Again the step I love, my soul comes back, I breathe — I live once more.
Hernani (embracing her).
Oh ! angel mine !
Dona Sol. At midnight, then, to-morrow, clap your hands Three times beneath my window, bringing there Your escort. Go ! I shall be strong and brave.
Hernani. Now know you who I am.''
Dona Sol.
Only my lord. Enough — what matters else ? — I follow you.
20
DRAMAS
[act I.
Hernani. Not so. Since you, a woman weak, decide To come with me, 'tis right that you should know What name, what rank, what soul, perchance what fate There hides beneath the low Hernani here. Yes, you have willed to link yourself for aye With brigand — would you still with outlaw mate.''
Don Carlos (opening the cupboard). When will you finish all this history? Think 3^ou 'tis pleasant in this cupboard hole?
[Hernani recoils, astonished. Dona Sol screams and takes refuge in Hernani's arms, looking at Don Carlos with frightened gaze.
Hernani (his hand on the hilt of his sword). Who is this man?
Dona Sol. Oh, heavens, help 1
Hernani.
Be still,
]\Iy Dona Sol ! you'll wake up dangerous eyes. Never — whatever be — while I am near, Seek other help than mine.
(to Don Carlos.) What do you here.?
Don Carlos. I ? — Well, I am not riding through the wood, That you should ask.
Hernani.
He who affronts, then jeers, May cause his heir to laugh.
Don Carlos.
Let us speak frankly. You the lady love. And come each night to mirror in her eyes
Each, Sir, in turn.
sc. II.] HERNANI 21
Your own. I love her too, and want to know
Who 'tis I have so often seen come in
The window way, while I stand at the door.
Hernani. Upon my word, I'll send you out the way I enter.
Don Carlos. As to that we'll see. My love I offer unto Madam. Shall we then Agree to share it.? In her beauteous soul I've seen so much of tenderness, and love. And sentiment, that she, I'm very sure. Has quite enough for ardent lovers twain. Therefore to-night, wishing to end suspense On your account, I forced an entrance, hid, And — to confess it all — I listened too. But I heard badly, and was nearly choked ; And then I crumpled my French vest — and so, By Jove ! come out I must !
Hernani.
Likewise my blade Is not at ease, and hurries to leap out.
Don Carlos {bowing). Sir, as you please.
Hernani (drawing his sword). Defend yourself!
[Don Carlos draws his sword.
Dona Sol.
Oh, Heaven!
Don Carlos. Be calm, Senora.
Hernani (to Don Carlos). Tell me, Sir, your name.
22 DRAMAS [act i
Don Carlos. Tell me yours!
Hernani. It is a fatal secret, Kept for my breathing in another's ear. Some day when I am conqueror, with my knee Upon his breast, and dagger in his heart.
Don Carlos. Then tell to me this other's name.
Hernani.
To thee What matters it? On guard! Defend thyself!
[^They cross swords. Dona Sol falls trembling into a chair. They hear knocks at the door.
Dona Sol (rising in alarm). Oh Heavens ! there's some one knocking at the door !
l^The champions pause. Enter Josefa, at the little door, in a frightened state.
Hernani (to Josefa). Who knocks in this way?
Dona Josefa (fo Dona Sol).
Madam, a surprise! An unexpected blow. It is the Duke Come home.
Dona Sol (clasping her hands).
The Duke ! Then every hope is lost !
Dona Josefa (looking round). Gracious! the stranger out! and swords, and fighting! Here's a fine business !
\^The two combatants sheathe their sxcords. Don Carlos draws his cloak round him, and pulls his hat down on his forehead. More knocking.
sc. II.] HERNANI 23
Hernani. What is to be done?
[^Mofe knocking.
A Voice (witJwut). Dona Sol, open to me.
[Dona Josefa is going to the door, when Hernani stops
her.
Hernani. Do not open.
Dona Josefa (pulling out her rosary). Holy St. James ! now dx'aw us through this broil !
[More knocking. Hernani {pointing to the cupboard). Let's hide !
Don Carlos. What ! in the cupboard .''
Hernani.
Yes, go in; I will take care that it shall hold us both.
Don Carlos. Thanks. No; it is too good a joke.
Hernani {pointing to secret door).
Let's fly That way.
Don Carlos. Good night! But as for me I stay Here.
Hernani.
Fire and fury, Sir, we will be quits
For this. {To Dona Sol.) What if I firmly barr'd the
door ?
Don Carlos {to Josefa). Open the door.
24 DRAMAS [act i.
Hernani.
What is it that he says?
Don Carlos {to Josefa, who hesitates bewildered). Open the dooi', I say.
l^More knocking. Josefa opens the door, trembling.
Dona Sol,. Oh, I shall die !
Scene 3. — The same, with Don Ruy Gomez de Silva, in black; white hair and beard. Servants with lights.
Don Ruy Gomez. My niece with two men at this hour of night ! Come all ! The thing is worth exposing here. {To Dona Sol.) Now by St. John of Avila, I vow That we three with you, madam, are by two Too many. {To the two young men.) My young Sirsc
what do you here.'' When we'd the Cid and Bernard — giants both Of Spain and of the world — they travelled through Castile protecting women, honouring Old men. For them steel armour had less weight Than your fine velvets have for you. These men Respected whitened beards, and when they loved, Their love was consecrated by the Church. Never did such men cozen or betray. For reason that they had to keep unflawed The honour of their house. Wished they to wed, They took a stainless wife in open day, Before the Morld, with sword, or axe, or lance In hand. But as for villains such as you, Who come at eve, peeping bebind them oft, To steal away the honour of men's wives In absence of their husbands, I declare, The Cid, our ancestor, had he but known Such men, he would have plucked away from them Nobility usurped, have made them kneel,
sc. III.] HERNANI 25
While he with flat of sword their blazon dashed. Behold what were the men of former times Whom I, with anguish, now compare witli these I see to-day ! What do you here ? Is it To say, a white-haired man's but fit for youth To point at when he passes in the street. And jeer at there? Shall they so laugh at me, Tried soldier of Zamora ? At the least Not yours will be that laugh.
Hernani. But Duke
Don Buy Gomez.
Be still ! What ! You have sword and lance, falcons, the chase. And songs to sing 'neath balconies at night. Festivals, pleasures, feathers in your hats, Baiment of silk — balls, youth, and joy of life; But wearied of them all, at any price You want a toy, and take an old man for it. Ah, though you've broke the toy, God wills that it In bursting should be flung back in your face! Now follow me !
Hernani. Most noble Duke
Don Buy Gomez.
Follow —
Follow me, sirs. Is this alone a jest? What ! I've a treasure, mine to guard with care, A young girl's character, a family's fame. This girl I love — by kinship to me bound. Pledged soon to change her ring for one from me. I know her spotless, chaste, and pure. Yet when I leave my home one hour, I — Buy Gomez De Silva — find a thief who steals from me My honour, glides unto my house. Back, back, Make clean your hands, oh base and soulless men,
26 DRAMAS [act i.
Whose presence, brushing by, must serve to taint Our women's fame ! But no, 'tis welh Proceed. Have I not something more? \^Snatches off his collar.
Take, tread it now Beneath your feet. Degrade my Golden Fleece.
[^Throws off his hat. Pluck at my hair, insult me every way, And then, to-morrow through the town make boast That lowest scoundrels in their vilest sport Have never shamed a nobler brow, nor soiled More whitened hair.
Dona Sol. My lord
Don Ruy Gomez {to his servants).
A rescue ! grooms ! Bring me my dagger of Toledo, axe. And dirk. [^To the young men.
Now follow — follow me — ye two.
Don Carlos (stepping forzvard a little). Duke, this is not the pressing thing just now ; First we've to think of Maximilian dead, The Emperor of Germany.
^Opens his cloak and shows his face, previously hidden
by his hat.
Don Ruy Gomez.
Jest you ! Heavens, the King !
Dona Sol. The King!
Hernani.
The King of Spain !
Don Carlos {gravely). Yes, Charles, my noble Duke, are thy wits gone.'' The Emperor, my grandsire, is no more. I knew it not until this eve, and came
sc. III.] IIERNANI 27
At once to tell it you and counsel ask,
Incognito, at night, knowing you well
A loyal subject tliat I inucli regard.
The tiling is very simple that has caused
This hubbub.
[Don Ruy Gomez sends away servants hy a sign, and approaches Don Carlos. Dona Sol looks at The King with fear and surprise. Hernani from a corner regards him with flashing eyes.
Don Ruy Gomez. But oh, why was it the door Was not more quickly opened .'*
Don Carlos.
Reason good. Remember all your escort. When it is A weighty secret of the state I bear That brings me to your palace, it is not To tell it to thy servants.
Don Ruy Gomez.
Highness, oh ! Forgive me, some appearances
Don Carlos.
Good father. Thee Governor of the Castle of Figuere I've made. But whom thy governor shall I make.?
Don Ruy Gomez. Oh, pardon
Don Carlos. 'Tis enough. We'll say no more Of this. The Emperor is dead.
Don Ruy Gomez.
Your Highness's Grandfather dead !
28 DRAMAS [act i.
In deep affliction.
Don Carlos.
Ay ! Duke, you see me here
Don Ruy Gomez.
.Who'll succeed him?
Don Carlos. A Duke of Saxony is named. The throne Francis the First of France aspires to mount.
Don Ruy Gomez. Where do the Electors of the Empire meet?
Don Carlos. They say at Aix-la-Chapelle, or at Spire, Or Frankfort.
Don Ruy Gomez. But our King, whom God preserve ! .Has he not thought of Empire?
Don Carlos. Constantly.
Don Ruy Gomez. To you it should revert.
Don Carlos.
I know it, Duke.
Don Ruy Gomez. Your father was Archduke of Austria, I hope 'twill be remembered that you are Grandson to him, who but just now has changed Th' imperial purple for a winding-sheet.
Don Carlos. I am, besides, a citizen of Ghent.
Don Ruy Gomez. In my own youth your grandfather I saw. Alas ! I am the sole survivor now
sc. III.] HERNANI 29
Of all that generation past. All dead ! He was an Emperor magnificent And mighty.
Don Carlos. Rome is for me.
Don Ruy Gomez.
Valiant, firm, And not tyrannical, this head might well Become th' old German body.
\^He bends over The King's hands and kisses them. Yet so young. I pity you indeed, thus plunged in such A sorrow.
Don Carlos. Ah ! the Pope is anxious now To get back Sicily — the isle that's mine ; 'Tis ruled that Sicily cannot belong Unto an Emperor ; therefore it is That he desires me Emperor to be made ; And then, to follow that, as docile son I give up Naples too. Let us but have The Eagle, and we'll see if I allow Its wings to be thus clipp'd !
Don Ruy Gomez.
What joy 'twould be For this great veteran of the throne to see Your brow, so fit, encircled by his crown ! Ah, Highness, we together weep for him. The Christian Emperor, so good, so great!
Don Carlos. The Holy Father's clever. He will say — This isle unto my States should come ; 'tis but A tatter'd rag that scarce belongs to Spain. What will you do with this ill-shapen isle That's sewn upon the Empire hy a thread?
30 DRAIMAS [act i.
Your Empire is ill-made ; but quick, come here,
The scissors bring, and let us cut away ! —
Thanks, Holy Father, but if I have luck
I think that many pieces such as this
Upon the Holy Empire will be sewn !
And if some rags from me are ta'en, I mean
With isles and duchies to replace them all.
Don Ruy Gomez. Console yourself, for we shall see again The dead more holy and more great. There Is An Empire of the Just.
Don Carlos.
Francis the First Is all ambition. The old Emperor dead. Quick he'll turn wooing. Has he not fair France Most Christian.'* 'Tis a place worth holding fast. Once to King Louis did my grandsire say — If I were God, and had two sons, I'd make The elder God, the second. King of France.
[to Don Ruy Gomez. Think you that Francis has a chance to win,?
Don Ruy Gomez. He is a victor.
Don Carlos. There'd be all to change — The golden bull doth foreigners exclude.
Don Ruy Gomez. In a like manner. Highness, you would be Accounted King of Spain.
Don Carlos.
But I was born A citizen of Ghent.
Don Ruy Gomez.
His last campaign Exalted Francis mightily.
sc. m.] HERNANI 31
Don Carlos.
The Eagle That soon perchance upon my hehn will gleam Knows also how to open out its wings.
Don Ruy Gomez. And knows jour Highness Latin?
Don Carlos.
Ah, not much.
Don Ruy Gomez. A pity that. The German nobles like The best those who in Latin speak to them.
Don Carlos. With haughty Spanish they will be content, For trust King Charles, 'twill be of small account. When masterful the voice, what tongue it speaks. To Flanders I must go. Your King, dear Duke, Must Emperor return. The King of France Will stir all means. I must be quick to win. I shall set out at once.
Don Ruy Gomez.
Do you then go, Oh Highness, without clearing Aragon Of those fresh bandits who, among the hills. Their daring insolence show everywhere?
Don Carlos. To the Duke d'Arcos I have orders given That he should quite exterminate the band.
Don Ruy Gomez. But is the order given to its Cliief To let the thing be done ?
Don Carlos- Who is this Chief — His name?
32 DRAMAS [aot i.
Don Ruy Gomez. I know not. But the people say That he's an awkward customer.
Don Carlos.
Pshaw ! I know That now he somewhere in Galicia hides ; With a few soldiers, soon we'll capture him.
Don Ruy Gomez. Then it was false, the rumour which declared That he was hereabouts.?
Don Carlos.
Quite false. Thou canst Accommodate me here to-night.
Don Ruy Gomez {bowing to the ground).
Thanks ! Thanks ! Highness! {He calls his servants.)
You'll do all honour to the King, My guest.
[^The servants re-enter with lights. The Duke arranges them in two rows to the door at the hack. Mean- while Dona Sol approaches Hernani softly. The King observes them.
Dona Sol {to Hernani).
To-morrow, midnight, without fail Beneath my window clap your hands three times.
Hernani {softly). To-morrow night.
Don Carlos {aside). To-morrow ! l^Aloud to Dona Sol, whom he approaches with politeness.
Let me now g|
Escort you hence, I pray.
\^He leads her to the door. She goes out.
sc. III.] HERNANI 33
Heenani (his hand in his breast on dagger hilt).
My dagger true !
Don Carlos (coming back, aside). Our man here has the look of being trapp'd.
[^He takes Hernani aside. I've crossed my sword with yours ; that honour, sir, I've granted you. For many reasons I Suspect you much, but to betray you now Would shame the King ; go therefore freely. E'en I deign to aid your flight.
Don Ruy Gomez (coming back, and pointing to Hernani).
This lord — who's he ?
Don Carlos, One of my followers, who'll soon depart.
[^They go out with servants and lights, the Duke preced- ing with waxlight in his hand.
Scene 4. — Hernani alone.
Hernani.
One of thy followers ! I am, oh King !
Well said. For night and day and step by step
I follow thee, with eye upon thy path
And dagger in my hand. My race in me
Pursues thy race in thee. And now behold
Thou art my rival ! For an instant I
'Twixt love and hate was balanced in the scale.
Not large enough my heart for her and thee ;
In loving her oblivious I became
Of all my hate of thee. But since 'tis thou
That comes to will I should remember it,
I recollect. My love it is that tilts
Th' uncertain balance, while it falls entire
Upon the side of hate. Thy follower ! 3
34 DRAMAS [act i.
'Tis thou hast said it. Never courtier yet
Of thy accursed court, or noble, fain
To kiss thy shadow — not a seneschal
With human heart abjured in serving thee;
No dog within the palace, trained the King
To follow, will thy steps more closely haunt
And certainly than I. What they would have,
These famed grandees, is hollow title, or
Some toy that shines — some golden sheep to hang
About the neck. Not such a fool am I.
What I would have is not some favour vain,
But 'tis thy blood, won by my conquering steel —
Thy soul from out thy body forced — with all
That at the bottom of thy heart was reached
After deep delving. Go — you are in front —
I follow thee. My watchful vengeance walks
With me, and whispers in mine ear. Go where
Thou wilt I'm there to listen and to spy.
And noiselessly my step will press on thine.
No day, shouldst thou but turn thy head, oh King,
But thou wilt find me, motionless and grave.
At festivals ; at night, should'st thou look back.
Still wilt thou see my flaming eyes behind.
[^Exit by the little door.
I
SECOND ACT : THE BANDIT
Saragossa.
Scene 1, — A square before the Palace of Silva. On the left the high walls of the Palace, with a window and a balcony. Below the window a little door. To the right, at the back, houses of the street. Night. Here and there are a few windows still lit up, shining in the front of the houses.
Don Carlos, Don Sancho Sanchez de Zuniga Comte de Monterey, Don Matias Centurion Marquis d'Al- MUNAN, Don Ricardo de Roxas Lord of Casapalma.
All four arrive, Don Carlos at the head, hats pulled doxvn, and wrapped in long cloaks, which their swords inside raise up.
Don Carlos {looking up at the balcony). Behold ! We're at the balcony — the door. My heart is bounding.
[Pointing to the window, which is dark. Ah, no light as yet. [He looks at the windows where light shines. Although it shines just where I'd have it not, While where I wish for light is dark.
Don Sancho.
Now let us of this traitor speak again. And you permitted him to go !
35
Your Highness,
36 DRAMAS [act. ii.
Don Caelos. 'Tis true.
Don Matias. And he, perchance, was Major of the band.
Don Carlos. Were he the Major or the Captain e'en, No crown'd king ever had a haughtier air.
Don Sancho. Highness, his name.''
Don Carlos {his eyes fixed on the window).
Munoz Fernan
In i.
{With gesture of a man suddenly recollecting).
A name
Don Sancho.
Perchance Hernani.?
Don Carlos.
Yes.
Don Sancho.
'Twas he.
Don Matias. The chief, Hernani!
Don Sancho. Cannot you recall His speech.''
Don Carlos. Oh, I heard nothing in the vile And wretched cupboard.
Don Sancho.
Wherefore let him slip When there you had him ?
sc. I.] HERNANI 37
Don Carlos (^turnmg round gravely and looking hvm m the
face).
Count de Monterey, You question me !
\^The two nobles step back, and are silent. Besides, it was not he Was in my mind. It was his mistress, not His head, I wanted. Madly I'm in love With two dark eyes, the loveliest in the world, My friends ! Two mirrors, and two rays ! two flames ! I heard but of their history these words : " To-morrow come at midnight." 'Twas enough. The joke is excellent! For while that he, The bandit lover, by some murd'rous deed Some grave to dig, is hindered and delayed, I softly take liis dove from out its nest.
Don Ricardo. Highness, 'twould make the thing far more complete If we, the dove in gaining, killed the kite.
Don Carlos. Count, 'tis most capital advice. Your hand Is prompt.
Don Ricardo {bo-wing low). And by what title will it please The King that I be Count.?
Don Sancho,
'Twas a mistake.
Don Ricardo (to Don Sancho). The King has called me Count.
Don Carlos.
Enough — enough ! (to Don Ricardo.) I let the title fall; but pick it up.
38 DRAMAS [act. ii.
Don Ricabdo {bowing again). Thanks, Highness.
Don Sancho.
A fine Count — Count by mistake ! [The King walks to the back of the stage, watching eagerly the lighted windows. The two lords talk together at the fro7it.
Don Matias {to Don Sancho). What think you that the King will do, when once The beauty's taken?
Don Sancho {looking sideways at Don Ricaedo).
Countess she'll be made ; Lady of honour afterwards, and then, If there's a son, he will be King.
Don Matias.
How so.? — My Lord ! a bastard ! Let him be a Count. Were one His Highness, would one choose as king A Countess' son?
Don Sancho.
He'd make her Marchioness Ere then, dear Marquis.
Don Matias.
Bastards — they are kept For conquer'd countries. They for viceroys serve.
TDoTJ Caut.os rnnrips fr,
[Don Carlos comes forward.
Don Carlos {looking with vexation at the lighted windows). Might one not say they're jealous eyes that watch? Ah ! there are two which darken ; we shall do. Weary the time of expectation seems — Sirs, who can make it go more quickly?
sc. I.] HERNANI 39
Don Sancho.
That Is what we often ask ourselves within The palace.
Don Carlos. 'Tis the thing my people say Again with you. [^The last xv'mdow light is extinguished. The last light now is gone. {Turning towards the balcony of Dona Sol, still dark.) Oh, hateful window ! When wilt thou light up ? The night is dark ; come, Doila Sol, and shine Like to a star! {To Don Ricardo.)
Is 't midnight yet.''
Don Ricardo.
Almost.
Don Carlos. Ah ! we must finish, for the other one At any moment may appear.
[-4 light appears in Dona Sol's chamber. Her shadow is seen through the glass. My friends ! A lamp ! and she herself seen through the pane ! Never did daybreak charm me as this sight. Let's hasten with the signal she expects. We must clap hands three times. An instant more And you will see her. But our number, perhaps, Will frighten her. Go, all three out of sight Beyond there, watching for the man we want. 'Twixt us, my friends, we'll share the loving pair, For me the girl — the brigand is for you.
Don Ricardo. Best thanks.
Don Carlos. If he appear from ambuscade, Rush quickly, knock him down, and, while the dupe
40 DRAMAS [act. ii.
Recovers from the blow, it is for me
To carry safely off the darling prize.
We'll laugh anon. But kill him not outright,
He's brave, I own; — killing 's a grave affair.
[The lords how and go. Don Carlos waits till they are quite gone, then claps his hands twice. At the second time the window opens, and Dona Sol appears on the balcony.
Scene 2. — Don Caelos. Dona Sol.
Dona Sol {from the balcony). Hernani, is that you?
Don Carlos (aside).
The devil! We must Not parley! [He claps his hands again.
Dona Sol. I am coming down. [She closes the window and the light disappears. The next minute the little door opens, and she comes out, the lamp in her hand, and a mantle over her shoulders.
Dona Sol.
Hernani !
[Don Carlos pulls his hat down on his face, and
hurries towards her.
Dona Sol {letting her lamp fall). Heavens ! 'Tis not liis footstep !
She attempts to go back, hut Don Carlos runs to her and seizes her by the arm.
Don Carlos.
Dona Sol! Dona Sol. 'Tis not his voice ! Oh, misery !
sc. II.] HERNANI 41
Don Caelos.
What voice Is there that thou could'st hear that would be more A lover's? It is still a lover here, And King for one.
Dona Sol. The King !
Don Carlos.
Ah! wish, command, A kingdom waits thy will ; for he whom thou Hast vanquish'd is the King, thy lord — 'tis Charles, Thy slave !
Dona Sol {trying to escape from him).
To the rescue ! Help, Hernani ! Help !
Don Carlos. Thy fear is maidenly, and worthy thee. 'Tis not thy bandit — 'tis thy King that holds Thee now !
Dona Sol. Ah, no. The bandit's you. Are you Not 'shamed? The blush unto my own cheek mounts For you. Are these the exploits to be noised Abroad? A woman thus at night to seize ! My bandit's worth a hundred of such kings ! I do declare, if man were born at level Of his soul, and God made rank proportional To his heart, he would be king and prince, and you The robber be !
Don Carlos {trying to entice her). Madam !
Dona Sol.
Do you forget My father was a Count?
42 DRAMAS [act ii.
Don Carlos.
And you I'll make A Duchess.
Dona Sol, (repulsing him). Cease ! All this is shameful ; — go !
[She retreats a few steps. Nothing, Don Carlos, can there 'twixt us be. My father for you freely shed his blood. I am of noble birth, and heedful ever Of my name's purity. I am too high To be your concubine — too low to be Your wife.
Don Carlos. Princess !
Dona Sol.
Carry to wortliless girls, King Charles, your vile addresses. Or, if me You treat insultingly, I'll show you well That I'm a woman, and a noble dame.
Don Carlos. Well, then but come, and you shall share my throne, My name — you shall be Queen and Empress
Dona Sol.
It is a snare. Besides, I frankly speak. Since, Highness, it concerns you. I avow I'd rather with my king, Hcrnani, roam. An outcast from the world and from the law — Know thirst and hunger, wandering all the year, Sharing the hardships of his destiny — Exile and warfare, mourning hours of terror, Than be an Empress with an Emperor !
Don Carlos. Oh, happy man is he!
No.
sc. II.] HERNANI 43
Dona Sol.
What ! poor, proscribed !
Don Carlos. 'Tis well with him, though poor, proscribed he be. For he's beloved ! — an angel watches him ! I'm desolate. You hate me, then?
Dona Sol.
I love You not.
Don Carlos (seizing her violently). Well, then, it matters not to me Whether you love me, or you love me not ! You shall come with me — yes, for that my hand's The stronger, and I will it ! And Ave'll see If I for nothing am the King of Spain And of the Indies !
Dona Sol (struggling).
Highness ! Pity me ! You're King, you only have to choose among The Countesses, the Duchesses, the great Court ladies, all have love prepared to meet And answer yours ; but what has my proscribed Received from niggard fortune? You possess Castile and Aragon — Murcia and Leon, Navarre, and still ten kingdoms more. Flanders, And India with the mines of gold you own, An empire without peer, and all so vast That ne'er the sun sets on it. And when you. The King, have all, would you take me, poor girl, From him who has but me alone.
{^She throws herself on her knees. He tries to draw her up.
Don Carlos.
Come — come ! I cannot listen. Come with me. I'll give
44 DRAMAS [act ii.
Of Spain a fourth part unto thee. Saj, now. What wilt thou? Choose.
Dona Sol {struggling in his arms).
For mine own honour's sake I'll only from your Highness take this dirk.
\^She snatches the poignard from his girdle. Approach me now but by a step!
Don Carlos.
The beauty ! I wonder not she loves a rebel now.
l^He makes a step towards her. She raises the dirk.
Dona Sol. Another step, I kill you — and myself.
l^He retreats again. She turns and cries loudly. Hernani! Oh, Hemani!
Don Caelos. Peace !
And all is finished.
Dona Sol.
One step,
Don Carlos. Madam, to extremes I'm driven. Yonder there I have three men To force you — followers of mine.
Hernani {corning suddenly behind him).
But one You have forgotten.
[The King turns, and sees Hernani rnofionless behind him in the shade, his arms crossed under the long cloak which is wrapped rotind him, and the brim of his hat raised up. Dona Sol makes an exclamation and runs to him.
sc. III.] HERNANI 45
Scene 3.- — Don Carlos, Dona Sol, Hernani.
Hernani {motionless, his arms still crossed, and his fiery eyes
fixed on the King).
Heaven my witness Is, That far from here it was I wished to seek him.
Dona Sol. Hernani ! save me from him.
Hernani.
My dear love. Fear not.
Don Carlos. Now what could all my friends in town Be doing, thus to let pass by the chief Of the Bohemians .f' Ho! Monterey!
Hernani. Your friends are in the hands of mine just now. So call not on their powerless swords ; for three That you might claim, sixty to me would come Each one worth four of yours. So let us now Our quarrel terminate. What ! you have dared To lay a hand upon this girl ! It was An act of folly, great Castilian King, And one of cowardice !
Don Carlos.
Sir Bandit, hold! There must be no reproach from you to me !
Hernani. He jeers ! Oh, I am not a king ; but when A king insults me, and above all jeers, My anger swells and surges up, and lifts
46 DRAMAS [act ii.
Me to his height. Take care ! When I'm offended,
Men fear far more the reddening of my brow
Than helm of king. Foolhardy, therefore, you
If still you're lured by hope. \^Seizes his arm.
Know you what hand Now grasps you.'' Listen. 'Twas your father who Was death of mine. I hate you for it. You My title and my wealth have taken. You I hate. And the same woman now we love. I hate — hate — from my soul's depths you I hate.
Don Carlos. That's well.
Hernani.
And yet this night my hate was lull'd. Only one thought, one wish, one want I had — 'Twas Dona Sol ! And I, absorbed in love, Came here to find you daring against her To strive, with infamous design ! You — you, The man forgot — thus in my pathway placed ! I tell you. King, you are demented ! Ah ! King Charles, now see you're taken in the snare Laid by yourself: and neither flight nor help For thee is possible. I hold tiiee x'ast. Besieged, alone, surrounded by thy foes, Bloodthirsty ones, what wilt thou do.?
Don Carlos (proudly,)
Dare you To question me !
Hernani.
Pish ! pish ! I would not wish An arm obscure should strike thee. 'Tis not so My vengeance should have play. 'Tis I alone Must deal with thee. Therefore defend thyself.
[He draws his sword
Don Carlos. I am your lord, the King. Strike ! but no duel.
sc. III.] HERNANI 4.7
Hernani. Highness, thou may'st remember yesterday Thy sword encountered mine.
Don Carlos.
I yesterday Could do it. I your name knew not, and you Were ignorant of my rank. Not so to-day. You know who I am, I who you are now.
Perchance.
Hernani.
Don Carlos. No duel. You can murder. Do.
Hernani. Think you that kings to me are sacred .f* Come, Defend thyself.
Don Carlos.
You will assassinate Me then.?
[Hernani falls bacJc. The King looks at him with
eagle eyes. Ah ! bandits, so you dare to think That your most vile brigades may safely spread Through towns — ye blood-stained, murderous, miscreant
crew — But that you'll play at magnanimity ! As if we'd deign th' ennobling of your dirks By touch of our own swords — we victims duped. No, crime enthralls you — after you it trails. Duels with you ! Away ! and murder me.
[Hernani, viorose and thoughtful, plays for some in- stants with the hilt of his sword, then turns sharply towards the King and snaps the blade on the pave- ment.
48 DRAMAS [act ii.
Heenani. Go, then.
l^The King half turns towards him and looks at him
haughtily. We shall have fitter meetings. Go. Get thee away.
Don Carlos.
'Tis well. I go, Sir, soon Unto the Ducal Palace. I, your King, Will then employ the magistrate. Is there Yet put a price upon your head ?
Oh, yes.
Hernani.
Don Carlos. My master, from this day I reckon you A rebel, trait'rous subject ; you I warn. I will pursue you everywhere, and make You outlaw from my kingdom.
Hernani.
Already.
Don Carlos. That is well.
Hernani.
But France is near To Spain. There's refuge there.
Don Carlos.
That I am
But I shall be
The Emperor of Germany, and you Under the empire's ban shall be.
Hernani.
Ah, well ! I still shall have the remnant of the world,
sc. m.] HERNANI 4.9
From which to brave you — and with havens safe O'er which you'll have no power.
Don Caelos.
But when I've gain'd The world?
Hernani. Then I shall have the grave.
Don Carlos.
Your plots So insolent I shall know how to thwart.
Hernani.
Vengeance is lame, and comes with lagging steps, But still it comes.
Don Carlos {with a half laugh of disdain).
For touch of lady whom The bandit loves !
Hernani {with flashing eyes).
Dost thou remember, King, I hold thee still? Make me not recollect Oh, future Roman Csesar, that despised I have thee in my all too loyal hand. And that I only need to close it now To crush the egg of thy Imperial Eagle !
Don Carlos. Then do it.
Hernani. Get away.
\^He takes off his cloaJc, and throws it on the shoulders of the King. Go, fly, and take This cloak to shield thee from some knife I fear Among our ranks. [^The King wraps himself in the cloak.
At present safely go.
50 DRAMAS [act ii.
My thwarted vengeance for myself I keep. It makes 'gainst every other hand thy Hfe Secure.
Don Carlos. And you who've spoken thus to me Ask not for mercy on some future day.
\_Exit Don Carlos.
Scene 4. — Hernani. Dona Sol.
Dona Sol {seizing Hernani's hand.) Now let us fly — be quick.
Hernani.
It well becomes You, loved one, in the trial hour to prove Thus strong, unchangeable, and willing e'en To tlv end and depth of all to cling to me; A noble wish, woi'thj' a faithful soul ! But Thou, oh God, dost see that to accept The joy that to my cavern she would bring — The treasure of a beauty that a king Now covets — and that Dona Sol to nic Should all belong — that she with me should 'bide, And all our lives be joined — that this should be Without regret, remorse — it is too late. The scaffold is too near.
Dona Sol.
What is't you say ?
Hernani. This King, whom to his face just now I braved, Will punish me for having dared to show Him mercy. He already, perhaps, has reached His palace, and is calling round him guards And servants, his great lords, his headsmen —
sc. IV,] HERNANI 51
Dona Sol.
Heavens ! Hernani! Oh, I shudder. Never mind, Let us be quick and fly together then.
HiSENANI.
Together! No; the hour has passed for that. Alas! When to my eyes thou didst reveal Thyself, so good and generous, deigning e'en To love me with a helpful love, I could But offer you — I, wretched one ! — the hills, The woods, the torrents, bread of the proscribed, The bed of turf, all that the forest gives ; Thy pity then emboldened me — but now To ask of thee to share the scaffold I No, No, Dona Sol. That is for me alone.
Dona Sol. And yet you promised even that !
Heenani {falling on his knees.)
Angel ! At this same moment, when perchance from out The shadow Death approaches, to wind up All mournfully a life of mournfulness. I do declare that here a man proscribed. Enduring trouble great, profound — and rock'd In blood-stained cradle — black as is the gloom Which spreads o'er all my life, I still declare I am a happy, to-be-envied man, For you have loved me, and your love have owned! For you have whispered blessings on my brow Accursed !
Dona Sol (leaning over his head.)
Hernani !
Hernani.
Praised be the fate
52 DRAMAS [act ii.
Sweet and propitious that for me now sets
This flower upon the precipice's brink! {Raising himself.)
'Tis not to jou that I am speaking thus ;
It is to Heaven that hears, and unto God.
Dona Sol. Let me go with you.
Hernani.
Ah, 'twould be a crime To pluck the flower while falling in the abyss. Go : I have breathed the perfume — 'tis enough. Remould your life, by me so sadly marred. This old man wed ; 'tis I release you now. To darkness I return. Be happy thou — Be happy and forget.
Dona Sol.
No, I will have My portion of thy shroud. I follow thee. I hang upon thy steps.
Heenani {pressing her in his arms).
Oh, let me go Alone ! Exiled — proscribed — a fearful man Am I.
l^He quits her with a convulsive movement, and is going.
Dona Sol {mournfully, and clasping her hands).
Hernani, do you fly from me !
Hernani {returning). Well, then, no, no. You will it, and I stay. Behold me ! Come into my arms. I'll wait As long as thou wilt have me. Let us rest, Forgetting them. \_He seats her on a bench.
Be seated on this stone.
\_He places himself at her feet. The liquid light of your eyes inundates Mine own. Sing me some song, such as sometimes
sc. IV.] HERNANl 53
You used at eve to warble, with the tears
In those dark orbs. Let us be happy now,
And drink ; the cup is fulL This liour is ours,
The rest is only folly. Speak and say,
Enrapture me. Is it not sweet to love,
And know that he who kneels before you loves?
To be but two alone.? Is it not sweet
To speak of love in stillness of the night
When nature rests.? Oh, let me slumber now,
And on thy bosom dream. Oh, Dona Sol,
My love, my darling! [Noise of bells in the distance.
Dona Sol {starting up frightened).
Tocsin! — dost thou hear.? The tocsin I
Hernani {still kneeling at her feet). Eh ! No, 'tis our bridal bell They're ringing.
[The noise increases. Confused cries. Lights at all the windows, on the roofs, and in the streets.
Dona Sol. Rise — oh, fly — great God ! the town Lights up !
Heenani {half rising).
A torchlight wedding for us 'tis 1
Dona Sol. The nuptials these of Death, and of the tombs !
[Noise of swords and cries.
Hernani {lying down on the stone bench). Let us to sleep again.
A Mountaineer {rushing in, sword in hand}
The runners, sir. The alcades rush out in cavalcades With mighty force. Be quick — my Captain, — quick.
[Hernani rises.
54 DRAMAS [act ii
Dona Sol {pale). AJi, thou wert right !
The Mountaineeb.
Oh, help us !
Hebnani {to Mountaineer).
It is well — ['m ready. {Confused cries outside.)
Death to the bandit !
Hernani {to Mountaineer).
Quick, thy sword — {To Dona Sol.) Farewell !
Dona Sol. 'Tis I have been thy ruin ! Oh, Where can'st thou go? {Pointing to the little door.)
The door is free. Let us Escape that way.
Hernani. Heavens ! Desert my friends ! What dost thou say .''
Dona Sol.
These clamours terrify. Remember, if thou diest I must die.
Hernani {holding her in his arms). A kiss!
Dona Sol. Hernani ! Husband ! INIaster mine !
Hernani {kissing her forehead). las ! it is the first !
Dona Sol.
Perchance the last! [Hernani exit. She falls on the bench
THIRD ACT: THE OLD MAN
The Castle of Silva.
In the midst of the Mountains of Aragon.
Scene 1. — The gallery of family portraits of Silva; a great hall of which these portraits — surrounded with rich frames, and surmounted by ducal coronets and gilt es- cutcheons - — form the decoration. At the back a lofty gothic door. Betxceen the portraits complete panoplies of armour of different centuries.
Dona Sol, pale, and standing near a table.
Don Ruy Gomez de Silva, seated in his great carved oak
chair.
Don Ruy Gomez. At last the day has come ! — and in an hour Thou'lt be my Duchess, and embrace me ! Not Tliine Uncle then ! But hast thou pardoned me? That I was wrong I own. I raised thy blush, 1 made thy cheek turn pale. I was too quick With my suspicions — should have stayed to hear Before condemning ; but appearances Should take the blame. Unjust we were. Certes The two 3^oung handsome men were there. But then' No matter — well I know that I should not Have credited my eyes. But, my poor child, What would'st thou with the old ?
55
m DRAMAS [act hi.
Dona Sol {seriously, and without moving).
You ever talk Of this. Who is there blames you?
Don Ruy Gomez.
I myself, I should have known that such a soul as yours Never has galants ; when 'tis Dona Sol, And when good Spanish blood is in her veins.
Dona Sol. Truly, my Lord, 'tis good and pure ; perchance 'Twill soon be seen.
Don Ruy Gomez (rising, and going towards her).
Now list. One cannot be The master of himself, so much in love As I am now with thee. And I am old And jealous, and am cross — and why? Because I'm old ; because the beauty, grace or youth Of others frightens, threatens me. Because While jealous thus of others, of myself I am ashamed. What mockery ! that this love Which to the heart brings back such joy and warmth, Should halt, and but rejuvenate the soul, Forgetful of the body. When I see A youthful peasant, singing blithe and gay, In the green meadows, often then I muse — I, in my dismal paths, and murmur low : " Oh, I would give my battlemented towers, And ancient ducal donjon, and my fields Of corn, and all my forest lands, and flocks So vast which feed upon my hills, my name And all my ancient titles — ruins mine. And ancestors who must expect me soon, All — all I'd give for his new cot, and brow Unwrinkled. For his hair is raven black, And his eyes shine like yours. Beholding him
4
sc. I.] HERNANI 57
You might exclaim : A young man this ! And then Would think of me so old." I know it well. I am named Silva. Ah, but that is not Enough ; I say it, see it. Now behold To what excess I love thee. All I'd give Could I be like thee — young and handsome now ! Vain dream ! that I were young again, who must By long, long years precede thee to the tomb.
Dona Soi.. Who knows.''
Don Ruy Gomez. And yet, I pray you, me believe, The frivolous swains have not so much of love Within their hearts as on their tongues. A girl May love and trust one ; if she dies for him. He laughs. The strong-winged and gay-painted birds That warble sweet, and in the thicket trill, Will change their loves as they their plumage moult. They are the old, with voice and colour gone. And beauty fled, who have the resting wings We love the best. Our steps are slow, and dim Our eyes. Our brows are furrowed, — but the heart Is never wrinkled. When an old man loves He should be spared. The heart is ever young, And always it can bleed. This love of mine Is not a plaything made of glass to shake And break. It is a love severe and sure, Solid, profound, paternal, — strong as is The oak which forms my ducal chair. See then How well I love thee — and in other ways I love thee — hundred other ways, e'en as We love the dawn, and flowers, and heaven's blue ! To see thee, mark thy graceful step each day, Thy forehead pure, thy brightly beaming eye, I'm joyous — feeling that my soul will have Perpetual festival !
58 DRAMAS [act hi.
Dona Sol.
Alas !
Don Ruy Gomez.
And then, Know you how much the world admires, applauds, A woman, angel pure, and like a dove, When she an old man comforts and consoles As he is tott'ring to the marble tomb. Passing away by slow degrees as she Watches and shelters him, and condescends To bear with him, the useless one, that seems But fit to die? It is a sacred work And worthy of all praise — effort supreme Of a devoted heart to comfort him Unto the end, and without loving perhaps, To act as if she loved. Ah, thou to me Wilt be this angel with a woman's heart Wlio will rejoice the old man's soul again And share his latter years, and by respect A daughter be, and by your pity like A sister prove.
Dona Sol.
Far from preceding me, 'Tis likely me you'll follow to the grave. My lord, because that we are young is not A reason we should live. Alas ! I know And tell you, often old men tarry long. And see the young go first, their eyes shut fast By sudden stroke, as on a sepulclu'e That still was open falls the closing stone.
Don Ruy Gomez. Oh cease, my child, such saddening discourse, Or I shall scold you. Such a day as this Sacred and joyous is. And, by-the-bye. Time summons us. Are you not ready yet
sc. I.] HERNANI 59
For diapel when we're called? Be quick to don The bridal dress. Each moment do I count.
Dona Sol. There is abundant time.
Don Ruy Gomez.
Oh no, there's not- (^Enter a Page.) What want you?
The Page. At the door, my lord, a man — A pilgrim — beggar — or I know not what, Is craving here a shelter.
Don Ruy Gomez.
Let him in Whoever he may be. Good enters with The stranger that we welcome. What's the news From th' outside world .'^ What of the bandit chief That filled our forests with his rebel band.''
The Page. Hernani, Lion of the mountains, now Is done for.
Dona Sol (aside). God!
Don Ruy Gomez (to the Page).
How so?
The Page.
The troop's destroyed. The King himself has led the soldiers on. Hernani's head a thousand crowns is worth Upon the spot; but now he's dead, they say.
Dona Sol (aside). What ! Without me, Hernani !
60 DRAMAS [act hi.
Don Ruy Gomez.
And thank Heaven ! So he is dead, the rebel ! Now, dear love, We can rejoice ; go then and deck thyself, My pride, my darling. Day of double joy.
Dona Sol. Oh, mourning robes ! lExit Dona Sol.
Don Ruy Gomez (to the Page).
The casket quickly send
That I'm to give her. [He seats himself in his chair.
'Tis my longing now To see her all adorned Madonna like. With her bright eyes, and aid of my rich gems She will be beautiful enough to make A pilgrim kneel before her. As for him Who asks asylum, bid him enter here. Excuses from us offer ; run, be quick.
\_The Page bows and exit. 'Tis ill to keep a guest long Vvaiting thus.
[The door at the back opens. Hernani appears dis- guised as a Pilgrim. The Duke rises.
Scene 2. — Don Ruy Gomez. Hernani.
(Hernani pauses at the threshold of the door).
Hernani. My lord, peace and all happiness be yours !
Don Ruy Gomez (saluting him with his hand). To thee be peace and happiness, my guest !
[Hernani enters. The Duke reseats himself. Art thou a pilgrim?
Hernani (bowing). Yes.
sc. II.] HERNANI 61
Don Ruy Gomez.
No doubt you came From Armlllas?
Hernani. Not so. I hither came By other road, there was some fighting there.
Don Ruy Gomez. Among the troop of bandits, was it not.**
Hernani. I know not.
Don Ruy Gomez.
What's become of him — the chief They call Hernani.? Dost thou know.?
Hernani.
My lord, Who is this man ?
Don Ruy Gomez. Dost thou not know him then.? For thee so much the worse ! Thou wilt not gain The good round sum. See you a rebel he That has been long unpunished. To Madrid Should you be going, perhaps you'll see him hanged.
Hernani. I go not there.
Don Ruy Gomez.
A price is on liis head For any man who takes him.
Hernani (aside).
Let one come !
Don Ruy Gomez. Whither, good pilgrim, goest thou.?
62 DRAMAS [act hi.
Hernani.
My lord, I'm bound for Saragossa.
Don Ruy Gomez.
A vow made In honour of a Saint, or of Our Lady?
Hernani. Yes, of Our Lady, Duke.
Don Ruy Gomez.
Of the PiUar?
Hernani.
Of the Pillar.
Don Ruy Gomez. We must be soulless quite Not to acquit us of the vows we make Unto the Saints. But thine accomplished, then Hast thou not other purposes in view? Or is to see the Pillar all you wish.''
Hernani. Yes. I would see the lights and candles burn, And at the end of the dim corridor Our Lady in her glowing shrine, with cope All golden — then would satisfied return.
Don Ruy Gomez. Indeed, that's well. Brother, what is thy name? Mine, Ruy de Silva is.
Hernani (hesitating). My name
Don Ruy Gomez.
You can
Conceal it if you will. None here has right To know it. Cam'st thou to asylum ask?
sc. II.] HERNANI 63
Hernani. Yes, duke.
Don Ruy Gomez. Remain, and know thou'rt welcome here.
I'or nothing want ; and as for what thou'rt named,
But call thyself my guest. It is enough
Whoever thou may'st be. Without demur
I'd take in Satan if God sent him me.
l^Tke folding doors at the back open. Enter Dona Sol in nuptial attire. Behind her Pages and Lackeys, and two women carrying on a velvet cushion a casket of engraved silver, which they place upon a table, and which contains a jewel case, with Duchesses coronet, necklaces, bracelets, pearls, and diamonds in profusion. Hernani, breathless and scared, looks at Dona Sol with flaming eyes with- out listening to the Duke.
Scene 3. — The Same: Dona Sol, Pages, Lackeys,
Women.
Don Ruy Gomez {continuing). Behold my blessed Lady - — to have prayed To her will bring thee happiness.
\^He offers his hand to Dona Sol, still pale and grave.
Come then. My bride. What ! not thy coronet, nor ring !
Hernani {in a voice of thunder). Who wishes now a thousand golden crowns To win?
\^All turn to him astonished. He tears off his Pilgrim^ s robe, and crushes it under his feet, revealing himself m the dress of a Mountaineer. I am Hernani.
64 DRAMAS [act hi.
He lives!
Dona Sol (joyfully).
Heavens ! Oh,
Heenani (to the Lackeys).
See ! I'm the man they seek.
(To the Duke.)
You wished To know my name — Diego or Perez ? No, No ! I have a grander name — Hernani. Name of the banished, the proscribed. See you This head? 'Tis worth enough of gold to pay For festival. (To the Lackeys.)
I give it to you all. Take ; tie my hands, my feet. But there's no need, The chain that binds me 's one I shall not break.
Oh misery !
A lunatic !
Dona Sol (aside).
Don Ruy Gomez. Folly ! This my guest is mad —
Hernani. Your guest a bandit is.
Dona Sol. Oh, do not heed him.
Hernani.
What I say is truth.
Don Ruy Gomez. A thousand golden crowns — the sum is large. And, sir, I will not answer now for all My people.
Hernani. And so much the better, should
sc. III.] HERNANI 65
A willing one be found. ( To the Lackeys. )
Now seize, and sell me ! Don Ruy Gomez {trying to silence him). Be quiet, or they'll take you at your word.
Hernani, Friends, this your opportunity is good. I tell you, I'm the rebel — the proscribed Hernani !
Don Ruy Gomez. Silence!
Hernani. I am he !
Dona Sol {in a low voice to him).
Be still! Hernani (half turning to Dona Sol). '
There's marrying here ! My spouse awaits me too.
{To the Duke.) She is less beautiful, my Lord, than yours, But not less faithful. She is Death. {To the Lackeys.)
Not one Of you has yet come forth !
Dona Sol {in a lorn voice). For pity's sake !
Hernani {to the Lackeys), A thousand golden crowns. Hernani here !
Don Ruy Gomez. This is the demon !
Hernani {to a young Lackey).
Come ! thou'lt earn this sum, Then rich, thou wilt from lackey change again To man. {To the other Lackeys, who do not stir.)
And also you — you waver. Ah, Have I not misery enough.?
66 DRAMAS [act hi.
Don Ruy Gomez.
My friend, To touch thy life they'd peril each his own. Wert thou Hernani, or a hundred times As bad, I must protect my guest, — were e'en An Empire offered for his life — against The King himself; for thee I hold from God. If hair of thine be injured, may I die. {To Dona Sol.) My niece, who in an liour will be my wife. Go to your room. I am about to arm The Castle — shut the gates. \_Ea:it, followed by servants,
Hernani (looking with despair at his empty girdle).
Not e'en a knife ! [Dona Sol, after the departure of the Duke, takes a few steps, as if to follow her women, then pauses, and when they are gone, comes hack to Hernani with anxiety.
Scene 4. — Hernani. Dona Sol.
Hernani looks at the nuptial jewel-case with a cold and ap- parently indifferent gaze; then he tosses hack his head, and his eyes light up.
Hernani. Accept my 'gratulations ! Words tell not How I'm enchanted by these ornaments.
[He approaches the casket o This ring is in fine taste, — the coronet I like, — the necklace shows surpassing skill. The bracelet's rare — but oh, a hundred times Less so than she, who 'neath a forehead pure Conceals a faithless heart. [Examining the casket again.
What for all this Have you now given? Of your love some share? But that for nothing goes ! Great God ! to thus
sc. IV.] HERNANI 67
Deceive, and still to live and have no shame !
[Looking at the jewels. But after all, perchance, this pearl is false. And copper stands for gold, and glass and lead Make out sham diamonds — pretended gems ! Arc these false sapphires and false jewels all? If so, thy heart is like them. Duchess false, Thyself but only gilded. \^He returns to the casket.
Yet, no, no ! They all are real, beautiful, and good. He dares not cheat, who stands so near the tomb. Nothing is wanting.
[^He takes tip one thing after another. Necklaces are here, And brilliant earrings, and the Duchess' crown And golden ring. Oh marvel! Many thanks For love so certain, faithful and profound. The precious box !
Dona Sol (-S"^^ goes to the casket, feels in it, and draws
forth a dagger).
You have not reached its depths. This is the dagger which, by kindly aid Of patron saint, I snatched from Charles the King When he made offer to me of a throne. Which I refused for you, wlio now insult me.
Hernani (falling at her feet). Oh, let me on my knees arrest those tears, The tears that beautify thy sorrowing eyes. Then after thou canst freely take my life.
Dona Sol. I pardon you, Hernani. In my heart There is but love for you.
Hernani.
And she forgives — And loves me still! But who can also teach
68 DRAMAS [act hi.
Me to forgive myself, that I have used
Such words? Angel, for heaven reserved, say where
You trod, that I may kiss the ground.
Dona Sol.
My love ! Hernani. Oh no, I should to thee be odious. But listen. Say again — I love thee still ! Say it, and reassure a heai-t that doubts. Say it, for often with such little words A woman's tongue hath cured a world of woes.
Dona Sol, (absorbed, and without hearing him). To think my love had such short memory ! That all these so ignoble men could shrink A heart, where his name was enthroned, to love By them thought worthier.
Hernani.
Alas ! I have Blasphemed ! If I were in thy place I should Be weary of the furious madman, who Can only pity after he has struck. I'd bid him go. Drive me away, I say, And I will bless thee, for thou hast been good And sweet. Too long thou hast myself endured, For I am evil ; I should blacken still Thy days with my dark nights. At last it is Too much ; thy soul is lofty, beautiful. And pure; if I am evil, is't thy fault? Marry the old duke then, for he is good And noble. By the mother's side he has Olmedo, by his father's Alcala. With him be rich and happy by one act. Know you not what this generous hand of mine Can offer thee of splendour? Ah, alone A dowry of misfortune, and the choice
sc. IV.] HERN AN I 69
Of blood or tears. Exile, captivity And death, and terrors that environ me. These are thy necklaces and jewelled crown. Never elated bridegroom to his bride Offered a casket filled more lavishly, But 'tis with misery and mournfulness. Marry the old man — he deserves thee well ! Ah, who could ever think my head proscribed Fit mate for forehead pure? What looker-on That saw thee calm and beautiful, me rash And violent — thee peaceful, like a flower Growing in shelter, me by tempests dash'd On rocks unnumber'd — wl:o could dare to say That the same law should guide our destinies.'' No, God, who ruleth all things well, did not Make thee for me. No right from Heav'n above Have I to thee ; and I'm resigned to fate. I have thy heart ; it is a theft ! I now CJnto a worthier yield it. Never yet Upon our love has Heaven smiled ; 'tis false If I have said thy destiny it was. To vengeance and to love I bid adieu ! My life is ending ; useless I will go. And take away with me my double dream. Ashamed I could not punish, nor could charm. I have been made for hate, who only wished To love. Forgive and fly me, these my prayers Reject them not, since they will be my last. Thou livest — I am dead. I see not why Thou should'st immure thee in my tomb.
Dona Sol.
Hernani. Mountains of old Aragon ! Galicia ! Estremadura ! Unto all who come Around me I bring misery ! Your sons,
Ingrate !
L
70 DRAMAS [act hi.
The best, without remorse I've ta'en to fight,
And now behold them dead! The bravest brave
Of all Spain's sons lie, soldier-like, upon
The hills, their backs to earth, the living God
Before ; and if their eyes could ope they'd look
On heaven's blue. See what I do to all
Who join me! Is it fortune any one
Should covet? Dona Sol, oh! take the Duke,
Take hell, or take the King — all would be well,
All must be better than myself, I say.
No longer have I friend to think of me.
And it is fully time that thy turn comes.
For I must be alone. Fly from me then.
From my contagion. Make not faithful love
A duty of religion! Ply from me,
For pity's sake. Thou think'st me, perhaps, a man
Like others, one with sense, who knows the end
At which he aims, and acts accordingly.
Oh, undeceive thyself. I am a force
That cannot be resisted — agent blind
And deaf of mournful mysteries ! A soul
Of misery made of gloom. Where shall I go?
I cannot tell. But I am urged, compelled
By an impetuous breath and wild decree ;
I fall, and fall, and cannot stop descent.
If sometimes breathless I dare turn my head,
A voice cries out, " Go on ! " and the abyss
Is deep, and to the depths I see it red
With flame or blood ! Around my fearful course
All things break up — all die. Woe be to them
Who touch me. Fly, I say ! Turn thee away
From my so fatal path. Alas ! without
Intending I should do thee ill.
Dona Sol.
Great God ! Hernani. My demon is a formidable one.
sc. IV.] HERNANI 71
But there's a thing impossible to it — My happiness. For thee is happiness. Therefore go seek another lord, for thou Art not for me. If Heaven, that my fate Abjures, should smile on me, believe it not: It would be irony. Marry the Duke!
Dona Sox. 'Twas not enough to tear my heart, but you Must break it now ! Ah me ! no longer then You love me!
Hkrnani. Oh ! my heart — its very life Thou art ! The glowing licarth whence all warmth comes Art thou ! Wilt thou then blame me that I fly From thee, adored one.''
Dona Sol. No, I blame thee not, Only I know that I shall die of it.
Heunani. Die ! And for what ? For me ? Can it then be That thou should'st die for cause so small .f*
Dona Sol, {bursting into tears).
Enough. [She falls into a chair.
Hernani (seating himself near her). And thou art weeping ; and 'tis still my fault ! And who will punish mc? for thou I know Wilt pardon still ! Who, who can tell thee half The anguish that I suffer when a tear Of thine obscures and drowns those radiant eyes Whose lustre is my joy. My friends are dead! Oh, I am crazed — forgive me — I would love I know not how. Alas ! I love with love Profound. Weep not — the rather let us die!
72 DRAMAS [act hi.
Oh that I had a world to give to thee ! Oh, wretched, miserable man I am !
Dona Sol, {throwing herself on his necJc), You are my lion, generous and superb ! I love you.
Heenani. Ah, this love would be a good Supreme, if we could die of too much love !
Dona Sol. Thou art my lord ! I love thee and belong To thee !
Hernani (letting his head fall on her shoulder). How sweet would be a poignard stroke From thee !
Dona Sol {entreailngly). Fear j^ou not God will punish you For words like these?
Hernani (still leaning on her shoulder).
Well, then, let Him unite us ! I have resisted ; thou would'st have it thus.
l^While they are in each other's arms, absorbed and gaz- ing with ecstasy at each other, Don Ruy Gomez enters by the door at the bach of the stage. He sees them, and stops on the threshold as if petrified.
sc. v.] HERNANI 73
Scene 5. — Hernani. Dona Sol. Don Ruy Gomez.
Don Ruy Gomez (motionless on the threshold, with arms
crossed ) . And this is the requital that I find Of hospitality !
Dona Sol. Oh Heavens — the Duke !
\_Both turn as if awakening with a start.
Don Ruy Gomez (still motionless). This, then's the recompense from thee, my guest.'' Good duke, go see if all thy walls be high, And if the door is closed, and archer placed Within his tower, and go the castle round Thyself for us ; seek in thine arsenal For armour that will fit — at sixty years Resume thy battle-harness — and then see The loyalty with which we will repay Such service ! Thou for us do thus, and we Do this for thee ! Oh, blessed saints of Heaven ! Past sixty years I've lived, and met sometimes Unbridled souls ; and oft my dirk have drawn From out its scabbard, raising on my path The hangman's game birds : murd'rers I have seen And coiners, traitorous varlets poisoning Their masters ; and I've seen men die without A prayer, or sight of crucifix. I've seen Sf orza and Borgia ; Luther still I see, But never have I known perversity So great that feared not thunder bolt, its host Betraying ! 'Twas not of my age — such foul Black treason, that at once could petrify An old man on the threshold of his door,
74 DRAMAS [act, hi.
And make the master, waiting for his grave, Look like his statue ready for his tomb. Moors and Castihans ! Tell me, who's this man ?
{He raises his eyes and looks round on the portraits on
the wall.) Oh you, the Silvas who can hear me now. Forgive if, in your presence by my wrath Thus stirr'd, I say that hospitality Was ill advised.
Hernani (rising), Duke
Don Ruy Gomez.
Silence ! \^He makes three steps into the hall looking at the por- traits of the SiLVAS.
Sacred dead! My ancestors ! Ye men of steel, who know What springs from heav'n or hell, reveal, I say. Who is this man? No, not Hernani he. But Judas is his name — oh, try to speak And tell me who he is ! ( Crossing his arms. )
In all your days Saw you aught like him.'^ No.
Hernani.
My lord
Don Ruy Gomez (still addressing the portraits).
See you The shameless miscreant? He would speak to me, But better far than I you read his soul. Oh, heed him not ! he is a knave — he'd say That he foresaw that in the tempest wild Of my great wrath I brooded o'er some deed Of gory vengeance shameful to my roof. A sister deed to that they call the feast
\
»c. v.] HERNANI 75
Of Seven Heads.^ He'll tell you he's proscribed, He'll teU you that of Silva they will talk E'en as of Lara. Afterwards he'll say He is my guest and yours. My lords, my sires, Is the fault mine? Judge you between us now.
Hernant. Ruy Gomez de Silva, if ever 'neath The heavens clear a noble brow was raised, If ever heart was great and soul was high, Yours are, my lord ; and oh, my noble host, I, who now speak to you, alone have sinn'd. Guilty most damnably am I, without Extenuating word to say. I would Have carried off thy bride — dishonour'd thee. 'Twas infamous. I live ; but now my life I oflfer unto thee. Take it. Thy sword Then wipe, and think no more about the deed.
Dona Sol. My lord, 'twas not his fault — strike only me.
Hernani. Be silent. Dona Sol. This hour supreme Belongs alone to me ; nothing I have But it. Let me explain things to the Duke. Oh, Duke, believe the last words from my mouth, I swear that I alone am guilty. But Be calm and rest assured that she is pure,
1 This allusion is to the seven brothers who weie slain by the treachery of their uncle Ruy Velasquez. According to a note prefixed by Lockhart to the ballad on this subject, " After the seven Infants were slain, Almanzor, King of Cordova, invited his prisoner, Gonzalo Gustio, to feast with him in his palace; liut when the Baron of Lara came in obedience to the royal invitation, he found the heads of his sons set forth in chargers on the table. The old man reproached the Moorish king bitterly for the cruelty and baseness of this proceeding, and sud- denly snatching a sword from the side of one of the royal attendants, sacrificed to his wrath, ere he could be disarmed and fettered, thirteen of the Moors who surrounded the person of Almanzor." — Trans.
76 DRAMAS [act iii.
That's all. I guilty and she pure. Have faith In her. A sword or dagger thrust for me. Then throw my body out of doors, and have The flooring washed, if you should will it so. What matter ?
Dona Sol. Ah ! I only am the cause Of all; because I love him.
[Don Ruy turns round trembling at these words, and fixes on Dona Sol a terrible look. She throws her- self at his feet.
Pardon ! Yes, My lord, I love him !
Don Ruy Gomez.
Love him — you love him ! {To Hernani.) Tremble! [Noise of trumpets outside. Enter a Page.
What is this noise.''
The Page.
It is the King, My lord, in person, with a band complete Of archers, and his herald, who now sounds.
Dona Sol. Oh God ! This last fatality — the King !
The Page {to the Duke). He asks the reason why the door is closed, And order gives to open it.
Don Ruy Gomez.
Admit The King. [The Page bows and exit.
Dona Sol. He's lost !
sc. v.] HEKNANI 77
[Don Ruy Gomez goes to one of the portraits — that of
himself and the last on the left; he presses a spring,
and the portrait opens out like a door, and reveals
a hiding-place in the wall. He turns to Hernani.
Come hither, sir.
Hernani.
My life To thee is forfeit; and to yield it up I'm ready. I thy prisoner am.
\^He enters the recess. Don Ruy again presses the spring, and the portrait springs back to its place looking as before.
Dona Sol.
My lord, Have pity on him !
The Page (entering).
His Highness the King ! [Dona Sol hurriedly lowers her veil. The folding- doors open. Enter Don Carlos in military attire, followed by a crowd of gentlemen equally armed with halberds, arquebuses, and cross-bows.
Scene 6. — Don Ruy Gomez, Dona Sol veiled, Don Carlos
and Followers.
Don Carlos advances slowly, his left hand on the hilt of his sword, his right hand in his bosom, and looking at the Duke with anger and defiance. The Duke goes before the King and bows low. Silence. Expectation and ter- ror on all. At last the King, coming opposite the Duke, throws back his head haughtily.
Don Carlos. How comes it then, my cousin, that to-day
L
78 DRAMAS [act hi.
Thy door is strongly barr'd? By all the Saints I thought your dagger had more rusty grown, And knoAv not why, when I'm your visitor. It should so haste to brightly shine again All ready to your hand.
(Don Ruy Gomez attempts to speak, but the King con- tinues with an imperious gesture.) Late in the day It is for you to play the young man's part ! Do we come turban'd? Tell me, are we named Boabdil or Mahomet, and not Charles, That the portcullis 'gainst us you should lower And raise the drawbridge?
Don Ruy Gomez (bowing). Highness
Don Carlos {to his gentlemen).
Take the keys And guard the doors.
l^Two officers exeunt. Several others arrange the soldiers in a triple line in the hall from the King to the principal door. Don Carlos turns again to the Duke.
Ah ! you would wake to life Again these crushed rebellions. By my faith. If you, ye Dukes, assume such airs as these The King himself will play his kingly part. Traverse the mountains in a warlike mode. And in their battlemented nests will slay The lordlings !
Don Ruy Gomez (drawing himself up). Ever have the Silvas been. Your Highness, loyal.
Don Carlos (interrupting him). Without subterfuge Reply, or to the ground I'll raze thy towers
sc. VI.] HERNANI 79
Eleven ! Of extinguished fire remains
One spark — of brigands dead the chief survives.
And who conceals him ? It is thou, I say !
Hernani, rebel-ringleader, is here,
And in thy castle thou dost liide him now.
Don Ruy Gomez.
Highness, it is quite true.
Don Carlos.
Well, then, his head I want — or if not, thine. Dost understand, My cousin?
Don Ruy Gomez. Well, then, be it so. You shall Be satisfied.
[Dona Sol hides her face in her hands and sinks into
the arm-chair.
Don Carlos (a little softened). Ah ! you repent. Go seek Your prisoner.
[^The Duke crosses his arms, lowers his head, and re- mains some moments pondering. The King and Dona Sol, agitated hy contrary emotions, observe him in silence. At last the Duke looks up, goes to the King, takes his hand, and leads him with slow steps towards the oldest of the portraits, which is xvhere the gallery commences to the right of the spectator.
Don Ruy Gomez {pointing out the old portrait to the King).
This is the eldest one, The great forefather of the Silva race, Don Silvius our ancestor, three times Was he made Roman consul.
(Passing to the next portrait.) This is he
so DRAMAS [act hi.
Don Galceran de Silva — other Cid ! They keep his body still at Toro, near Valladolid ; a thousand candles burn Before his gilded shrine. 'Twas he who freed Leon from tribute o' the hundred virgins.^
(Passing to another.) Don Bias — who, in contrition for the fault Of having ill-advised the king, exiled Himself of his own will. {To another,)
This Christoval ! At fight of Escalon, when fled on foot The King Don Sancho, whose white plume was mark For general deadly aim, he cried aloud, Oh, Christoval ! And Christoval assumed The plume, and gave his horse. (To another.)
This is Don Jorge, Wlio paid the ransom of Ramire, the King Of Aragon.
Don Carlos (crossing his arms and looking at him from head
to foot). By Heavens now, Don Ruy, I marvel at you ! But go on.
Don Ruy Gomez.
Next comes Don Ruy Gomez Silva, he was made Grand Master of St. James, and Calatrava. His giant armour would not suit our heights. He took three hundred flags from foes, and won In thirty battles. For the King Motril He conquer'd Antequera, Suez, Nijar; and died in poverty. Highness, Salute him.
1 A yearly tribute exacted by the Moors after one of their victories. One of the fine Spanish ballads translated by Lockhart is on this sub- ject.— Teans.
sc. VI.] HERNANI 81
[^He bows, uncovers, and passes to another portrait. The King listens impatiently, and with increasing anger. Next him is his son, named Gil, Dear to all noble souls. His promise worth The oath of royal hands. ( To another. )
Don Gaspard this, The pride alike of Mendoce and Silva. Your Highness, every noble family Has some alliance with the Silva race. Sandoval has both trembled at, and wed With us. Manrique is envious of us : Lara Is jealous. Alencastre hates us. We All dukes surpass, and mount to Kings.
Don Carlos. You're jesting.
Tut! tut!
Don Ruy Gomez. Here behold Don Vasquez, called The Wise. Don Jayme surnamed the Strong. One day Alone he stopped Zamet and five score Moors. I pass them by, and some the greatest.
\^At an angry gesture of the King he passes by a great number of portraits, and speedily comes to the three last at the left of the audience.
This, My grandfather, who lived to sixty years, Keeping his promised word even to Jews.
(To the last portrait but one.) This venerable form my father is, A sacred head. Great was he, though he comes The last. The Moors had taken prisoner His friend Count Alvar Giron. But my sire Set out to seek him with six hundred men To war inured. A figure of the Count Cut out of stone by his decree was made
82 DRAMAS [act hi.
And dragged along behind the soldiers, he. By patron saint, declaring that until The Count of stone itself turned back and fled, He would not falter ; on he went and saved His friend.
Don Carlos. I want my prisoner.
Don Ruy Gomez.
This was A Gomez de Silva. Imagine — judge What in this dwelling one must say who sees These heroes
Don Carlos.
Instantly — my prisoner !
Don Ruy Gomez. \_He hows low before the King, takes his hand, and leads him to the last portrait, which semes for the door of Hernani's hiding-place. Dona Sol watches him with anxious eyes. Silence and expectation in all. This portrait is my own. Mercy ! King Charles ! Tor you require that those who see it here Should say, " This last, the worthy son of race Heroic, was a traitor found, that sold The life of one he sheltered as a guest ! "
l^Joy of Dona Sol. Movement of bewilderment in the crowd. The King disconcerted moves away in an- ger, and remains some moments with lips trembling and eyes flashing.
Don Carlos. Your Castle, Duke, annoys me, I shall lay It low.
Don Ruy Gomez.
Thus, Highness, you'd retaliate, Is it not so?
sc. VI.] HERNANI 83
Don Carlos.
For such audacity Your towers I'll level with the ground, and have Upon the spot the hemp-seed sown.
Don Ruy Gomez.
I'd see The hemp spring freely up where once my towers Stood high, rather than stain should eat into The ancient name of Silva. {To the portraits.)
Is 't not true.'^, I ask it of you all.
Don Caelos.
Now, Duke, this head, 'Tis ours, and thou hast promised it to me.
Don Ruy Gomez. I promised one or other. {To the portraits.)
Was 't not so.f* I ask you all? {Pointing to his head.)
This one I give. {To the King.) Take it.
Don Carlos. Duke, many thanks ; but 'twould not do. The head I want is young; when dead the headsman must Uplift it by the hair. But as for thine, In vain he'd seek, for thou hast not enough For him to clutch.
Don Ruy Gomez.
Highness, insult me not. My head is noble still, and worth far more Than any rebel's poll. The head of Silva You thus despise !
Don Carlos. Give up Hcrnani !
84 DRAMAS [act ui.
Don Ruy Gomez. I
Have spoken, Highness.
Don Caelos. (To his followers.)
Search you everywhere From roof to cellar, that he takes not wing
Don Ruy Gomez. My keep is faithful as myself ; alone It shares the secret which we both shall guard liight well.
Don Carlos. I am the King !
Don Ruy Gomez.
Out of my house Demolished stone by stone, they'll only make My tomb, — and nothing gain.
Don Carlos.
Menace I find And prayer alike are vain. Deliver up The bandit, Duke, or head and castle both Will I beat down.
Don Ruy Gomez. I've said my word.
Don Carlos.
Well, then,
Instead of one head I'll have two.
(To the Duke d'Alcala.)
You, Jorge, Arrest the Duke.
Dona Sol (she plucks off her veil and throws herself between the King, the Duke, and the Guards).
King Charles, an evil king
sc. VI.] HERNANI 85
Are you !
I see?
Don Carlos. Good heavens ! Is it Dona Sol
Dona Sol. Highness ! Thou hast no Spaniard's heart !
Don Carlos (confused). Madam, you are severe upon the King.
[He approaches her, and speaks low* 'Tis you have caused the wrath that's in my heart. A man approaching you perforce becomes An angel or a monster. Ah, when we Are hated, swiftly we malignant grow! Perchance, if you had willed it so, young girl, I'd noble been — the lion of Castile ; A tiger I am made by your disdain. You hear it roaring now. Madam, be still !
[Dona Sol looks at him. He bows. However, I'll obey. (Turning to the Duke.)
Cousin, may be Thy scruples are excusable, and I Esteem thee. To thy guest be faithful still, And faithless to thy King. I pardon thee. 'Tis better that I only take thy niece Away as hostage.
Don Ruy Gomez. Only!
Dona Sol.
Highness! Me! '"'
Don Carlos. Yes, you.
Don Ruy Gomez. Alone ! Oh, wondrous clemency ! Oh, generous conqueror, that spares the head To torture thus the heart ! What mercy this !
86 DRAMAS [act hi.
Don Carlos. Choose 'twixt the traitor and the Dona Sol : I must have one of them.
Don Ruy Gomez.
The master you ! [Don Carlos approaches Dona Sol to lead her away. She flies towards the Duke.
Dona Sol. Save me, my lord! {She pauses. — Aside.)
Oh misery ! and yet It must be so. My Uncle's life, or else The other's ! — rather mine ! ( To the King. )
I follow you.
Don Carlos (aside). By all the Saints ! the thought triumphant is ! Ah, in the end you'll soften, princess mine !
[Dona Sol goes with a grave and steady step to the casket, opens it, and takes from it the dagger, which she hides in her bosom. Don Carlos comes to her and offers his hand.
Don Carlos. What is 't you're taking thence ?
Dona Sol.
Don Carlos.
Some precious jewel?
Dona Sol. Yes.
Oh, nothing !
Is 't
Don Carlos {smiling). Show it to me.
Dona Sol. Anon you'll see it.
sc. VI.] HERNANI 87
IShe gives him her hand and prepares to foUow him. Don Ruy Gomez, who has remained motionless and absorbed in thought, advances a few steps crying out.
Don Ruy Gomez. Heavens, Dona Sol! Oh, Dona Sol ! Since he is merciless, '
Help ! walls and armour come down on us now !
{He runs to the King.) Leave me my child ! I have but her, oh King !
Don Carlos {dropping Dona Sol's hand). Then yield me up my prisoner.
l^The Duke drops his head, and seems the prey of horri- ble imdecision. Then he loolcs up at the portraits with supplicating hands before them.
Oh, now Have pity on me all of you !
\^He makes a step towards the hiding-place. Dona Sol watching him anxiously. He turns again to the portraits.
Oh liide Your faces ! They deter me.
\^He advances with trembling steps towards his own por- trait, then turns again to the King. Is't your will?
Don Carlos. Yes.
[The Duke raises a trembling hand towards the spring.
Dona Sol. Oh God!
Don Ruy Gomez. No! [He throws himself on his knees before the King. In pity take my life!
88 DRAMAS [act m.
Don Caelos. Thy niece!
Don Ruy Gomez {rising^.
Take her and leave me honour then. Don Carlos (seizing the hand of the trembling Dona Sol) Adieu, Duke.
Don Ruy Gomez. Till we meet again ! \_He watches the King, who retires slowly with Dona Sol. Afterwards he puts his hand on his dagger.
May God Shield you !
\^He comes bach to the front of the stage panting, and stands motionless, with vacant stare, seeming neither to see nor hear anything, his arms crossed on his heaving chest. Meanwhile the King goes out with Dona Sol, the suite following two by two accord- ing to their rank. They speak in a low voice among themselves.
Don Ruy Gomez {aside). Whilst thou go'st joyous from my house, Oh King, my ancient loyalty goes forth From out my bleeding heart.
\^He raises his head, looks all round, and sees that he is alone. Then he takes two swords from a panoply by the wall, measures them, and places them on a table. This done, he goes to the portrait, touches the spring, and the hidden door opens.
sc. VII.] HERNANI 89
I^ENE 7. — Don Ruy Gomez. Hebnani.
Don Ruy Gomez.
Come out. [Heenani appears at the door of the hiding-place. Don Ruy Gomez points to the two swords on the table.
Now choose. Choose, for Don Carlos has departed now, And it remains to give me satisfaction. Choose, and be quick. What, then! trembles thy hand.''
Heunani. A duel ! Oh, it cannot be, old man, 'Twixt us.
Don Ruy Gomez. Why not? Is it thou art afraid .f* Or that thou art not noble .f* So or not, All men who injure me, by hell I count Noble enough to cross their swords with mine.
Old man
Hernani.
Don Ruy Gomez.
Come forth, young man, to slay me, else
To be the slain.
Hernani. To die, ah yes ! Against My will thyself hast saved me, and my life Is yours. I bid you take it.
Don Ruy Gomez.
This you wish? (To the portraits). You see he wills it. (To Hernani.)
90 DRAIilAS [act hi.
This is well. Thy prayer Now make.
Hernani. It is to thee, my lord, the last I make.
Don Ruy Gomez. Pray to the other Lord.
Heenani.
No, no, To thee. Strike me, old man — dagger or sword — Each one for me is good — but grant me first One joy supreme. Duke, let me see her ere I die.
Don Ruy Gomez. See her!
Heenani. Or at the least I beg That you will let me hear her voice once more — Only this one last time !
Don Ruy Gomez. Hear her!
Heenani.
My lord, I understand thy jealousy, But death already seizes on my youth. Forgive me. Grant me — tell me that without Beholding her, if it must be, I yet May hear her speak, and I will die to-night. I'll grateful be to hear her. But in peace I'd calmly die, if thou wouldst deign that ere My soul is freed, it sees once more the soul That shines so clearly in her eyes. To her I will not speak. Thou shalt be there to see, Mj fatlier, and canst slay me afterwards.
Ah well.
sc. VII.] HERNANI 91
Don RiTY Gomez (pointing to the recess still open). Oh, Saints of Heaven ! can this recess then be So deep and strong that he has nothing heard?
Hernani. No, I have nothing heard.
Don Ruy Gomez.
I was compelled To yield up Dona Sol or thee.
Hernani.
To whom?
Don Ruy Gomez. The King.
Hernani. Madman ! He loves her.
Don Ruy Gomez.
Loves her ! He !
Hernani. He takes her from us ! He our rival is !
Don Ruy Gomez. Curses be on him ! Vassals ! all to horse — To horse ! Let us pursue the ravisher !
Hernani. Listen ! The vengeance that is sure of foot Makes on its way less noise than this would do. To thee I do belong. Thou hast the right To slay me. Wilt thou not employ me first As the avenger of thy niece's wrongs? Let me take part in this thy vengeance due ; Grant me this boon, and I will kiss thy feet. If so must be. Let us together speed The King to follow. I will be thine arm.
9® DRAMAS [act hi.
I will' avenge thee, Duke, and afterwards The hfe that's forfeit thou shalt take.
Don Ruy Gomez.
And then,
As now, thou'lt ready be to die.f*
Hernaki.
Yes, Duke.
Don Ruy Gomez. By what wilt thou swear this.'*
Hernani.
My father's head.
Don Ruy Gomez. Of thine own self wilt thou remember it?
Hernani {giving him the horn which he takes from his
girdle ) . Listen! Take you this horn, and whatsoe'er May happen — what the place, or what the hour — Whenever to thy mind it seems the time Has come for me to die, blow on this horn And take no other care; all will be done.
Don Ruy Gomez {offering his hand). Your hand ! \_1^hey press hands
{To the portraits.) And all of you are witnesses.
FOURTH ACT
The Tomb. Aix-la-Chapelle.
Scene 1. — The vaults which enclose the Tomb of Charle- magne at Aix-la-Chapelle.^ Great arches of Lombard architecture, with semicircular columns, having capitals of birds and flowers. At the right a small bronze door, low and curved. A single lamp suspended from the crown of the vault shows the inscription: caeolvs MAGNvs. It is night. One cannot see to the end of the vaults, the eye loses itself in the intricacy of arches, steps, and columns which mingle in the shade.
Don Carlos, Don Ricardo de Roxas, Comte de Casa- PALMA, lanterns vn hand, and wearing large cloaks and slouched hats.
Don Ricardo {hat in hand). This is the place.
Don Carlos.
Yes, here it is the League Will meet ; they that together in my power
1 Charlemagne was buried, as Palgrave says, with circumstances of ** ghastly magnificence." I'he embalmed corpse was seated " erect in his curule chair, clad in his silken robes, ponderous with broidery, pearls, and orfrey, the imperial diadem on his head, his closed eyelids covered, his face swathed in the dead-clothes, girt with his baldric, the ivory horn slung in his scarf, his good sword ' Joyeuse ' by his side, the gospel-book open on his lap, musk and amber, and sweet spices poured around, his golden shield and golden sceptre pendant before him."
Charlemagne died a.d. 814. Twice or thrice, however, at long intervals, his tomb was opened; and three hundred years before the time of Charles the Fifth the remains were placed in a costly chest, which is still preserved in the Cathedral of Aix-la-Chapelle. — Teans.
93
94 DRAMAS [act iv.
So soon shall be. Oh, it was well, my lord
Of Treves th' Elector — it was well of you
To lend this place ; dark plots should prosper best
In the dank air of catacombs, and good
It is to sharpen daggers upon tombs.
Yet the stake's heavy — heads are on the game.
Ye bold assassins, and the end we'll see.
By heaven, 'twas well a sepulchre to choose
For such a business, since the road will be
Shorter for them to traverse. (To Don Ricabdo.)
Tell me now How far the subterranean way extends.?
Don Ricardo. To the strong fortress.
Don Carlos.
Farther than we need.
Don Ricardo. And on the other side it reaches quite The Monastery of Altenheim.
Don Carlos.
Ah, where Lothaire was overcome by Rodolf. Once Again, Count, tell me o'er their names and wrongs.
Don Ricardo. Gotha.
Don Carlos. Ah, very well I know why 'tis The brave Duke is conspirator : he wills For Germany, a German Emperor.
Don Ricardo. Hohenbourg.
Don Carlos. Hohenbourg would better like With Francis hell, than Heaven itself with me.
I
I
sc. I.] HERNANI 95
Don Ricaedo. Gil Tellez Giron.
Don Caelos. Castile and our Lady ! The scoundrel ! — to be traitor to his king !
Don Ricaedo. One evening it is said that you were found With Madame Giron. You had just before Made him a baron ; he revenges now The honour of his dear companion.
Don Caelos. This, then, the reason he revolts 'gainst Spain? What name comes next.''
Don Ricaedo.
The Reverend Vasquez, Avila's Bishop.
Don Caelos. Pray does he resent Dishonour of his wife !
Don Ricaedo.
Then there is named Guzman de Lara, who is discontent, Claiming the collar of your order.
Don Caelos. Ah! Guzman de Lara ! If he only wants A collar he shall have one.
Don Ricaedo.
Next the Duke Of Lutzelbourg. As for his plans, they say
Don Caelos. Ah ! Lutzelbourg is by the head too tall.
96 DRAMAS [act iv.
Don Ricaedo. Juan de Haro — who Astorga wants.
Don Carlos. These Haros ! Always they the headsman's pay Have doubled.
Don Ricaedo. That is all.
Don Caelos.
Not by my count. These make but seven.
Don Ricardo.
Oh, I did not name Some bandits, probably engaged by Treves Or France.
Don Caelos. Men without prejudice of course, Whose ready daggers turn to heaviest pay. As truly as the needle to the pole.
Don Ricaedo. However, I observed two sturdy ones Among them, both new comers — one was young. The other old.
Don Caelos. Their names? [Don Ricaedo shrugs his shoulders in sign of ignorance.
Their age then say?
Don Ricaedo. The younger may be twenty.
Don Caelos. Pity then.
Don Ricaedo. The elder must be sixty, quite.
sc. I.] HERNANI 97
Don Carlos.
One seems Too young — the other, over old ; so much For them the worse 'twill be. I will take care — Myself will help the headsman, be there need. My sword is sharpened for a traitor's block, I'U lend it him if blunt his axe should grow, And join my own imperial purple on To piece the scaffold cloth, if it must be Enlarged that way. But shall I Emperor prove.?
Don Ricardo. The College at this hour deliberates.
-&"
Don Carlos. Who knows? Francis the First, perchance, they'll name, Or else their Saxon Frederick the Wise. Ah, Luther, thou art right to blame the times And scorn such makers-up of royalty, That own no other rights than gilded ones. A Saxon heretic ! Primate of Treves, A libertine ! Count Palatine, a fool ! As for Bohemia's king, for me he is. Princes of Hesse, all smaller than their states ! The young are idiots, and the old debauched, Of crowns a plenty — but for heads we search In vain ! Council of dwarfs ridiculous, That I in lion's skin could carry off Like Hercules ; and who of violet robes Bereft, would show but heads more shallow far Than Triboulet's. See'st thou I want three votes Or all is lost, Ricardo? Oh! I'd give Toledo, Ghent, and Salamanca too. Three towns, my friend, I'd offer to their choice For their three voices — cities of Castile And Flanders. Safe I know to take them back A little later on.
98 DRAMAS [act iv.
(Don Ricardo bows low to the King, and puts on his hat.)
You cover, Sir!
Don Ricardo. Sire, you have called me thou (bowing again).
And thus I'm made ' Grandee of Spain.
Don Carlos {aside).
Ah, how to piteous scorn You rouse me ! Interested brood devour'd By mean ambition. Thus across my plans Yours struggle. Base the Court where without shame The King is plied for honours, and he yields. Bestowing grandeur on the hungry crew. {Musing.) God only, and the Emperor are great, Also the Holy Father! for the rest. The kings and dukes, of what account are they ?
Don Ricardo. I trust that they your Highness will elect.
Don Carlos. Highness — still Highness ! Oh, unlucky chance ! If only King I must remain.
Don Ricardo (aside).
By Jove, Emperor or King, Grandee of Spain I am.
Don Carlos. When they've decided who shall be the one They choose for Emperor of Germany, What sign is to announce his name?
Don Ricardo.
The guns. A single firing will proclaim the Duke Of Saxony is chosen Emperor ; Two if 'tis Francis ; for your Highness three.
sc. I.] HERNANI 99
Don Caelos. And Dona Sol ! I'm crossed on every side. If, Count, by turn of luck, I'm Emperor made, Go seek her; she by Caesar might be won.
Don Ricardo {smiling). Your Highness pleases.
Don Carlos {haughtily).
On that subject peace! I have not yet tnquired what's thought of me. But tell me when will it be truly known Who is elMi-^d?
Don Ricardo. In an hour or so, At latest.
Don Carlos. Ah, three votes ; and only three ! But first this trait'rous rabble we must crush. And then we'll see to whom the Empire falls,
[He counts on his fingers and stamps his foot. Always by three too few ! Ah, they hold power. Yet did Cornelius know ail long ago: In Heaven's ocean thirteen stars he saw Coming full sail towards mine, all from the north. Empire for me — let's on ! But it is said. On other hand, that Jean Tritheme Francis Predicted ! Clearer should I see my fate Had I some armament the prophecy To help. The Sorcerer's predictions come Most true when a good army — with its guns And lances, horse and foot, and martial strains. Ready to lead the way where Fate alone Might stumble — plays the midwife's part to bring Fulfilment of prediction. That's worth more Than our Cornelius Agrippa or Tritheme. He, who by force of arms expounds
100 DRAMAS [act iv.
His system, and with sharpen'd point of lance
Can edge his words, and uses soldiers' swords
To level rugged fortune — shapes events
At his own will to match the prophecy.
Poor fools ! who with proud eyes and haughty mien
Only look straight to Empire, and declare
" It is my right ! " They need great guns in files
Whose burning breath melts towns ; and soldiers, ships,
And horsemen. These they need their ends to gain
O'er trampled peoples. Pshaw ! at the cross roads
Of human life, where one leads to a throne
Another to perdition, they will pause
In indecision, — scarce three steps will take
Uncertain of themselves, and in their doubt
Fly to the Necromancer for advice
Which road to take. {To Don Ricardo.)
Go now, 'tis near the time The trait'rous crew will meet. Give me the key.
Don Ricardo (giving key of tomb). Sire, 'twas the guardian of the tomb, the Count De Limbourg, who to me confided it. And has done everything to pleasure you.
Don Carlos. Do all, quite all that I commanded you.
Don Ricardo (bowing). Highness, I go at once.
Don Carlos.
The signal then That I await is cannon firing thrice?
(Don Ricardo bows and exit.) [Don Carlos falls into a deep reverie, his arms crossed, his head drooping; afterwards he raises it, and turns to the tomb.
sc. II.] HERNANI 101
Scene 2.
Don Carlos (alone). Forgive me, Charlemagne ! Oh, this lonely vault Should echo only unto solemn words. Thou must be angry at the babble vain Of our ambition at your monument. Here Charlemagne rests ! How can the sombre tomb Without a rifting spasm hold such dust! And art thou truly here, colossal power, Creator of the world? And canst thou now Crouch down from all thy majesty and might.? Ah, 'tis a spectacle to stir the soul What Europe was, and what by thee 'twas made. Mighty construction with two men supreme Elected chiefs to whom bom kings submit. States, duchies, kingdoms, marquisates and fiefs — By right hereditary most are ruled. But nations find a friend sometimes in Pope Or Caesar ; and one chance another chance Corrects ; thus even balance is maintained And order opens out. The cloth-of-gold Electors, and the scarlet cardinals. The double, sacred senate, unto which Earth bends, are but paraded outward show, God's fiat rules it all. One day He wills A thought, a want, should burst upon the world, Then grow and spread, and mix with every thing, Possess some man, win hearts, and delve a groove Though kings may trample on it, and may seek To gag ; — only that they some morn may see At diet, conclave, this the scorned idea. That they had spurned, all suddenly expand And soar above their heads, bearing the globe
102 DRAMAS [act iv.
In hand, or on the brow tiara. Pope
And Emperor, they on earth are all in all,
A mystery supreme dwells in them both,
And Heaven's might, which they still represent,
Feasts them with kings and nations, holding them
Beneath its thunder-cloud, the while they sit
At table with the world served out for food.
Alone they regulate all things on earth,
Just as the mower manages his field.
All rule and power are theirs. Kings at the door
Inhale the odour of their savoury meats.
Look through the window, watchful on tip-toe,
But weary of the scene. The common world
Below them groups itself on ladder-rungs.
They make and all unmake. One can release.
The other surely strike. The one is Truth,
The other Might. Each to himself is law.
And is, because he is. When — equals they
The one in purple, and the other swathed
In white like winding-sheet — when they come out
From Sanctuary, the dazzled multitude
Look with wild terror on these halves of God,
The Pope and Emperor. Emperor ! oh, to be
Thus great ! Oh, anguish, not to be this Power
When beats the heart with dauntless courage fill'd!
Oh, happy he who sleeps within this tomb !
How great, and oh ! how fitted for his time !
The Pope and Emperor were more than men,
In them two Romes in mystic Hymen joined
Prolific were, giving new form and soul
Unto the human race, refounding realms
And nations, shaping thus a Europe new.
And both remoulding with their hands the bronze
Remaining of the great old Roman world.
What destiny ! And yet' tis here he lies ?
Is all so little that we come to this !
What then ? To have been Prince and Emperor,
sc. II.] HERNANI 103
And King — to have been sword, and also law ;
Giant, with Germany for pedestal —
For title Cssar — Charlemagne for name :
A greater to have been than Hannibal
Or Attila — as great as was tlie world.
Yet all rests here ! For Empire strive and strain
And see the dust that makes an Emperor!
Cover the earth with tumult, and with noise
Know you that one day only will remain —
Oh, madd'ning thought — a stone ! For sounding name
Triumphant, but some letters 'graved to serve
For little children to learn spelling by.
How high so e'er ambition made thee soar,
Behold the end of all ! Oh, Empire, power,
What matters all to me ! I near it now
And like it well. Some voice declares to me
Thine — tliine — it will be thine. Heavens, were it so !
To mount at once the spiral height supreme
And be alone — the key-stone of the arch.
With states beneath, one o'er the other ranged,
And kings for mats to wipe one's sandall'd feet !
To see 'neath kings the feudal families.
Margraves and Cardinals, and Doges — Dukes,
Then Bishops, Abbes — Chiefs of ancient clans,
Great Barons — then the soldier class and clerks.
And know yet farther off — in the deep shade
At bottom of th' abyss there is Mankind —
That is to say a crowd, a sea of men,
A tumult — cries, with tears, and bitter laugh
Sometimes. The wail wakes up and scares the earth
And reaches us with leaping echoes, and
With trumpet tone. Oh, citizens, oh, men !
The swarm that from the high church towers seems now
To sound the tocsin ! (^Musing.)
Wondrous human base Of nations, bearing on your shoulders broad The mighty pyramid that has two poles,
104 DRAMAS [act iv.
The living waves that ever straining hard
Balance and shake it as they heave and roll,
Make all change place, and on the highest heights
Make stagger thrones, as if they were but stools.
So sure is this, that ceasing vain debates
Kings look to Heaven ! Kings look doAvn below.
Look at the people ! — Restless ocean, there
Where nothing's cast that does not shake the whole;
The sea that rends a throne, and rocks a tomb —
A glass in which kings rarely look but ill.
Ah, if upon this gloomy sea they gazed
Sometimes, what Empires in its depths they'd find !
Great vessels wrecked that by its ebb and flow
Are stirr'd — that wearied it — known now no more !
To govern this — to mount so high if called.
Yet know myself to be but mortal man !
To see the abyss — if not that moment struck
With dizziness bewildering every sense.
Oh, moving pyramid of states and kings
With apex narrow, — woe to timid step !
What shall restrain me? If I fail when there
Feeling my feet upon the trembling world.
Feeling alive the palpitating earth.
Then when I have between my hands the globe
Have I the strength alone to hold it fast.
To be an Emperor? Oh, God, 'twas hard
And difficult to play the kingly part.
Certes, no man is rarer than the one
Who can enlarge his soul to duly meet
Great Fortune's smiles, and still increasing gifts.
But I ! Who is it that shall be my guide.
My counsellor, and make me great?
[Falls on his knees before the tomb.
'Tis thou. Oh, Charlemagne ! And since 'tis God for whom All obstacles dissolve, who takes us now And puts us face to face — from this tomb's depths
sc. II.] HERNANI 105
Endow me with sublimity and strength. Let me be great enough to see the truth On every side. Show me how small the world I dare not measure — me this Babel show Where, from the hind to Caesar mounting up, Each one, complaisant with himself, regards The next with scorn that is but half restrained. Teach me the secret of thy conquests all, And how to rule. And show me certainly Whether to punish, or to pardon, be The worthier thing to do.
Is it not fact That in his solitary bed sometimes A mighty shade is wakened from his sleep, Aroused by noise and turbulence on earth ; That suddenly his tomb expands itself. And bursts its doors — and in the night flings forth A flood of light.? If this be true indeed, Say, Emperor ! what can after Charlemagne Another do ! Speak, though thy sovereign breath Should cleave this brazen door. Or rather now Let me thy sanctuary enter lone ! Let me behold thy veritable face, And not repulse me with a freezing breath, Upon thy stony pillow elbows lean, And let us talk. Yes, with prophetic voice Tell me of things which make the forehead pale. And clear eyes mournful. Speak, and do not blind Thine awe-struck son, for doubtlessly thy tomb Is full of light. Or if thou v.ilt not speak. Let me make study in the solemn peace Of thee, as of a world, thy measure take. Oh giant, for there's nothing here below So great as thy poor ashes. Let them teach, Failing thy spirit. [^He puts the hey in the loch.
Let us enter now. \^He recoils.
Oh, God, if he should really whisper me !
106 DRAMAS [act iv.
If he be there and walks with noiseless tread,
And I come back with hair in moments bleached!
I'll do it still. l^Sound of footsteps.
Who comes ? who dares disturb Besides myself the dwelling of such dead !
[^The sound comes nearer. My murderers ! I forgot ! Now enter we.
l^He opens the door of the tomb, which shuts upon him. {Enter several men walking softly disguised by large
cloaks and hats.)
Scene S. — The Conspirators.
{They take each otJiers^ hands, going from one to another and speaking in a low tone. )
First Conspirator (who alone carries a lighted torch). Ad augusta.
Second Conspirator. Per angusta.
Shield us.
Who's there?
First Conspirator.
The Saints
Third Conspirator. The dead assist us.
First Conspirator.
Guard us God !
[Noise in the shade.
First Conspirator.
A Voice. Ad augusta.
Second Conspirator.
Per angusta.
sc. III.] HERNANI 107
[Enter fresh Conspirators — noise of footsteps.
First Conspirator to Third. See ! there is some one still to come.
Third Conspirator.
Who's there? (Voice in the darkness.) Ad august a.
Third Conspirator. Per angusta. {Enter more Conspirators, who exchange signs with their
hands with the others.)
First Conspirator.
'Tis well. All now are here. Gotha, to you it falls To state the case. Friends, darkness waits for light.
[The Conspirators sit in a half circle on the tombs. The First Conspirator passes before them, and from his torch each one lights a wax taper which he holds in his hand. Then the First Conspirator seats himself in silence on a tomb a little higher than the others in the centre of the circle.
Duke of Gotha {rising). My friends ! This Charles of Spain, by mother's side A foreigner, aspires to mount the throne Of Holy Empire.
First Conspirator.
But for him the grave.
Duke of Gotha {throwing down his light and crushing it
with his foot). Let it be with his head as Avith this flame.
All. So be it.
First Conspirator. Death unto him.
108 DRAJVIAS [act iv.
Let him be slain.
Duke of Gotha.
Let him die. All.
Don Juan de Haro.
German his father was.
Duke de Lutzelbourg. His mother Spanish.
Duke of Gotha.
Thus jou see that he Is no more one than other. Let him die.
A Conspirator. Suppose th' Electors at this very hour Declare him Emperor !
First Conspirator.
Him ! oh, never him !
Don Gil Tellez Giron, What signifies? Let us strike off the head, The Crown will fall.
First Conspirator.
But if to him belongs The Holy Empire, he becomes so great And so august, that only God's own hand Can reach him.
Duke of Gotha. All the better reason why He dies before such power august he gains.
First Conspirator. He shall not be elected.
All. Not for him The Empire.
sc. III.] HERNANI 109
First Concj'iratoe. Now, how many hands will't take To put him in his shroud ?
One is enough.
First Conspirator. How many strokes to reach his heart?
All.
But one. First Conspirator. Who, then, will strike.?
All. All! All!
First Conspirator.
The victim is A traitor proved. They would an Emperor clioose. We've a high-priest to make. Let us draw lots.
\_All the Conspirators write their names on their tablets, tear out the leaf, roll it up, and one after another throw them into the urn on one of the tombs. Afterwards the First Conspirator says. Now let us pray.
(^All kneel, the First Conspirator rises and says,) Oh, may the chosen one Believe in God, and like a Roman strike, Die as a Hebrew would, and brave alike The whppl and burning pincers, laugh at rack, And fire, and wooden horse, and be resigned To kill and die. He might have all to do.
[He draws a parchment from the urn.
All. What name.''
First Conspihator (iw low voice). Hernani !
110 DRAMAS [act iv.
Hernani (^coming out from the crowd of Conspirators).
I have won, yes won ! I hold thee fast ! Thee I've so long pursued With vengeance.
Don Ruy Gomez {piercing through the crowd and taking
Hernani aside). Yield — oh yield this right to me.
Hernani. Not for my life ! Oh, Signor, grudge me not This stroke of fortune — 'tis the first I've known.
Don Ruy Gomez. You nothing have ! I'll give you houses, lands, A hundred thousand vassals shall be yours In my thi'ee hundred villages, if you But yield the right to strike to me.
Hernani.
No — no.
Duke of Gotha. Old man, thy arm would strike less sure a blow.
Don Ruy Gomez. Back ! I have strength of soul, if not of arm. Judge not the sword by the mere scabbard's rust.
(To Hernani.) You do belong to me.
Hernani. My life is yours, As his belongs to me.
Don Ruy Gomez {drawing the horn from his girdle).
I yield her up. And will return the horn.
Hernani {he trembles).
What life ! my life And Dona Sol ! No, I my vengeance choose.
sc. III.] HERNANI 111
I have my father to revenge — yet more, Perchance I am inspired by God in this.
Don Ruy Gomez. I yield thee Her — and give thee back the horn !
Heenani. No!
Boy, reflect.
Don Ruy Gomez.
Heenani.
Oh, Duke, leave me my prey.
Don Ruy Gomez.
My curses on you for depriving me Of this my joy.
FlEST CONSPIEATOE. (To HeENANI. )
Oh, brother, ere they can Elect him — 'twould be well this very night To watch for Charles.
Heenani. Fear nought, I know the way To kill a man.
FiEST Conspieatoe. May every treason fall On traitor, and may God be with you now. We Counts and Barons, let us take the oath That if he fall, yet slay not, we go on And strike by turn unflinching till Charles dies.
All. (drawing their swords). Let us all swear.
Duke of Gotha (to First Conspirator). My brother, let's decide On what we swear.
Don Ruy Gomez (taking his sword by the 'point and raismg
it above his head.) By this same cross,
112 DRAMAS [act iv.
All (raising their swords).
And this That he must quickly die impenitent.
\_The?j hear a cannon fired afar off. All pause and are silent. The door of the tomb half opens, and Don Carlos appears at the threshold. A second gun is fired, then a third. He opens wide the door and stands erect and motionless without advancing.
SrisNE 4*. — The Conspirators and Don Carlos. Afterwards Don Ricardo ; Signors, Guards, The King of Bo- hemia, Tlie Duke of Bavaria, afterwards Dona Sol.
Don Carlos. Fall back, ye gentlemen — the Emperor hears.
[^All the lights are simultaneously extinguished. A profound silence. Don Carlos advances a step in the darkness, so dense, that the silent, motionless Conspirators can scarcely he distinguished. Silence and night ! From darkness sprung, the swarm Into the darkness plunges back again ! Think ye this scene is like a passing dream. And that I take you now your lights are quenched. For men's stone figures seated on their tombs .^ Just now, my statues, you had voices loud, Raise, then, your drooping heads for Charles the Fifth Is here. Strike. Move a pace or two and show You dare. But no, 'tis not in you to dare. Your flaming torches, blood-red 'neath these vaults, ]\Iy breath extinguished ; but now turn your eyes Irresolute, and see that if I thus Put out the man}^, I can light still more.
[He strikes the iron key on the hronze door of the tomb. At the sound all the depths of the cavern are filled with soldiers hearing torches and halberts. At their head the Duke d'Alcala, the Marguis d'Almunan, SfC.
sc. IV.] HERNANI 113
Come on, my falcons ! I've the nest — the prey.
(To CONSPIEATORS.)
I can make blaze of light, 'tis my turn now. Behold! (To */i<? Soldiers.)
Advance — for flagrant is the crime.
Hernani (looking at the Soldiers). Ah, well! At first I thought 'twas Charlemagne, Alone he seemed so great — but after all 'Tis only Charles the Fifth.
Don Carlos (to the Duke d'Alcala).
Come, Constable Of Spain, (To Marquis d'Almunan.)
And you Castilian Admiral, Disarm them all.
l^The Conspirators are surrounded and disarmed.
Don Ricardo (hurrying in and bowing almost to the
ground). Your Majesty!
Don Carlos.
Alcade [ make you of the Palace.
Don Ricardo (again bowing).
Two Electors, To represent the Golden Chamber, come To olter to your Sacred Majesty Congratulations now.
*o'
Don Carlos.
Let them come forth.
(Aside to Don Ricardo). The Dona Sol.
[Ricardo bows and exit. Enter with flambeaux and Nourish of trumpets the King of Bohemia and the
Duke of Bavaria, both wearing cloth of gold, 8
114 DRAMAS [act. iv.
and with crowns on their heads. Numerous fol- lowers. German nobles carrying the banner of the Empire, the double-headed Eagle, with the escutcheon of Spain in the middle of it. The Soldiers divide, forming lines between which the Electors pass to the Emperor, to whom they bow low. He returns the salutation by raising his hat.
Duke of Bavaria. Most Sacred Majesty Charles, of the Romans King, and Emperor, The Empire of the world is in your hands — Yours is the throne to which each king aspires ! The Saxon Frederick was elected first. But he judged you more worthy, and declined. Now then receive the crown and globe, oh King — The Holy Empire doth invest you now. Arms with the sword, and you indeed are great.
Don Carlos. The College I will thank on my return. But go, my brother of Bohemia, And you, Bavarian cousin. — Thanks ; but now I do dismiss you — I shall go myself.
King of Bohemia. Oh ! Charles, our ancestors were friends. My Sire Loved yours, and their two fathers were two friends — So young ! exposed to varied fortunes ! say, Oh Charles, may I be ranked a very chief Among thy brothers ? I cannot forget I knew you as a little child.
Don Carlos.
Ah, well — King of Bohemia, you presume too much.
[He gives him his hand to kiss, also the Duke of Ba- varia, both bow low. Depart. [Exeunt the two Electors with their followers.
sc. IV.] HERNANI 115
The Crowd. Long Live the Empeeoe !
Don Carlos (aside). So 'tis mine, All things have helped, and I am Emperor — By the refusal though of Frederick Surnamed the Wise !
(Enter Dona Sol led by Don Ricardo.)
Dona Sol. What, Soldiers 1 — Emperor ! Hernani! Heaven, what an unlooked-for chancel
Hernani. Ah ! Dona Sol !
Don Ruy Gomez (aside to Hernani).
She has not seen me. [Dona Sol runs to Hernani, who makes her recoil by
a look of disdain.
Hernani.
Madam ! Dona Sol (drawing the dagger from her bosom), I still his poignard have !
Hernani (taking her in his arms).
My dearest one!
Don Carlos. Be silent all. (To the Conspirators.)
Is't you remorseless are? I need to give the world a lesson now. The Lara of Castile, and Gotha, you Of SaxoQy — all — all — what were your plans Just now? I bid you speak.
Hernani,
Quite simple, Sire,
116 DRAMAS [act iv.
The thing, and we can briefly tell it you. We 'graved the sentence on Belshazzar's wall.
\_He takes out a poignard and brandishes ito We render unto Casar Caesar's due.
Don Carlos. Silence I
{To Don Ruy Gomez.)
And you ! You too are traitor, Silva !
Don Ruy Gomez. Which of us two is traitor. Sire?
Hernani {turning towards the Conspirators).
Our heads And Empire — all that he desires he has.
(To the Emperor.) The mantle blue of kings encumbered you ; The purple better suits — it shows not blood.
Don Carlos {to Don Ruy Gomez).
Cousin of Silva, this is felony.
Attaining your baronial rank. Think well,
Don Ruy — high treason !
Don Ruy Gomez.
Kings like Roderick Count Julians make.^
Don Carlos {to the Duke d'Alcala). Seize only those who seem
The nobles, — for the rest !
[Don Ruy Gomez, the Duke de Lutzelbourg, the Duke of Gotha, Don Juan de Haro, Don Guz-
1 Roderick, the last Gothic King, by craft and violence dishonoured Florinda, the daughter of Count Julian, who, in revenge, invited the Saracens into Spain, and assisted tiieir invasion, a.d. 713. Jheir army was commanded by Tarik, who gave the name Gibel-al-Tarik, or mountain of Tarik, to the place where he landed — a name corrupted to Gibraltar. So incensed were the Spaniards against the hapless Flornida, that they abolished tlie word as a woman's name, reserving it henceforth for dogs. — TaAK8.
sc. IV.] HERNANI 117
MAN DE Lara, Don Tellez Giron, the Baron of HoHENBOURG Separate themselves from the group of Conspirators, among whom is Hernani. The Duke d'Alcala surrounds them with guards.
Dona Sol {aside).
Ah, he is saved!
Hernani (coming from among the Conspirators). I claim to be included! {To Don Carlos.)
Since to this It comes, the question of the axe — that now Hernani, humble churl, beneath thy feet Unpunished goes, because his brow is not At level with thy sword — because one must Be great to die, I rise. God, who gives power, And gives to thee the scepter, made me Duke Of Segorbe and Cardona, Marquis too Of Monroy, Albatera's Count, of Gor Viscount, and Lord of many places, more Than I can name. Juan of Aragon Am I, Grand Master of Avis ■ — the son In exile born, of murder'd father slain By king's decree. King Charles, which me proscribed. Thus death 'twixt us is family affair; You have the scaffold — we the poignard hold. Since heaven a Duke has made me, and exile A mountaineer, — since all in vain I've sharpen'd Upon the hills my sword, and in the torrents Have tempered it, [He puts on his hat.
{To the Conspirators.)
Let us be covered now, Us the Grandees of Spain. {They cover.)
{To Don Carlos.)
Our heads, oh ! King, Have right to fall before thee covered thus.
{To the Prisoners.) Silva, and Haro — Lara — men of rank
118 DRAMAS [act iv.
And race make room for Juan of Aragon.
Give me my place, ye Dukes and Counts — my place.
(To the Courtiers and Guards.) King, headsmen, varlets — Juan of Aragon Am I. If all your scaffolds are too small Make new ones. {He joins the group of Nobles.)
Dona Sol. Heavens !
Don Carlos.
I had forgotten quite This history.
Hernani. But they who bleed remember Far better. Th' evil that wrong-doer thus So senselessly forgets, for ever stirs Within the outraged heart.
Don Carlos,
Therefore, enough For me to bear this title, that I'm son Of sires, whose power dealt death to ancestors Of yours !
Dona Sol (falling on her knees before the Emperor). Oh, pardon — pardon ! Mercy, Sire, Be pitiful, or strike us both, I pray. For he my lover is, my promised spouse, In him it is alone I live — I breathe ; Oh, Sire, in mercy us together slay. Trembling — oh Majesty! — I trail myself Before your sacred knees. I love him, Sire, And he is mine — as Empire is your own. Have pity! (Don Carlos looks at her without movtng.) Oh what thought absorbs you.''
Don Carlos.
Cease.
sc. IV.] HERNANI US
Rise — Duchess of Segorbe — Marchioness
Of Monroy — Countess Albaterra — and ( To Hernani. )
Thine other names, Don Juan?
Heenani.
Who speaks thus. The King?
Don Carlos. No, 'tis the Emperor.
Dona Sol.
Just Heav'n!
Don Carlos (pointing to her). Duke Juan, take your wife.
Heenani {his eyes raised to heaven. Dona Sol in his arms).
Just God!
Don Caelos {to Don Ruy Gomez).
My cousin, I know the pride of your nobility. But Aragon with Silva well may mate.
Don Ruy Gomez {bitterly). 'Tis not a question of nobility.
Heenani {looking with love on Dona Sol and still holding
her in his arms). My deadly hate is vanishing away.
[^Throws away his dagger,
Don Ruy Gomez {aside, and looking at them). Shall I betray myself.'' Oh, no — my grief. My foolish love would make them pity cast Upon my venerable head. Old man And Spaniard ! Let the hidden fire consume. And suffer still in secret. Let heart break But cry not ; — they would laugh at thee.
Dona Sol {still in Heenani's arms).
My Duke!
120 DRAMAS [act tv.
Hernani. Nothing mj soul holds now but love!
Dona Sol.
Oh, joy!
Don Carlos {aside, his hand in his bosom). Stifle thyself, young heart so full of flame, Let reign again the better thoughts which thou So long hast troubled. Henceforth let thy loves. Thy mistresses, alas 1 — be Germany And Flanders — Spain {looking at the banner).
The Emperor is like The Eagle his companion, in the place Of heart, there's but a 'scutcheon.
Hernani.
Caesar joxil Don Carlos. Don Juan, of your ancient name and race Your soul is worthy {pointing to Dona Sol).
Worthy e'en of her. Kneel, Duke.
[Hernani kneels. Don Carlos unfastens his oinm Golden Fleece and puts it on Hernani's neck. Receive this collar. [Don Carlos draws his sword and strikes him three times on the shoulder.
Faithful be,
r — J
j For by St. Stephen now I make thee Knight.
\^He raises and embraces him. Thou hast a collar softer and more choice ; That which is wanting to my rank supreme, — The arms of loving woman, loved by thee. Thou wilt be happy — I am Emperor. ( To Conspirators. ) Sirs, I forget your names. Anger and hate I will forget. Go — go — I pardon you. This is the lesson that the world much needs.
sc. IV.] HERNANI 121
The Conspirators. Glory to Charles!
Don Ruy Gomez (to Don Carlos). I only suffer then !
Don Carlos. And I!
Don Ruy Gomez. But I have not like Majesty Forgiven !
Hernani. Who is't has worked this wondrous change? All. Nobles, Soldiers, Conspirators. Honour to Charles the Fifth, and Germany!
Don Carlos (turning to the tomb). Honour to Charlemagne! Leave us now together.
[^Exeunt alL
Scene 5. — Don Carlos (alone),
\^He bends towards the tomb. Art thou content with me, oh, Charlemagne! Have I the kingship's littleness stripped off? Become as Emperor another man? Can I Rome's mitre add unto my helm? Have I the right the fortunes of the world To sway? Have I a steady foot that safe Can tread the path, by Vandal ruins strewed, Which thou hast beaten by thine armies vast? Have I my candle lighted at thy flame? Did I interpret right the voice that spake Within this tomb ? Ah, I was lost — alone Before an Empire — a wide howling world That threatened and conspired! There were the Danes To punish, and the Holy Father's self To compensate — with Venice — Sohman, Francis, and Luther — and a thousand dirks
122 DRAMAS [act iv.
Gleaming already in the shade — snares — rocks ; And countless foes; a score of nations, each Of which might serve to awe a score of kings. Things ripe, all pressing to be done at once. I cried to thee — with what shall I begin ? And thou didst answer — Son, by clemency !
FIFTH ACT
The Nuptials.
Scene 1. — Saragossa. A terrace of the palace of Aragon. At the hack a flight of steps leading to the garden. At the right and left, doors on to a terrace which shows at the hack of the stage a balustrade surmounted hy a double row of Moorish arches, above and through which are seen the palace gardens, fountains in the shade, shrubberies and moving lights, and the Gothic and Ar- abic arches of the palace illuminated. It is night. Trumpets afar off are heard. Masks and Dominoes, either singly or vn groups, cross the terrace here and there. At the front of the stage a group of young lords, their masks vn their hands, laugh and chat noisily.
Don Sancho Sanchez de Zuniga, Comte de Monteeet, Don Matias Centurion, Marquis d'Almunan, Don
RiCARBO DE RoXAS, CoMTE DE CaSAPALMA, DoN FrAN-
cisco DE Sotomayor, Comte de Valalcazar, Don Garcie Suarez de Carbajal, Comte de Penalver.
Don Garcie. Now to the bride long life — and joy — I say! Don Matias {looking to the balcony). All Saragossa at its windows shows.
Don Garcie. And they do well. A torch-light wedding ne'er Was seen more gay than this, nor lovelier night, Nor handsomer married pair.
Don Matias.
Kind Emp*ror! 123
124 DRAMAS [act v.
Don Sancho. When we went with him in the dark that night Seeking adventure, Marquis, who'd have though L How it would end?
Don Ricardo (interrupting). I, too, was there. (To the others.) Now list. Three gallants, one a bandit, his head due Unto the scaffold ; then a Duke, a King, Adoring the same woman, all laid siege At the same time. The onset made — who won? It was the bandit.
Don Francisco. Nothing strange in that. For love and fortune, in all other lands « As well as Spain, are sport of the cogg'd dice. It is the rogue who wins.
Don Ricardo.
My fortune grew In seeing the love-making. First a Count And then Grandee, and next an Alcade At court. My time was well spent, though without One knowing it.
Don Sancho. Your secret, sir, appears To be the keeping close upon the heels O' the King.
Don Ricardo. And showing that my conduct's worth Reward.
Don Garcie. And by chance you profited.
Don Matias. What has become of the old Duke? has he His coffin ordered?
sc. I.] HERNANI 125
Don Sancho.
Marquis, jest not thus At him! For he a haughty spirit has; And this old man loved well the Dona Sol. His sixty years had turned his hair to grey, One day has bleached it.
Don Garcie.
Not again, they say. Has he been seen in Saragossa.
Don Sancho.
Well? Wouldst thou that to the bridal he should bring His coffin.''
Don Francisco. What's the Emperor doing now.?
Don Sancho. The Emperor Is out of sorts just now, Luther annoys him.
Don RrcARDO.
Luther ! — subject fine For care and fear ! Soon would I finish him With but four men-at-arms !
Don Matias.
And Soliman Makes him dejected.
Don Garcie.
Luther — Soliman Neptune — the devil — Jupiter ! What are They all to me? The women are most fair, The masquerade is splendid, and I've said A hundred foolish things!
Don Sancho.
Behold you now The chief thing.
126 DRAMAS [act v.
Don Ricabdo. Garcie's not far wrong, I say. Not the same man am I on festal days. When I put on the mask in truth I think Another head it gives me.
Don Sancho (apart to Don Matias).
Pity 'tis That all days are not festivals !
Don Feancisco.
Are those Their rooms.?
Don Garcie (with a nod of his head).
Arrive they will, no doubt, full soon.
Dost think so?
Don Francisco.
Don Gabcee. Most undoubtedly !
Don Francisco.
'Tis weU.
The bride is lovely!
Don Ricardo.
What an Emperor! The rebel chief, Hernani, to be pardoned — Wearing the Golden Fleece ! and married too ! Ah, if the Emperor had been by me Advised, the gallant should have had a bed Of stone, the lady one of down.
Don Sancho (aside to Don Matias).
How well I'd like with my good sword this lord to smash, A lord made up of tinsel coarsely joined; Pourpoint of Count filled out with bailiff's soul !
I
sc. I.] HERNANI 12T
Don Ricardo {drawing near). What are you saying?
Don Matias (aside to Don Sancho).
Count, no quarrel here !
(To Don Ricardo.) He was reciting one of Petrarch's sonnets Unto his lady love.
Don Garcie. Have you not seen Among the flowers and women, and dresses gay Of many hues, a figure spectre-like, Whose domino all black, upright against A balustrade, seems like a spot upon The festival.?
Don Ricardo. Yes, by my faith !
Don Garcie.
Who is't.? Don Ricardo. By height and mien I judge that it must be The admiral — the Don Prancasio.
Don Francisco. Oh, no.
Don Garcie. He has not taken off" his mask.
Don Francisco. There is no need; it is the Duke de Soma, Who likes to be observed. 'Tis nothing more.
Don Ricardo. No; the Duke spoke to me.
Don Garcie.
Who then can be This Mask ? But see — he's here.
128 DRAMAS [act v.
[Enter a Black Domino, who slowly crosses the hack of the stage. All turn and watch him without his ap- pearing to notice them.
Don Sancho.
If the dead walk, That is their step.
Don Garcie (approaching the Black Domino).
Most noble Mask
(The Black Domino stops and turns. Garcie recoils.)
I swear, Good Sirs, that I saw flame shine in his eyes.
Don Sancho. If he's the devil he'll find one he can Address.
\^He goes to the Black Domino, who is still motionless. Ho, Demon ! comest thou from hell ?
The Mask. I come not thence — 'tis thither that I go.
[He continues his walk and disappears at the balustrade of the staircase. All watch him with a look of hor- rified dismay.
Don Matias.
Sepulchral is his voice, as can be heard.
Don Garcie. Pshaw ! What would frighten elsewhere, at a ball We laugh at.
Don Sancho.
Silly jesting 'tis!
Don Garcie.
Indeed, If Lucifer is come to see us dance, Waiting for lower regions, let us dance!
Don Sancho. Of course it's some buffoonery.
sc. I.] HERNANI 129
Don Matias.
We'll know To-morrow.
Don Sancho {to Don Matias).
Look now what becomes of him, I pray you !
Don Matias {at the balustrade of the terrace). Down the steps he's gone. That's all.
Don Sancho. A pleasant jester he! {Musing.) 'Tis strange.
Don Garcie {to a lady passing).
Marquise, Let us pray dance this time. [^He boras and offers his hand.
The Lady.
You know, dear sir, My husband will my dances with you all Count up.
Don Garcie. All the more reason. Pleased is he To count, it seems, and it amuses him. He calculates — we dance.
[The lady gives her hand and they exeunt.
Don Sancho {thoughtfully). In truth, 'tis strange!
Don Matias. Behold the married pair ! Now silence all !
[^Enter Hernani and Dona Soi. hand in hand. Dona Sol in magnificent bridal dress. Hernani in black velvet and with the Golden Fleece hanging from his neck. Behind them a crowd of Masks and of ladies and gentlemen who form their retinue. Two Halberdiers in rich liveries follow them, and four pages precede them. Everyone makes way
130 DRAMAS [act v.
for them and hows as they approach. Flourish of trumpets.
Scene 2. — The Same. Hernani, Dona Sol and retinue.
Heenani (^saluting).
Dear friends!
Don Ricaedo (advancing and bowing). Your Excellency's happiness Makes ours.
Don Feancisco {looking at Dona Sol).
Now, by St. James, 'tis Venus' self That he is leading.
Don Matias. Happiness is his !
Don Sancho (to Don Matias). *Tis late now, let us leave.
l^All salute the married pair and retire — some by the door, others by the stairway at the back.
Heenani (escorting them). Adieu! Don Sancho (who has remained to the last, and pressing
his hand).
Be happy ! [Exit Don Sancho. [Heenani and Dona Sol remain alone. The sound of voices grows fainter and fainter till it ceases alto- gether. During the early part of the following scene the sound of trumpets grows fainter, and the lights by degrees are extinguished — till night and silence prevail.
sc. m.] HERNANI 181
Scene 3. — Hernani. Dona Sol.
Dona Soi,. At last they are all gone.
Hernani (^seeking to draw her to his arms).
Dear love ! Dona Sol {drawing back a little).
Is't late? — At least to me it seems so.
Hernani.
Angel dear, Time ever drags till we together are.
Dona Sol. This noise has wearied me. Is it not true. Dear Lord, that all this mirth but stifling is To happiness.'*
Hernani. Thou sayest truly, Love, For happiness is serious, and asks For hearts of bronze on which to 'grave itself. Pleasure alarms it, flinging to it flowers ; Its smile is nearer tears than mirth.
Dona Sol.
Thy smile's Like daylight in thine eyes.
[Hernani seeks to lead her to the door. Oh, presently.
«
Hernani.
I am thy slave ; yes, linger if thou wilt, Whate'er thou dost is well. I'll laugh and sing If thou desirest that it should be so. Bid the volcano stifle flame, and 'twill
132 DRAMAS [act v.
Close up its gulfs, and on its sides grow flowers, And grasses green.
Dona Sol. How good you are to me, My heart's Hernani!
Hernani.
Madam, what name's that? I pray in pity speak it not again ! Thou call'st to mind forgotten things. I know That he existed formerly in dreams, Hernani, he whose eyes flashed like a sword, A man of night and of the hills, a man Proscribed, on whom was seen writ everywhere The one word vengeance. An unhappy man That drew down malediction ! I know not The man they called Hernani. As for me, I love the birds and flowers, and woods — and song Of nightingale. I'm Juan of Aragon, The spouse of Dona Sol — a happy man !
Dona Sol. Happy am I!
Hernani.
What does it matter now. The rags I left behind me at the door ! Behold, I to my palace desolate Come back. Upon the threshold-sill there waits For me an Angel ; I come in and lift Upright the broken columns, kindle fire, And ope again the windows; and the grass Upon the courtyard I have all pluck'd up ; For me there is but joy, enchantment, love. Let them give back my towers, and donjon-keep, My plume, and seat at the Castilian board Of Council, comes my blushing Dona Sol, Let them leave us — the rest forgotten is.
sc. III.] HERNANI 133
Nothing I've seen, nor said, nor have I done. Anew my Hfe begins, the past effacing. Wisdom or madness, you I have and love, And you are all my joy!
Dona Sol.
How well upon The velvet black the golden collar shows !
Hernani. You saw it on the King ere now on me.
Dona Sol. I did not notice. Others, what are they To me? Besides, the velvet is it, or The satin? No, my Duke, it is thy neck Which suits the golden collar. Thou art proud And noble, my own Lord. [^He seeks to lead her indoors.
Oh, presently, A moment! See you not, I weep with joy? Come look upon the lovely night.
[^She goes to the balustrade. My Duke, Only a moment — but the time to breathe And gaze. All now is o'er, the torches out, The music done. Night only is with us. Felicity most perfect! Think you not That now while all is still and slumbering. Nature, half waking, watches us with love? No cloud is in the sky. All things like us Are now at rest. Come, breathe with me the air Perfumed by roses. Look, there is ho light. Nor hear we any noise. Silence prevails. The moon just now from the horizon rose E'en while you spoke to me; her trembling light And thy dear voice together reached my heart. Joyous and softly calm I felt, oh, thou
134 DRAMAS [act v.
My lover! And it seemed that I would then Most willingly have died.
Hernani.
Ah, who is there Would not all things forget when listening thus Unto this voice celestial ! Thy speech But seems a chaunt with nothing human mixed, And as with one, who gliding down a stream On summer eve, sees pass before his eyes A thousand flowery plains, my thoughts are drawn Into thy reveries !
Dona Sol. This silence is Too deep, and too profound the calm. Say, now, Wouldst thou not like to see a star shine forth From out the depths — or hear a voice of night, Tender and sweet, raise suddenly in song?
Hernani {smiling). Capricious one ! Just now you fled away From all the songs and lights.
Dona Sol.
Ah yes, the ball! But yet a bird that in the meadow sings, A nightingale in moss or shadow lost. Or flute far ofl^. For music sweet can pour Into the soul a harmony divine. That like a heavenly choir wakes in the heart A thousand voices ! Charming would it be !
[They hear the sound of a horn from the shade. My prayer is heard.
Hernani {aside trembling). Oh, miserable man !
Dona Sol. An angel read my thouglit — 'twas thy good angel Doubtless ?
sc. III.] HERNANI 135
Hernani {bitterly). Yes, my good angel! {Aside.)
There, again!
Dona Sol {smiling). Don Juan, I recognize your horn.
Heenani.
Is't so?
Dona Sol,. The half this serenade to you belongs.'*
Hernani. The half, thou hast declared it.
Dona Sol.
Ah, the ball Detestable ! Far better do I love
The horn that sounds from out the woods ! And since It is your horn 'tis like your voice to me,
\_The horn sounds again.
Hernani {aside). It is the tiger howling for his prey !
Dona Sol. Don Juan, this music fills my heart with joy.
Hernani {drawing himself tip and looking terrible). Call me Hernani ! call me it ao;ain ! For with that fatal name I have not done.
Dona Sol {trembling). What ails you.'*
Hernani. The old man !
Dona Sol.
Oh God, what looks ! What is it ails you?
136 DRAMAS [act v.
Hernani.
That old man who in The darkness laughs. Can you not see him there?
Dona Sol. Oh, you are wand'ring! Who is this old man?
Hernani. The old man !
Dona Sol. On my knees I do entreat Thee, say what is the secret that afflicts Thee thus?
Hernani. I swore it !
Dona Sol. Swore ! [She watches his movevients with anxiety. He stops suddenly and passes his hand across his brow.
Hernani (^aside).
What have I said? Oh, let me spare her. (Aloud.)
I — nought. What was it I said?
Dona Sol. You said
Hernani.
No, no, I was disturbed
And somewhat suffering I am. Do not Be frightened.
Dona Sol. You need something? Order me. Thy servant. [^The horn sounds again.
Hernani (aside). Ah, he claims ! he claims the pledge !
sc. IV.] HERNANI 137
He has my oath. {Feeling for his dagger.)
Not there. It must be done! Ah!
Dona Sol. Suff'rest thou so much?
Hernani.
'Tis an old wound That I thought healed — it has reopened now. (Aside.) She must be got away. (Aloud.)
My best beloved, Now listen ; there's a little box that in Less happy days I carried with me
Dona Sol.
Ah, I know what 'tis you mean. Tell me your wish.
Hernani. It holds a flask of an elixir which Will end my suff'erings. — Go !
Dona Sol.
I go, my Lord. [^Exit by the door to their apartments.
Scene 4.
Hernani (alone). This, then, is how my happiness must end ! Behold the fatal finger that doth shine Upon the wall ! My bitter destiny Still jests at me.
l^He falls into a profound yet convulsive reverie. After- wards he turns abruptly. Ah, well ! I hear no sound.
Am I myself deceiving?
[The Mask in black domino appears at the balustrade of the steps. Hernani stops petrified.
138 DRAMAS [act v.
Scene 5. — Hernani. The Mask.
The Mask.
" Whatsoe'er May happen, what the place, or what the hour. Whenever to thy mind it seems the time Has come for me to die — blow on this horn And take no other care. All will be done." This compact had the dead for witnesses. Is it all done.''
Hernani (in a low voice). 'Tishe!
The Mask.
Unto thy home I come, I tell thee that it is the time. It is my hour. I find thee hesitate.
Hernani. Well then, thy pleasure say. What wouldst thou Of me.?
The Mask. I give thee choice 'twixt poison draught And blade. I bear about me both. We shall Depart together.
Hernani. Be it so.
The Mask.
Shall we First pray?
Hernani.
What matter?
The Mask.
Which of them wilt thou?
sc. v.] HERNANI 139
Heenani. The poison.
The Mask. Then hold out your hand. \^He gives a vial to Hernani, who pales at receiving it.
Now drink, That I may finish.
[Hernani lifts the vial to his lips, but recoils.
Hernani. Oh, for pity's sake Until to-morrow wait ! If thou hast heart Or soul, if thou art not a spectre just Escaped from flame, if thou art not a soul Accursed, for ever lost ; if on thy brow Not yet has God inscribed His " never." Oh If thou hast ever known the bliss supreme Of loving, and at twenty years of age Of wedding the beloved ; if ever thou Hast clasped the one thou lovedst in thine arms. Wait till to-morrow. Then thou canst come back!
The Mask. Childish it is for you to jest this way ! To-morrow ! why, the bell this morning toll'd Thy funeral ! And I should die this night, And who would come and take thee after me! I will not to the tomb descend alone. Young man, 'tis thou must go with me I
Hernani.
I say thee nay ; and, demon, I from thee Myself deliver. I will not obey.
Well, then,
The Mask. As I expected. Very well. On what Then didst thou swear.? Ah, on a trifling thing,
140 DRAMAS [act v.
The mem'ry of thy father's head. Witli ease Such oath may be forgotten. Youthful oaths Are light affairs.
Hernani. My father! — father! Oh My senses I shall lose !
The Mask.
Oh, no — 'tis but A perjury and treason.
Hernani. Duke!
The Mask.
Since now The heirs of Spanish houses make a jest Of breaking promises, I'll say Adieu I
[^He moves as if to leave.
Stay!
Hernani. The Mask.
Hernani. Oh cruel man ! [He raises the vial. Thus to return Upon my path at heaven's door !
[^Re-enter Dona Sol zaitJiout seeing the Mask, who is standing erect near the balustrade of the stairway at the hack of the stage.
Scene 6. — The Same. Dona Sol.
Dona Sol.
I've failed To find that little box.
J
sc. VI.] HERNANI 141
Heenani (aside).
Oh God! 'tis she! At such a moment here !
Dona Sol.
What is't, that thus I frighten him, — e'en at my voice he shakes ! What hold'st thou in thy hand? What fearful thought! What hold'st thou in thy hand? Reply to me.
[^The Domino unmasks, she utters a cry in recognizing Don Ruy. 'Tis poison !
Hernani. Oh, great Heaven!
Dona Sol {to Hernani).
What is it That I have done to thee? What mystery Of horror ? I'm deceived by thee, Don Juan !
Hernani. Ah, I had thought to hide it all from thee. My life I promised to the Duke that time He saved it. Aragon must pay this debt To Silva.
Dona Sol. Unto me you do belong, Not him. What signify your other oaths?
{To Don Ruy Gomez). My love it is which gives me strength, and, Duke, I will defend him against you and all The world.
Don Ruy Gomez {unmoved). Defend him if you can against An oath that's sworn.
Dona Sol. What oath?
142 DRAMAS [act. v.
Hernani.
Yes, I have sworn.
Dona Sol. No, no ; naught binds thee ; it would be a crime, A madness, an atrocity — no, no. It cannot be.
Don Ruy Gomez. Come, Duke. [Hernani makes a gesture to obey. Dona Sol tries
to stop him.
Hernani.
It must be done. Allow it, Dofia Sol. My word was pledged To the Duke, and to my father now in heaven !
Dona Sol {to Don Ruy Gomez). Better that to a tigress you should go And snatch away her young, than take from me Him whom I love. Know you at all what is This Dona Sol? Long time I pitied you, And, in compassion for your age, I seemed The gentle girl, timid and innocent. But now see eyes made moist by tears of rage.
[She draws a dagger from her bosom. See you this dagger ? Old man imbecile ! Do you not fear the steel when eyes flash threat.'' Take care, Don Ruy ! I'm of thy family. Listen, mine Uncle ! Had I been your child It had been ill for you, if you had laid A hand upon my husband !
[^She throws away the dagger, and falls on her hnees he-
fore him.
At thy feet I fall ! Mercy ! Have pity on us both. Alas ! my Lord, I am but woman weak, My strength dies out within my soul, I fail
sc. VI.] HERNANI 143
So easily ; 'tis at your knees I plead, I supplicate — have mercy on us both !
Don Ruy Gomez. Dona Sol!
Dona Sol. Oh, pardon ! With us Spaniards Grief bursts forth in stormy words, you know it. Alas ! you used not to be harsh ! My uncle. Have pity, you are killing me indeed In touching him ! Mercy, have pity now. So well I love him !
Don Ruy Gomez (gloomily).
You love him too much I
Hernani. Thou weepest!
Dona Sol. No, my love, no, no, it must Not be. I will not have you die. (To Don Ruy.)
To-day Be merciful, and I will love you well. You also.
Don Ruy Gomez. After him ; the dregs you'd give The remnants of your love, and friendliness. Still less and less. — Oh, think you thus to quench The thirst that now devours me? {Point'mg to Hernani.)
He alone Is everything. For me kind pityings ! With such affection, what, pray, could I do? Fury ! 'tis he would have your heart, your love. And be enthroned, and grant a look from you As alms ; and if vouchsafed a kindly word 'Tis he would tell you — say so much, it is Enough, — cursing in heart the greedy one The beggar, unto whom he's forced to fling
\U DRAMAS [act v.
The drops remaining in the emptied glass. Oh, shame ! derision ! No, we'll finish. Drink !
Hernani. He has my promise, and it must be kept.
Don Ruy Gomez. Proceed.
[Heenani raises tJie vial to his lips, Dona Sol throws herself on his arm.
Dona Sol. Not yet. Deign both of you to hear me.
Don Ruy Gomez The grave is open and I cannot wait.
Dona Sol. A moment only — Duke, and my Don Juan, Ah ! both are cruel ! What is it I ask .'' An instant ! that is all I beg from you. Let a poor woman speak what's in her heart, Oh, let me speak
Don Ruy Gomez. I cannot wait.
Dona Sol.
My Lord, You make me tremble ! What then have I done ?
Hernani. His crime is rending him.
Dona Sol {still holding his arm).
You see full well I have a thousand things to say.
Don Ruy Gomez (to Hernani).
Die — die
You must.
sc. VI.] HERNANI 145
Dona Sol (still hanging on his arm).
Don Juan, when all's said indeed
Thou shalt do what thou wilt. \_She snatches the vial.
I have it now ! [^She lifts the vial for Hernani and the old man to see.
Don Ruy Gomez. Since with two women I have here to deal, It needs, Don Juan, that I elsewhere go In search of souls. Grave oaths you took to me, And by the race from which you sprang. I go Unto your father, and to speak among The dead. Adieu.
[^He moves as if to depart. Hernani holds him hack.
Hernani. Stay, Duke. {To Dona Sol).
Alas ! I do Implore thee. Wouldst thou wish to see in me A perjured felon only, and e'erwhere I go " a traitor " written on my brow.f* In pity give the poison back to me. 'Tis by our love I ask it, and our souls
Immortal
Dona Sol {sadly). And thou wilt.'* {She drinks.)
Now take the rest.
Don Ruy Gomez {aside). 'Twas then for her !
Dona Sol {returning the half-emptied vial to Hernani).
I tell thee, take.
Hernani. {To Don Ruy.)
See'st thou, Oh miserable man!
Dona Sol. Grieve not for me,
I've left thy share. 10 ^
146 DRAMAS [act v.
Hernani (taking the vial). Oh, God!
Dona Sol.
Not thus would'st thou Have left me mine. But thou ! not thine the heart Of Christian wife ! Thou knowest not to love As Silvas do — but I've drunk first — made sure. Now drink it, if thou wilt !
Hernani.
What hast thou done, Unhappy one.''
Dona Sol. 'Twas thou who willed it so.
Hernani. It is a frightful death !
Dona Sol. No — no — why so?
Hernani. This philtre leads unto the grave.
Dona Sol.
And ought We not this night to rest together.'' Does It matter in what bed.''
Hernani. My father, thou Thyself avengest upon me, who did Forget thee! (He lifts the vial to his mouth.)
Dona Sol {throwing herself on him). Heavens, what strange agony ! Ah, throw this philtre far from thee ! My reason Is wand'ring. Stop ! Alas ! oh, my Don Juan, Tliis drug is potent, in the heart it wakes
sc. VI.] HERNANI 147
A hydra with a thousand tearing teeth Devouring it. I knew not that such pangs Could be ! What is the thing ? 'tis hquid fire. Drink not ! For much thou'dst suffer !
Hernani. {To Don Ruy.)
Ah, thy soul Is cruel ! Could'st thou not have found for her Another drug? \^He drinks and throws the vial away.
Dona Sol. What dost thou?
Hernani.
Hast done.
What thyself
Dona Sol. Come to my arms, young lover, now.
[They sit down close to each other. Does one not suffer horribl}'?
Hernani.
No, no.
Dona Sol, These are our marriage rites! But for a bride I'm very pale, say am I not?
Hernani.
Ah me!
Don Ruy Gomez. Fulfilled is now the fatal destiny !
Hernani. Oh misery and despair to know her pangs!
Dona Sol. Be calm. I'm better. — Towards new brighter light We now together open out our wings.
148 DRAMAS [act v.
Let us with even flight set out to reach
A fairer world. Only a kiss — a kiss ! [^I'hey embrace.
Don Ruy Gomez. Oh, agony supreme !
Hernani (in a feeble voice). Oh bless'd be Heav'n That will'd for me a hfe by spectres followed, And by abysses yawning circled still. Yet grants, that weary of a road so rough, I fall asleep my lips upon thy hand.
Don Ruy Gomez. How happy are they !
Hernani (in voice growing weaker and weaker). Come — come, Dona Sol, All's dark. Dost thou not suffer.?
Dona Sol {in a voice equally faint).
Nothing now. Oh, nothing.
Hernani. Seest thou not fires in the gloom.? ^
Dona Sol. Not yet.
Hernani (with a sigh). Behold (He falls.)
Don Ruy Gomez (raising the head, which fall again).
He's dead !
Dona Sol (dishevelled and half raising herself on the seat).
Oh no, we sleep. He sleeps. It is my spouse that here you see.
1 Certain poisons are said to produce among their dreadful effects, the appearance of fire when the sufferer is near death. — Traks.
sc. VI.] HERNANI 149
We love each other — we are sleeping thus. It is our bridal. {In a falling voice.)
I entreat you not To wake him, my Lord Duke of Meudoce, For he is weary. {She turns round the face of Hernani.)
Turn to me, my love. More near — still closer \_She falls hack.
Don Ruy Gomez.
Dead ! Oh, I am damn'd ! \He kills himself.
THE KING'S DIVERSION.
(LE ROI S'AMUSE!)
A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.
(1832.) TRANSLATED BY FREDERICK L. SL0U8.
TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION
" Le Roi s'amuse " was produced for the first time at the Theatre Fran^ais on the 22nd of November, 1832, and sup- pressed next day by ministerial authority.
This unusual interference drew from Victor Hugo an im- mediate publication of the work; in the Preface to which he expresses not only considerable indignation at so illegal an act, but unbounded surprise that the French government should have interdicted the future progress of his drama, after a first and successful representation.
In my opinion, his astonishment ought to have been greater that " Le Roi s'amuse " was allowed to appear before the public at all.
It was not to be expected that so dangerous an attack on the rights and privileges of monarchy could be permitted to re- ceive the nightly plaudits and awaken the republican sym- pathies of a Parisian audience. Under pretence of placing Francis the First, the sensualist and debauchee, in a well- merited pillory for public execration, a sly opportunity was both afforded and taken, for a pretty plentiful dirt-fling- ing — not only at Francis in particular, but at royalty and aristocracy in general: and our ingenious author must have wofully deceived himself in imagining that he could so easily elude the jealous vigilance of a government, as yet too inse- curely established to bid defiance to the sarcasms of a writer, at once brilliant and powerful.
The political tendency of the tragedy was, I conceive, the sole cauce of its suppression. There could be no objection to it on the score of immorality. The French public and the dramatic censor were too much accustomed to the style
153
154 TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION
of the romantic school to be startled by " Le Roi s'amuse." The well-educated Parisian sups on a dish of horrors — a la Victor Hugo, or a la Alexander Dumas — with as much relish as on the most tempting selections from the carte of the Trois Freres; he has no apprehensions that nightmares may result from the one, or indigestion from the other ; he is ac- customed to, and therefore requires excitement ; and if he has any complaint to urge against our talented author, it might be, that his play is too little distinguished by the diableries of the modern school, — that its crimes are all served up au naturel, and that it lacks the rich seasoning and high infernal flavour of Lucrece Borgie or la Tour de Nesle. The English reader may perhaps object that in this, as in most of Victor Hugo's productions, there is not one really good or noble character — that in scanning the actions of the entire dt^a- matis personce, the eye of the reader, like that of poor Tri- BOULiET in the text, becomes a-weary with the sight of crime, and that the heart has no single spot of virtue or magna- nimity where it may repose awhile from the shocks which the perpetual aspect of vice has inflicted. Alas, it is but too true ! Yet notwithstanding this defect, one powerful argu- ment may be advanced in its favour.
Unlike so many of the most favoured dramas of the French school, " Le Roi s'amuse " contains no attempt to gloss over or inculcate the doctrines of immorality ; there is no insiduous endeavour to seduce the imagination, or pervert the judg- ment by making sophistry eloquent, or vice attractive. On the contrary, as the Spartans intoxicated their Helots to make their children abhor drunkenness, so does Victor Hugo exhibit the hideousness of crime to the open detestation of the be- holder; and although I am inclined to believe that both Ly- curgus and Victor Hugo would have evinced greater wisdom and feeling, had they presented examples of excellence to be revered, rather than depravity to be avoided, still the reader will, I think, agree with me, that it is better that our feelings should be wounded by the thorns, from amidst which we are compelled to gather the roses of poetry and imagination, than
TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION 155
that the innocence of youth should be tempted to encounter the serpent, concealed in the basket of flowers.
Of the characters but little need be said. Natural, but not profound, they are the creatures of circumstances, and re- quire no acute critic to render their motive and feelings com- prehensible.
Of Blanche, the offspring of sorrow, the victim of crime, little can be said in condenmation. The least criminal of the personages in the drama, she is the most severely dealt with ; — a little French Juliet, without the intensity of feel- ing of Shakespeare, she is a weak-headed, warm-hearted girl of sixteen, and acts accordingly.
Francis the First, according to history, was a sensual- ist, a profligate, and a man sans foi ni loi, the hero of Mari- gan, the defeated of Pavia, who, when he lost everything " fors Vhonneur," lost all but that which he did not possess. History has given us the outlines of his character. Victor Hugo has filled up the sketch with so vigorous a pencil, and so dark a shadowing, that I trust, for the sake of human na- ture, he may be considered to have slightly exaggerated the foibles of le Roi des Gentilshommes. The poor King of the Casket in the Arabian Nights, living and breathing above, was from the waist downwards a mass of black marble. Francis, on the contrary, is gay and animated throughout ; with one little exception, his heart, which indeed is marble of the blackest hue.
Triboulet — the deformed, the Hunchback, is a being of a different nature from Quasimodo ; ^ and his character is drawn with a singular mixture of power and inconsistency. He is a cynic, and not a jester — rude, but not witty. His hatred malignant and undignified, and the retribution attend- ant upon it is more than commensurate with his guilt.
St. Vallier is seen but little. His intention of sacrificinjr his daughter Diana to the embraces of a deformed old Sene- schal, abates much of the sympathy that his sorrows would
1 The Hunchback of N6tre Dame.
156 TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION
otherwise deserve ; and it is matter for regret that he is so soon consigned to obhvion and the Bastille.
With regard to the interest of the piece itself, — which presents a strange mixture of unity and inconsistency — of wonderful beauties, and glaring defects, it may be summed up in a few words.
The plot is simple and unfettered by episode, — increasing in interest throughout, and at length rising in its catastrophe to a pitch of horrible sublimity, unequalled in any drama I have yet seen.
The incidents also are arranged so as to produce the most striking dramatic effects ; but, occasionally, it must be con- fessed that they depart even from the extreme license of probability, and that the characters are frequently made to do that which mature reflection would not acknowledge as naturally resulting from the situations in which they are placed. On the other hand, the language is so much the language of nature and feeling — of eloquence and sincerity, that the reason forgets for a moment the contradictions of cause and effect. By a sort of verbo-electrotype process, Victor Hugo has showered down a brilliant surface of the purest gold, which entirely conceals the inferiority of the sub- stance beneath, and the mind of the reader, dazzled by the lustre of the thin, though genuine metal, is content to forgive the inconsistent materials, which so splendid a covering in- vests. F. L. S.
Note. — It is perhaps necessary to observe that the French drama, more rigid with regard to unity of place than ours, — seldom allows more than one ■painted scene to each Act; and the reader is requested to bear in mind that, according to the French text, when Scene I., II., III., &c., are mentioned, nothing but the entrance of another personage on the stage is understood..
AUTHOR'S PREFACE *
The production of this drama on the stage has given rise to a Ministerial action unprecedented.
The morning after its first representation the author re- ceived from M. Joushn de la Salle, stage-manager of the The- atre Franfais, the following letter, the original of which he carefully preserves : —
" It is half -past ten o'clock, and I have just received the order ^ to suspend the representation of * Le Roi s'Amuse.' It is M. Taylor who communicates this command from the Minister.
" November 23."
The first emotion of the author was increduHty. The act was so arbitrary he could not believe in it.
Indeed what is called the True Charter sa^^s : — The
French have the right to .publish " Observe, the text
does not say only the right to print, but clearly and forcibly the right to publish. Now the theatre is only one manner of publication, as the press, or engraving, or lithography is. The liberty of the theatre is therefore implied in the Charter with all other freedom of thought. The fundamental law adds : — Censorship must never be re-established. Now the text does not say censorship of journals or of books, it says censorship in general, all censorship, that of the theatre as of writing. The theatre, then, henceforth cannot recognize the legality of censorship.
Besides, the Charter says. Confiscation is abolished. Now the suppression of a theatrical piece after its representation
1 This preface was not translated by Mr. Slous, nor was it included in the original edition of his version, which appeared first in 1843. — Ed.
2 This word is underlined in the letter.
157
158 AUTHOR'S PREFACE
is not only a monstrous act of arbitrary censorship, it is a veritable confiscation, a robbery of the theatre and of the author.
Indeed, that all should be clear and unmistakable, and that the four or five great social principles which the French Revo- lution has moulded in bronze may rest intact on their pedes- tals of granite, and that the rights of Frenchmen should not be stealthily attacked by the forty thousand notched weap- ons which in the arsenal of our laws are destroyed by rust and disuse, the Charter in its last article expressly abolishes all which in our previous laws should prove contrary to its text and its spirit.
This is certain. The Ministerial suppression of a theat- rical piece, attacks liberty by censorship and property by confiscation. The sense of our public rights revolts against such a proceeding.
The author not believing in so much Insolence and folly, hastened to the theatre. There the fact was confirmed in every particular. The Minister had, indeed, on his own au- thority, by his divine right of Minister, issued the order in question. He gave no reason. The Minister had taken away the author's piece, had deprived him of his rights, and of his property. There only remained that he should send the poet to the Bastille.
We repeat that at the time in which we live, when such an act comes to bar your way and roughly take you by the throat, the first emotion is one of profound astonishment. A thousand questions present themselves to the mind. What is the law.? Where is the authority.'^ Can such things hap- pen? Is there, indeed, a something which Is called the Revo- lution of July.'* It is clear that we are no longer in Paris. In what Pashalic do we live.'*
Stunned and astonished, the authorities of the Comedle Fran9aise took some measures to obtain from the Minister a revocation of his strange decision ; but the trouble was wasted. The divan, I should say the Council of Ministers, had assembled in the morning. On the J23rd it was only an
AUTHOR'S PREFACE 159
order of the Minister, on the 24<th it was an edict of the Ministry. On the 23rd the piece was suspended; on the 24th its representation was definitely prohibited. It was even en- joined that from the play-bills should be erased the formid- able words, Le Roi s' Amuse. Besides all this the authorities were even forbidden to make any complaint, or breathe a word on the subject. Perhaps it would be grand, loyal, and noble to resist a despotism so Asiatic ; but managers of thea- tres dare not. Fear lest their privileges should be revoked makes them subjects and serfs, to be taxed and controlled at will as vassals, eunuchs, and mutes.
The author will remain and ought to remain aloof from these proceedings of the theatre. He, the poet, depends not on any Minister. Those prayers and solicitations which his interests, pitifully considered, may perhaps counsel, his duty as an untrammelled writer forbids. To ask permission of power is to acknowledge it. Liberty and property are not things of the ante-chamber. A right is not to be treated as a favour. For a favour sue from the Minister; but claim a right from the country.
It is, then, to the country that he addresses himself. There are two methods of obtaining justice — by public opinion, or the tribunals of the law. He chooses them both.
By public opinion the cause has already been judged and gained. And here the author ought to thank warmly those established and independent personages associated with liter- ature and art, who on this occasion have given so many proofs of sympathy and cordiality. He calculated beforehand on their support. He knows that when he enters on the strug- gle for freedom of thought he will not be unsupported in the battle.
And let us here observe in passing that power, by a suffi- ciently contemptible calculation, flattered itself that It should on this occasion find auxiliaries even in the ranks of its oppo- nents in the literary enmities so long aroused by the author. It believed that literary animosity was still more tenacious than political, because the first had its roots in self-love, the
160 AUTHOR'S PREFACE
second only in interest. But the Government has deceived it- self. Its brutal act has proved revolting to honest men in every camp. The author saw rally round him to show a bold front against an arbitrary act of injustice even those who had attacked him the most violently only the day before. If by chance some inveterate enemies remained, they regret now that they gave a momentary support to power. All the loyal and honourable of his foes have stretched out their hands to the author, ready to recommence the literary battle as soon as the political should be finished. In France who- ever is persecuted has no longer an enemy except the perse- cutor.
If now, after having agreed that the Ministerial act is odious, unjustifiable, and impossible to be defended, we de- scend for a moment to discuss it as a material fact, and seeK for some of the elements which may have composed it, thf first question which presents itself to everyone is this : — " What can be the motive of such a measure.? "
We must say it because it is the truth, if the future some day is occupied with our little men and our little things, this will not be the least curious detail of this curious event. It appears that our censors pretend to be shocked at the immo- rality of Le Roi s'Amuse; this piece offends the modesty of the police; the brigade Leotaud considers it obscene; the de- cider on morals has veiled his face ; it has made M. Vidocq blush. In short, the censor's order to the police, and that for some days has been stammered round about us, is simply that the piece is immoral. Ho, there, my masters ! Silence on that point.
Let us explain ourselves, however, not to the police, to whom I, an honest man, forbear to speak on these matters, but to the small number of respectable and conscientious per- sons who on hearsay, or after having seen the performance imperfectly, have been persuaded into an opinion of which, perhaps, the name of the poet implicated ought to have been a sufficient refutation. The drama is printed to-day. If you were not present at the representation, read it. If you
AUTHOR'S PREFACE 161
■were there, still read it. Remember that that representation was less a performance than a battle, a sort of battle of Montihery (let this somewhat ambitious comparison pass), where the Parisians and the Burgundians each pretended tf have " pocketed " the victory, as Matthieu said.
The piece is immoral? Think you so? Is it from its sub- ject? Triboulet is deformed, Triboulet is unhealthy, Tri- boulct is a court buffoon — a threefold misery which renders him evil. Triboulet hates the king because he is king, the nobles because they are nobles, and he hates ordinary men because they have not humps on their backs. His only pas- time is to set the nobles unceasingly against the king, crush- ing the weaker by the stronger. He depraves the king, cor- rupts and stultifies him ; he encourages him in tyranny, ig- norance, and vice. He lures him to the families of gentle- men, pointing out the wife to seduce, the sister to carry off, the daughter to dishonour. The king in the hands of Tri- boulet is but an all-powerful puppet which ruins the lives of those in the midst of whom the buffoon sets him to play. One day, in the midst of a fete, at the moment when Triboulet is urging the king to carry off the wife of M. de Cosse, M. de Saint- Vallier reaches the presence chamber, and in a loud voice reproaches the king for the dishonour of Diana de Poitiers. This father, from whom the king has taken his daughter, is jeered at and insulted by Triboulet. Then the father stretches forth his hand and curses Triboulet^ It is from this scene the whole play develops. The real subject of the drama is the curse of M. de Saint-ValUer. Attend. You are in the second act. On whom has this curse fallen? On Triboulet as the king's fool? No. On Triboulet as a man, a father who has a heart and has a daughter. Tri- boulet has a daughter, all in that is expressed. Triboulet has but his daughter in the world, and he hides her from all eyes in a solitary house in a deserted quarter. The more he spreads in the town the contagion of debauchery and vice, the more he seeks to isolate and immure his daughter. He brings
up his child in faith, innocence, and modesty. His greatest 11
162 AUTHOR'S PREFACE
fear is that she may fall Into evil, for he knows, being him- self wicked, all the wretchedness that is endured by evil-doers. Well, now ! The old man's malediction will reach Triboulet through the only being in the world whom he loves, his daugh- ter. This same king whom Triboulet urges to pitiless vice v.ill be the ravisher of Triboulet's daughter. The buffoon will be struck by Providence precisely in the same manner as was M. de Saint-Vallier. And more, his daughter once ruined, he lays a snare for the king by which to avenge her ; but it is she that falls into it. Thus Triboulet has two pupils — the king and his daughter — the king, whom he has trained to vice, his daughter, whom he has reared for virtue. The one destroys the other. He intends Madame de Cosse to be carried off for the king, it his daughter that is entrapped. He wishes to kill the king, and so avenge his child ; it is his daughter whom he slays. Punishment does not stop half- way ; the malediction of Diana's father is fulfilled on the father of Blanche.
Undoubtedly it is not for us to decide if this is a dramatic idea, but certainly it is a moral one.
The foundation of one of the author's other works is fa- tality. The foundation of this one is Providence.
We repeat expressly that we are not now addressing the police, we do them not so much honour, but that part of the public to whom this discussion may seem necessary. Let us proceed.
If the work is moral in its invention, is it that it was im- moral in its execution.'^ The question thus put seems to con- tradict itself ; but let us see. Probably there is nothing im- moral in the first and second acts. Is it the situation in the third which shocks .'' Read this third act, and tell us in all honesty if the impression which results be not profoundly one of chastity and virtuous principle.
Is it the fourth act which is objectionable? But when was it not permitted for a king on the stage to make love to the servant at an inn? The incident is not new either in history or the drama. And more, history shows us Francis the First
AUTHOR'S PREFACE 163
in a drunken state in the hovels of the Rue du PeHcan. To take a king into a viler place is not more new. The Greek theatre, which is the classical, has done it. Shakespeare, whose plays are of the romantic, has done it. The author of this drama has not. He knows all that has been written about the house of Saltabadil. But why represent him to have said what he has not said? Why in a similar case make him overleap a barrier which he has not passed .-^ This Bohemian JNlaguelonne, so much censured, is assuredly not more brazen than the Lisettes and Marions of the old theatre. The cot- tage of Saltabadil is a tavern, an hostelry, the pothouse of The Fir-Cone, a suspected cut-throat place, we admit, but not still viler. It is terrible, horrible, evil and fearful if you will, but it is not an obscene place.
There remain, then, the details of style. Read. The author accepts for judges of rigid strictness of his style even those persons who are startled at Juliet's nurse, and Ophelia's father, and by Beaumarchais and Regnard, by L'Ecole des Femvies and Amphitryon, Dandin and Sganarelli, and the grand scene of Tartuffe — Tartuffe, accused also of immo- rality in his day. Only there where he has found it necessary to be clear he has thought it his duty to be so at all risks and perils, but always with seriousness and moderation. He desires art to be chaste, but not prudish.
Behold, however, this piece concerning which the Minister has made so many accusations ! This immorality, this ob- scenity — here is the piece laid bare. What a pity ! Au- thority had its hidden reasons, and we shall indicate them presently, for raising against Le Roi s'Amuse the strongest prejudice possible. It wished that the public should stifle this piece from a distorted imagination, without hearing or understanding it, even as Othello stifles Desdemona. Honest I ago!
But as it finds that Othello has not stifled Desdemona, lago unmasks and charges himself with the task. The day follow- ing the representation the piece is prohibited by order.
Certainly if we condescend for a moment to accept the
164 AUTHOR'S PREFACE
ridiculous fiction that on this occasion it is care for public morality which actuates our rulers, and that shocked at the state of licence into which certain theatres have fallen during the last two years, they have chosen at the end, in defiance of all laws and rights, to make an example of a work and an author — certainly if the choice of the work be singular, it must be admitted the choice of the author is not less so. Who is the man whom purblind power controls so strangely? It is a writer so placed that if his talents may be questioned by all, his character cannot be by anyone. It is acknowl- edged that he is an honest man, proved and verified — a thing rare and to be respected just now. He is a poet whom this same licentiousness of the theatre revolted and made in- dignant from the first ; who for the last eighteen months, on the report that the inquisition of theatres was to be equally re-established, has gone in person in the company of many other dramatic authors to warn the Minister against such a, measure ; and who loudly demanded a law repressive of riot in the theatre, protesting against the censorship in strong lan- guage which certainly the Minister has not forgotten. He is an artist devoted to art, who has never courted success by unworthy means, and who has all his life accustomed himself to look the public steadily in the face. He is a moderate and sincere man, who has fought more than one battle for liberty against arbitrary rule; who, in 1829, in the last year of the Restoration, refused all that the Government then offered him to compensate for the interdict placed on Marion de Lorme,^ and who a year later, in 1830, the Revolution of July having taken place, refused, against his worldly interests, to allow the performance of this same Marion de Lorme lest it should be the occasion of insult and attack upon the deposed king who had prohibited it ; conduct undoubtedly quite natural, and which would have been that of any man of honour in his place, but which, perhaps, should have rendered him hence-
1 In allusion to the offer of Charles the Tenth to grant the author a fresh pension of 4,000 francs as compensation for the suppression of Marion de Lorme. — TaAi^s.
AUTHOR'S PREFACE 165
forth safe from censure, and in reference to which he wrote in August, 1834<: — "The success of poHtical allusions and sought-for scandals he avows pleases him but little. Such success is short-lived and of little value. Besides, it is pre- cisely when there is no censorship that authors should them- selves be honest, conscientious, severe censors. Thus it is they raise the dignity of art. When there is perfect liberty, it is becoming to keep within bounds."
Judge now. On one side you have a man and his works ; on the other the Minister and his actions.
Now that the pretended immorality of this drama Is re- duced to a nonentity ; now that the scaffolding of false and shameful reasons is thrown down and lies under our feet, it is time to notice the true motives of the measure, the motive of the antechamber, the motive of the Court, the secret motive which is not told, the motive that cannot be avowed even to themselves, the motive that has been so well hidden under a pretext. This motive has already transpired to the public, and the public has divined correctly. We shall say no more about It. It may be useful to our cause that we offer to our adversaries an example of courtesy and moderation. It is right that a lesson of dignity and good sense should be given to the Government by an individual, by him who was perse- cuted to the persecutor. Besides, we are not of those who think to cure their own wounds by poisoning the sores of others. It Is but too true that in the third act of this piece there Is a line In which the Ill-placed cleverness of some of the Intimates of the palace has discovered an allusion (mark a moment — an allusion ! ) of which neither the public nor the author had dreamed until then, but which, once denounced in this manner, becomes the most cruel of Injuries. It is but too true that this verse sufficed for the order that in an- nouncements concerning the Theatre Fran9als the seditious little phrase of Le Roi s"" Amuse, should never again be allowed to satisfy the curiosity of the public. We shall not cite here this verse, which is as red-hot iron, we shall not even Indicate it, save in a last extremity should they be so imprudent as
166 AUTHOR'S PREFACE
to drive us there for our defence. We will not cause the re- vival of old historic scandals. We will spare as much as pos- sible a personage in a high position the consequences of this stupidity of courtiers. One may make war generously even on a king. We wish to do thus. Only let the powerful ones reflect on the inconvenience it is to have for a friend the brute who only knows how to crush with the paving-stone of cen- sorship the microscopic allusions which have just been placed before their faces.
We cannot even tell if in this conflict we shall not feel in- dulgent towards the Minister himself. The whole thing, to speak the truth, inspires us with pity. The Government of July is as yet but new born, it is but thirty months old, and is still in its cradle ; it has the little furies of babyhood. Does it deserve that we should spend on it much manly anger .f" When it is grown up we shall see about that.
However, to look at the question for a moment only from the private point of view, the censorial confiscation of which he complains does more harm, perhaps, to the author of this drama than a like injury could do to any other dramatist. Indeed, during the fourteen years that he has written, not one of his works has escaped the unlucky honour of being chosen on its appearance for a battle-field, and which has not at first, for a longer or shorter period, been obscured by the dust, and the smoke, and the noise of the conflict. Thus, when he produces a piece at the theatre — not being able to •hope for a calm audience on the first night — that which con- cerns him most is a series of representations. If it happens that on the first occasion his voice is drowned in the tunmlt and his ideas are not comprehended, the following repre- sentations may correct first impressions. Hernani has been performed fifty-three times, Marion de Lorme sixty-one; Le Roi s' Amuse, thanks to Ministerial oppression, has only been represented once. Assuredly the wrong done to the author is great. Who can render to him exactly what this third ex- perience— so important to him — might have brought.'' Who can tell him what might have followed that first per-
AUTHOR'S PREFACE 167
formance? Who can restore that pubHc of the next day — a pubhc usually impartial — the public that is without friend- ships and without enmities, that teaches the poet, and that the poet teaches?
The period of political transition in which we now are is curious. It is one of those moments of general weariness when all acts of despotism are possible, even in a society infil- trated by ideas of emancipation and liberty. France moved fast in July, 1830 ; she did three days' good work ; she made three great advances in the field of civilization and progress. Now in the march of progress many are harassed, many are out of breath, many require to halt. They would hold back those generous, unwearying spirits who do not falter, who still go on. They would wait for the tardy who remain behind, and give them time to join us. There is a singular fear in these of all that advances, of all that stirs, of all that pro- tests, of all who think. A strange frame of mind, easy to comprehend, difficult to define. These are the beings who are afraid of new ideas. It is the league of interests that are ruffled by theories. It is commerce frightened at systems ; it is the merchant who wants to sell ; it is tumult which terri- fies the counting-house ; it is the shopkeeper armed to defend himself.
In our opinion Government makes use of this let-alone dis- position and fear of revolutionary novelties. It stoops to petty tyrannies. All this Is bad for it and for us. If it be- lieves that there is now a feeling of indifference to liberal ideas it deceives itself; there is only a certain weariness. Some day it will be called severely to account for the illegal acts which have accumulated for some time past. What a life it has led us ! Two years ago we feared for order, now we tremble for liberty. Questions of free thought, intelli- gence, and art are imperiously quelled by the viziers of the king of the barricades. It is indeed melancholy to see how the revolution of July is terminating, mulier formosa superne.
Certainly, if one reflects of how little consequence the work or the author under consideration is, the Ministerial measure
/
168 AUTHOR'S PREFACE
against them is of no great importance. It is only a mis- chievous Httle blow to literature, which has no other merit than not being too unlike numerous arbitrary acts of which it is the sequel. But if we take a loftier view we shall see that it does not only effect this play and this poet, but, as we said from the first, the rights of liberty and property are both entirely concerned in the question. These are great and serious interests ; and though tlie author is obliged to associate this affair with the simple commercial interests of the Theatre Fran^ais — not being able to attack directly the Minister bar- ricaded behind the plea of being a counsellor of state — he hopes that his cause will appear to everyone a great cause on the day when it shall be presented at the bar of the consular tribunal, with liberty on the right hand and property on the left. He will speak himself, if need be, in aid of the in- dependence of his art. He will plead for his rights firmly, with gravity and simplicity, without hatred or fear of any- one. He counts on the co-operation of all, on the frank and cordial support of the press, on the justice of public opinion, on the equity of tribunals. He will succeed. He doubts it not. The state of siege will be raised in the city of literature as in the city politic.
When this shall be done, when he shall have brought to his home intact, inviolate, and sacred the liberty of a poet and a citizen, he will again set himself peaceably to the work of his life, from which he has been so violently forced, and from which he would not willingly abstain for a moment. He has his task before him, he knows it, and nothing shall distract him from it. For the moment political work comes to him ; he has not sought, but he accepts it. Truly the power which encounters us will not have gained much when we indignant and offended artists quit our conscientious, peaceful, earnest and sacred work — our work of the past and of the future — to mix ourselves with an irreverent and scoffing assembly, who for fifteen years have watched, amid hooting and whistling, the wretched political bunglers who imagined they were build- ing a social edifice because every day, with great trouble,
AUTHOR'S PREFACE 169
sweating and panting, they wheeled a heap of legal projects from the Tuileries to the Palais-Bourbon, and from the Palais- Bourbon to the Luxembourg !
November SOth, 1832.
PERSONAGES OF THE DRAMA
Francis the First.
Triboulet, The Court Jester,
MoNS. St. Vallier.
MoNS. Des Gordes.
MoNs. De Pienne.
MoNS. De Latour Landry.
MoNs. De Vic.
MoNS. De Pardaillan.
MoNS. De Cosse.
MoNs. De Brion.
MoNS. De Montmorency.
MoNS. De Montchenu.
Maitre Clement Marot, The Court Poet,
Saltabadil, a Bravo.
Blanche, Daughter to Triboulet. Dame Berarde, A Duenna. Maguelonne, Sister to Saltabadil. Madame De Cosse.
A Messenger from the Queen.
A Servant of the King.
A Surgeon.
Courtiers, Ladies, Servants.
171
I
THE KING'S DIVERSION
ACT FIRST: MONS. DE ST. VALLIER
Scene 1. — The stage represents a Fete at the Louvre. A magnificent suite of apartments crowded with nobles and ladies of the court in full costume. There are lights, music, dancing, and shouts of laughter. Servants hand refreshments in vessels of porcelain and gold. Groups of guests pass and repass across the stage. The fete draws to an end, daylight peeps through the windows. The architecture, the furniture, and the dresses belong to the style of the Renaissance.
The King as painted by Titian. — Mons. De la Tour
Landry.
The King. I'll ne'er relinquish the adventurous chace Till it give forth the fruit of so much toil. Plebeian though she be ! of rank obscure, Her birth unknown, her very name concealed : What then? These eyes ne'er gazed on one so fair.
La Tour. And this bright city goddess still you meet At holy mass?
The King. At St. Germain des Pres As sure as Sunday comes.
La Tour.
Your amorous flame Dates two months since. You've tracked the game to earth.
173
174 DRAMAS [act i.
The King. Near Bussy's Terrace, where De Cosse dwells, She lives immured.
La Tour. I think I know the spot. That is, the outside. Not, perchance, so well As doth your Majesty the heaven within.
The King. Nay, there you flatter ; entrance is denied. A beldam fierce, who keeps eyes, ears, and tongue Under her guidance, watches ever there.
La Tour. Indeed !
The King. And then, oh mystery most rare! As evening falls, a strange unearthly form. Whose features night conceals, enshrouded close In mantle dark, as for some guilty deed, Doth ghde within.
La Tour.
Then do thou likewise.
The King.
Nay. The house is barred and isolate from all.
La Tour. At least the fair one, with such patience wooed, Hath shewn some signs of life.
The King.
I do confess. If glances speak the soul, those witcliing eyes Proclaim no hatred insurmountable.
La Tour. Knows she a monarch loves.?
sc. II.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 175
The King.
Impossible ! A homely garb, a student's woollen dress Conceals my quality.
La Toue.
Oh, virtuous love ! That burns with such a pure undying flame. I warrant me 'tis some sly Abbe's mistress.
(Enter Triboulet, and a number of courtiers.)
The King. Hush ! some one comes !
(Aloud to Triboulet, as he approaches.)
Silence his lips must seal Whose love would prosper! — Have I said aright?
Triboulet. To shade the fragile vase, glass lends its veil; Thus flimsy mystery hides love more frail.
Scene 2. — The King, Triboulet, M. De Gordes, and many other Gentlemen, superbly dressed. Triboulet is in the dress of the Court Fool, as painted by Bonifacio. The King turns to admire a group of Ladies.
La Tour. Madame de Vendome looks, to-night, divine.
De Gordes. Fair D'Albe and Montchevreuil blaze like twin stars.
The King. Now, in my eyes, De Cosse's charming wife Outshines all three.
De Gordes (Pointing to M. de Cosse, surnamed Le Bran- tome, one of the four fattest gentlemen of France).
Hush! hush, your majesty! Unless you mean this for a husband's ear.
176 DRAI^IAS [act. i.
The King. Why, for that matter, Count, i'faith I care not.
De Gordes. He'll tell the fair Diana.
The King.
What care I? [^The King retires to speak to some ladies at the back of
the stage.
Triboulet (to M. DE Gordes). The King will anger Dian of Poitiers. For eight long days he holds not converse with her.
De Gordes. Will he restore her to her husband's arms?
Triboulet. Indeed, I hope not.
De Gordes.
She hath paid in full A guilty ransom for her father's life.
Triboulet. Ah ! apropos, now, of St. Vallier. — 'Tis a most strange and singular old man: How could he think to join in nuptial bond His daughter Dian, radiant as the light, (An angel sent by Heaven to bless this earth), With an ill-favoured hunch-backed seneschal.''
De Gordes. 'Tis an old fool — a pale and grave old man. When pardon came, I stood beside the block, — Aye, nearer much than now I do to thee, — Yet said he nothing, but " God bless the King ! " And now he's quite distraught!
sc. II.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 177
The King {passing across with Madame De Cosse).
Unkind! so soon?
Madame de Cosse. My husband takes me with him to Soissons.
The King. Oh! 'tis a sin! Paris forbids thy flight — Paris, where wits and courtiers languish all With melting tenderness and fond desires — Where duellists and poets ever keep
Their keenest thrusts, their brightest thoughts for thee; For thee, whose glances, winning every heart, Warn each fair dame to watch her lover well ; Dazzling our court with such a flood of light. Thy sun once set, we ne'er shall think 'tis day. Canst thou abandon kings and emperors, Dukes, princes, peers, and condescend to shine (Thou star of town!) in a vile country heaven?
Madame de Cosse. Be calm.
The King.
As though some sacrilegious hand Amidst the brightest splendour of the dance Had from the ball-room torn the chandelier.
Madame de Cosse. My j ealous lord ! {She points to her husband approaching, and runs away.)
The King.
The devil claim his soul !
(Turning to Triboulet.) But I have penned a sonnet to his wife. Has Marot shewn thee those last rhymes of mine? 12
178 DRAMAS [act i.
Triboulet. I never read your verses, — royal strains Are always vile.
The King. Oh, bravo I
Triboulet.
Let the herd Rhyme love with dove — 'tis their vocation thus ; INlonarchs, with beauty, take a different course; Make love, oh sire, and let Marot make verse — It but degrades a king.
The King. [^Sees Madame de Coslin, to wliom he turns, leaving Triboulet. (To Triboulet.)
I'd have thee whipped If fair de Coslin did not tempt me hence.
Triboulet (aside). Another still ! Oh, fickle as the wind That blows thee to her.
De Gordes {approaching Triboulet)
By the other door Madame de Cosse comes ! I pledge my faith She drops sonic token that the amorous king May turn to raise it.
Triboulet.
Let's observe awhile. (Madame de Cosse drops her bouquet.)
De Gordes. I said so!
Triboulet. Excellent ! \_The King leaves Madame de Coslin, picks up the bou- quet, and presents it to Madame de Cosse, with
sc. II.] THE KlNG^S DIVERSION 179
whom he enters into a lively conversation, appar- ently of a tender nature.
De Gordes.
The bird's re-snared!
Triboulet. Woman's a devil of most rare perfection !
[The King whispers Madame de Cosse — she laughs,- Suddenly M. de Cosse draws near, coming from the back of the stage. De Gordes remarks it to Triboulet.
De Gordes. Her husband !
[Madame de Cosse sees her husband — disengages her- self from the King, and runs off.
Madame de Cosse. Leave me!
Triboulet,
What a jealous fright Shakes his fat side, and wrinkles o'er his brow.
( The King who has been helped to wine comes forward. )
The King. Oh happy hours ! Why, Jupiter himself. And Hercules, were two poor senseless fools, Compared to me I 'Tis woman gilds this earth. I am all happiness ! — and thou? {To Triboulet.)
Triboulet.
All joy! I laugh at balls, pomps, folhes, guilty loves ; And sneer whilst you enjoy. Yet both are blest; You as a King, and as a hunchback I.
The King.
De Cosse damps the fete ; but let that pass.
180 DRAMAS [act. i.
How does he look now, think you?
(^Pointing to De Cosse, who is leaving the palace.)
Triboulet.
Like an ass!
The King.
Nought plagues me save this corpulent old Count ; Mine is the power to do, — to wish ! — to have ! Oh, Triboulet, what pleasure 'tis to live ! — The world's so happy !
Tbiboulet (aside).
And the King is drunk.
The King. Ah, there again ! What arms ! — what lips ! — what eyes !
Triboulet. Madame de Cosse.''
The King (to Triboulet).
Take thou charge of me.
The King (sings). " Paris, bright and gay, Nowhere is thy fellow — All thy girls are ripe — "
Triboulet (sings). " And all thy men are mellow."
[Exit King and Triboulet.
Scene 3. — Enter Mons. De Gordes, Pardaillan, De Vic, Maitre Clement Marot, the Poet; after them M. De Pienne, and De Cosse — (they salute).
De Pienne. Most noble friends, a novelty I bring — A riddle that would cheat the shrewdest brain ;
sc. III.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 181
A something comic, wonderful, sublime ; A tale of love ! a thing impossible !
De Gordes. What is't?
Marot. What would'st thou, noble Sir?
De Pienne. Marot, I tell thee, thou'rt a mighty fool.
Marot. Mighty ! I ne'er did think myself in aught.
De Pienne. I read in your last poem of " Peschere " These lines on Triboulet : " One marked for scorn — As wise at thirty as the day when born." Thou art the fool !
Marot.
May Cupid stop my breath. If I can take you.
De Pienne.
Hark ye, now, De Gordes, And you, De Pardaillan, I pray ye, guess, Something most strange has chanced to Triboulet.
De PardailIcAN. He's become straight.
De Cosse.
Or Constable of France.
Marot. Or cooked and served up at the royal table.
De Pienne. No!^ — droller still, he has — (you ne'er can guess — The thing's incredible).
182 DRAMAS [act i.
X De Pardaillan.
Perhaps an ape More ugly than himself.
Marot.
His starving purse Grown plethoric with gold.
De Cosse.
The fitting place Of turnspit dog.
Marot.
A billet-doux to meet The blessed Virgin, up in Paradise.
De Gordes. Perhaps a soul !
De Pienne.
Ye ne'er will strike the mark. The buffoon, Triboulet, uncouth, deformed — Guess what he has ! Come ! something monstrous ! Guess !
Marot. His hump!
De Pienne.
Nay! nay! ye'rc dull. — Now listen all! A mistress!!! (All burst into a fit of laughter.)
Marot. Duke, your wit o'crshoots its aim.
De Gordes. A scurvy joke!
De Pienne.
I'll swear it, hy my soul I'll bring you even to the lady's door Each night he enters, shrouded in his cloak With air most sombre ■ — like some Inmgry bard By happiest chance I spied the quarry out,
sc. III.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 183
Prowling myself, hard by De Cosse's gate.
liow keep my secret: I've a scheme to plague him.
Marot. A sonnet ! — " Triboulet to Cupid changed ! Yet this much I'll engage ! should ever more Another Bedford land on France's shore, The English foes would dare our arms in vain. The lady's face would fright them back again."
l^All laugh — M. De Vic drawing near — De Piennk puts his finger to his lips.
De Pienne. Silence, my Lords !
De Pardaillan. How comes it that the King Roams every night alone, as though he sought Some amorous quest.
De Pienne (to De Vic).
De Vic will tell us that.
De Vic. Just now the wind of his caprice doth sit To wander forth, in hood and cloak disguised. That none can know him ! If the night's so dark, He doth mistake some window for a door, Why (not being married) 'tis no care of mine.
De Cosse. Ah! who would own a sister, child, or wife.^* The King robs others of the joys he takes. And for his pleasure, makes another's woe. The laughing mouth has fangs most sharp within,
De Vic {to De Pienne and Marot). He trembles at the King.
184 DRAMAS [act i.
Feels no alarm.
De Pienne (aside).
His pretty wife
Marot (aside). 'Tis that which frightens him.
De Gordes (aloud). You're wrong, De Cosse ; 'tis a courtier's task To keep the King kind, liberal and gay.
De Pienne. Amen, say I : — a melancholy king Is like long mourning or a backward spring.
Scene 4. — Enter the King and Triboulet.
Triboulet. Scholars at court! Monstrosity most rare!
The King. Go, preach unto my sister of Navarre, She'd set me round with pedants !
Triboulet.
Sire, at least You'll own I've drunk a somewhat less than you, And therefore crave I to decide this matter In all its points, shapes, hues, and qualities. I've one advantage, nay, I'll reclinn two. First, I am sober, next, I'm not a king. Rather than summon scholars to the court. Bring plague and famine !
The King.
Yet my sister strives To fill my court with scholars.
Triboulet.
Most unkind
'^< [
sc. IV.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 185
Upon !i sister's part. — Believe nie, Sire,
There's not in nature's strange menagerie,
Nor hungry wolf, nor crow, nor fox, nor dog,
Nor famished poet, heretic nor Turk,
Nor hideous owl, nor bear, nor creeping sloth
One half so hungry, hideous, filthy, foul.
Puffed with conceits and strange absurdities.
As that same animal, yclept a scholar.
Have you not pleasures, conquests, boundless power,
And (shedding light and perfume over all)
Enchanting woman.''
The King.
Marguerite avers That woman's love may tempt me not for long. And when it palls —
Triboulet.
Oh medicine most strange ! Prescribe a pedant, for a heart that's cloyed. The Lady Marguerite, 'tis widely known, Was ever famed for desperate remedies.
The King. I'll have no scholars, — poets might be borne.
Triboulet. Now, were I king, I'd loathe a poet more Than Beelzebub doth sign of holy cross.
The King. But some half dozen!
Triboulet.
'Tis a stable full, — A whole menagerie. We've quite enough Of Marot here, without being poison'd quite With flimsy rhymesters.
186 DRAMAS [act i.
Marot.
Thank you, good buffoon, — {Aside) The fool were wiser, had he held his tongue.
Tbiboulet. Be beauty still your heaven ; 'tis the Sun Whose smiles illumine earth. Ne'er clog your brain With books.
The King. Nay, by the faith, now, of a gentleman For books care I as much as fish for apples.
l^Shouts of laughter are heard from a group of courtier a
behind. Methinks, good fool, they're merry at thy cost.
Triboulet {draws near to the group, listens, and returns). Another fool they laugh at !
The King.
Aye! whom, then?
Triboulet.
The King ! !
The King.
At me.?
Triboulet. Yes, Sire, they call you mean: Say gold and honours fly into Navarre, Whilst they get nothing.
The King.
Now, I note them well! Montmorency, Brion, and Montchenu.
Triboulet. Exactly so.
The King.
Ungrateful, selfish hounds ! One I made admiral, — constable the next.
sc. IV.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 187
And Montchenu my master of the horse ; — Yet they complain!
Teiboulet.
Why, 'tis not quite enough; They still deserve something at your hands : — Best do it quickly, Sire.
The King.
Do what?
TaiBOULET.
Hang up all three.
De Pienne (^pointing to Triboulet, and speaking to the
three Courtiers). You heard him?
De Brion {to De Pienne). Aye, indeed.
MONTMOKENCY (to De PiENNe).
He smarts for this.
Teiboulet (to the King). Your heart methinks must feel a painful void. Knowing, amongst these yielding fair, not one Whose eyes invite not, yet whose soul could love.
The King. What knowest thou of this?
Triboulet.
The love of one, Whose heart hath lost the bloom of innocence, Is love no longer.
The King.
Art thou then so sure I have not found one woman who can love?
188 DRAMAS [act i.
Teiboulet. Thy rank unknown?
The King (assenting) .
Unknown!! (aside) I'll not betray My little beauty of De Bussy's Terrace.
Triboulet. Some city belle I
The King. Why not?
Triboulet (with agitation).
Oh Sire, beware ! Your love runs hazards that it dreams not of ; These citizens, in wrath, are fierce as Romans. Who takes their goods may leave a life in pledge: We kings and fools still satisfied should be With the fair wives and sisters of our friends.
The King. Methinks De Cosse's wife would suit me well.
Triboulet. Then take her.
The King. Marry, 'tis a hopeless thing ; Easy to say, — to do, impossible ! !
Triboulet. Command it. Sire, this very night 'tis done.
The King (pointing to De Cosse). Her jealous Husband, —
Triboulet.
Send to the Bastille !
The King. Oh, no !
Triboulet. Well, then, to balance the account, Create him Duke.
Triboulet .... "Nay, I fear thee not: A war of words on all around I wage, and care for nothing."
Dramas, The King's Diversion: Act. I, Sc. IV, Page 189
I
sc. IV.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 189
The King.
His vulgar jealousy Might still rebel and trumpet forth his wrongs.
Triboulet. He must be banished then or bought. Yet stay !
l^Whilst Triboulet is speaking, De Cosse comes up and overhears the rest of the speech. There is one method, simple and concise, — 'Tis strange it stepped not first into my mind ; — Cut off his head ! ! [De Cosse starts hack with affright.
Involve him in some plot — Some scheme to help the arms of Spain or Rome.
De Cosse incoming between). Infernal villain !
The King {to Triboulet).
Nay, now, think again ; Cut off a head like that, — impossible !
Triboulet. What, be a king, yet foiled in a caprice, — A paltry triifle such as this denied.
De Cosse {to Triboulet). I'll have thee beaten.
Triboulet.
Nay, I fear thee not: A war of words on all around I wage, And care for nothing, whilst my neck doth bear The sacred head and cap-piece of the fool. But one thing fear I, — that my hump might fall And plant itself in front, as thou dost wear it : 'Twould quite disfigure me !
De Cosse {overcome with rage, draws his sword).
Ill-manner'd slave !
190 DRAMAS [act i.
The King. Be wiser, Count ! Come hither, fool, with me !
\_Exeunt King and Triboulet laughing. {The Courtiers assemble after King has retired.)
De Brion. Vengeance on Triboulet!
Marot.
He's too well armed ; How can we strike, or where inflict the blow?
De Pienne. I have it, gentlemen; the wrongs of all Shall be avenged in full. When evening falls Meet me, well armed, at Bussy's Terrace wall, Near to De Cosse's gate ; ask nought beside.
Marot. I guess thy scheme.
De Pienne.
Be silent all ; he comes !
Triboulet (aside). Whom next to trick ? — the King ? By heaven ! 'twere great ! \_Enter a Servant in the King's livery, who whispers to
Triboulet.
Servant. Monsieur St. Vallier (an infirm old man In deepest mourning) asks to see the King.
Triboulet. (Aside) The Devil! — (aloud) Oh certainly; most glad to see Monsieur St. Vallier. [^Exit Servant.
(Aside) Excellent, by Jove! This is a joke that makes all others tame —
(There is a noise and confusion at the door of entrance.^
sc. v.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 191
Voice Outside. I'll see the King !
The King (stopping sJiort in his attentions to a group
of ladies.
Who dares to enter here?
Voice Outside. I'll see the King !
The King. No ! no ! [An old man in deep mourning, with white hair and heard, hursts through the crowd at the hack of the stage, and confronts the King, gazing steadily upon him.
Scene 5. — The King, St. Vallier, Triboulet and
the Courtiers.
St. Vallier.
I will be heard ! Who dare restrain me?
The King (appalled).
Monsieur St. Vallier!
St. Vallier. 'Tis thus I'm named !
\The King advances angrily towards him, hut is stopped by Triboulet.
Triboulet.
Permit me. Sire, to speak. I will so bravely lecture this good man !
\Puts himself in a theatrical attitude, and addresses St.
Vallier.
Triboulet. Sir ! you once stirred rebellion 'gainst our throne ; We Dardoned. as kind monarchs should ; yet now
i
192 DRAMAS [act i.
A stranger, wilder madness takes your mind, — You seek for offspring from a son-in-law As hideous as the vilest dwarf e'er known, Ill-shaped, ill-bred, pale, ghastly, and deformed, An odious wart upon liis monstrous nose, A shape like that! (pointing to De Cosse)
An ugly hump like mine ! Who sees your daughter near him, needs must laugh. (Unless our King had interfered), he might Have made rare specimens of grandsons for you, Diseased, unseemly, ricket}'^, misshaped, Swoll'n like that gentleman,
[^pointing to De Cosse, who writhes with anger.
Or humped like me. Bah ! he's too ugly ; — now, our noble King Will give you grandsons, that may be your pride. To climb your knee and pluck your reverend beard !
l^The Courtiers laugh and applaud Triboulet.
St. Vallieb. 'Tis but one insult more ; — now hear me. Sire, A king should listen when his subjects speak: 'Tis true, your mandate led me to the block, Where pardon came upon me, like a dream ; I blessed you then, unconscious as I was That a king's mercy, sharper far than death. To save a father doomed his child to shame ; Yes, without pity for the noble race Of Poitiers, spotless for a thousand years. You, Francis of Valois, without one spark Of love or pity, honour or remorse Did on that night, (thy couch her virtue's tomb,) With cold embraces, foully bring to scorn My helpless daughter, Dian of Poitiers. To save her father's life, a knight she sought. Like Bayard, fearless and without reproach. She found a heartless king, who sold the boon.
I
1 \
sc. v.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 193
Making cold bargain for his child's dishonour. Oh ! monstrous traffic ! foully hast thou done ! My blood was thine, and justly, tho' it springs Amongst the best and noblest names of France ; But to pretend to spare these poor grey locks, And yet to trample on a weeping woman, Was basely done ; the father was thine own. But not the daughter ! — thou hast overpassed The right of monarchs ! — yet, 'tis mercy deemed, And I, perchance, am called ungrateful still. Oh, hadst thou come within my dungeon walls, I would have sued upon my knees for death. But mercy for my child, my name, my race, Which, once polluted, is my race no more ; Rather than insult, death to them and me. I come not now to ask her back from thee ; Nay, let her love thee with insensate love ; I take back nought that bears the brand of shame. Keep her ! — Yet still amidst thy festivals, Until some father's, brother's, husband's hand,^ ('Twill come to pass,) shall rid us of thy yoke. My pallid face shall ever haunt thee there. To tell thee, Francis, it was foully done ! And thou shalt listen, and thy guilty pride Shall shrink abashed before me ; would you now Command the headsman's axe to do its office. You dare not, lest my spectre should return To tell thee
The King.
Madness! (To De Pienne.)
Duke ! arrest the traitor.
1 According to ancient writers, St. Vallier's prophecy was terribly fulfilled. The death of Francis the First affords a melancholy illustra- tion of the morals of the " good old times." Whether the story be the record of history, or the invention of slander, we have only to choose between the malignity of the falsehood, or the infamy of the fact. A sad alternative for the believer in the supremacy of the past. — F. L. S. 13.
194
DRAMAS
[act I.
Triboulet {sneering at St. Valuer). The poor man raves.
St. Vallier.
Accursed be ye both ! Oh, Sire ! 'tis wrong upon the dying lion To loose thy dog (turns to Triboulet),
And thou, who'er thou art, That with a fiendish sneer and viper's tongue, Makest my tears a pastime and a sport. My curse upon thee ! — Sire, thy brow doth bear The gems of France ! — on mine, old age doth sit ; Thine decked with jewels, mine with these grey hairs; We both are Kings, yet bear a different crown ; And should some impious hand upon thy head Heap wrongs and insult, with thine own strong arm Thou canst avenge them ! — God avenges mine !
[St. Vallier is led off — the curtain falls.
«ND OF the first ACT.
ACT SECOND : SALTABADIL
Scene 1. — The scene represents a deserted corner of De Bussy Terrace. On the right a house of decent appear- ance, with a court-yard m front (^surrounded by a wall)^ which forms a part of the stage. In the court are some trees, and a stone seat. A door opens from the wall into the street. Above the wall is a terrace, with a roof supported by arches. A door from the first floor of the house opens upon this terrace, which communicates with the court by a flight of steps. On the left are the high walls of the De Cosse Palace, and in the background, distant houses and the steeple of St. Severin.
Triboulet, Saltabadil; afterwards De Pienne and
De Gordes.
[Teiboulet is enveloped in his cloak, but without his buffoon's dress — he advances cautioush/ towards the door in the wall. A man dressed in black, and likewise wrapped in a cloak (from beneath which the point of a sxvord peeps out), follows him stealthily.
Triboulet (lost in thought). The old man cursed me.
Saltabadil, (^accosting him). Sir!
Triboulet. [starts, turns round, and searching in his pockets, says
angrily,
I've nothing for you. 195
196
DRAMAS
[act II.
Saltabadil. And nothing asked I : you mistake !
Triboulet (irritated).
Then leave me.
Saltabadil (bowing and touching his long sword). You wrong me, Sir. — By my good sword, I hve.
Triboulet (drawing back alarmed). A cut-throat !
[Enter De Pienne and De Gordes, who remain watch- ing at the back of the stage.
Saltabadil (in an insinuating manner). Something weighs upon your mind: Night after night, you haunt this lonely spot — Confess the truth, some woman claims your care !
Triboulet. That whicn concerns but me, I tell to none.
Saltabadil. But 'tis for your advantage that I speak; You'd treat me better if you knew me well. (Whispers.) Perhaps your mistress on another smiles, — You're jealous, Sir.-^
Triboulet. By all the fiends, what want ye? Saltabadil (in a low voice, speaking softly and quickly). For some broad pieces, by this hand he dies !
Triboulet (aside). I breathe again.
Saltabadil.
I see you deem me now An honest man.
Triboulet.
At least a useful one !
sc. I.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 197
Saltabadil (with an assumption of modesty). Guard to the honour of our Paris dames.
Triboulet. Name your price to slay a cavalier.
Saltabadil. Why that's according to the man we slay, With some slight guerdon for the skill displayed.
Triboulet. To stab a nobleman ?
Saltabadil.
By Beelzebub! There's too much risk of a slashed doublet there: Cunning in fence, and armed, your nobleman Is dear indeed !
Triboulet (laughing).
Your nobleman is dear; And pray, do citizens by your kind aid Each other slaughter?
Saltabadil.
Yes ; in truth they do ; But 'tis a luxury — a taste you know That's scarcely fit, but for the man well born. Some upstarts are there (being rich forsooth). That ape the habits of a gentleman, And force my service, — How I pity them ! I'm paid one half beforehand, and the rest When the deed's done !
Triboulet.
For this you brave the rack?
Saltabadil (smiling). Not much ! a tribute paid to the police !
198 DRAMAS [act n.
Trie ou LET. So much per head?
Saltabadil.
Just so ! unless indeed — ( What shall I say ? ) unless the King were slain !
Triboulet. And how contrive you?
Saltabadil.
In the street I slay, Or else at home!
Triboulet.
In a most courteous way?
Saltabadil. If in the street — a sharp keen blade I wear. And watch my man at night.
Triboulet.
And if at home?
Saltabadil. Wliy then my sister Maguelonne assists — A sprightly girl — that in the streets by night Doth dance for gain, and, with enticing smiles. Allures our prey, and draws the game to earth.
Triboulet. I see !
Saltabadil. 'Tis managed without noise or stir. Quite decently ! Nay, most respectably. Now let me crave your patronage, good Sir ; You'll be contented, tho' I keep no shop. Nor make parade ; I am not of that race Of coward cut-throats, armed from head to heel, Who herd in bands to take a single life —
sc. I.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 199
Wretches ! with courage shorter than their sword.
[Drawing an enormously long sword. This is my weapon! (Triboulet starts.) (^Smiling and bowing to Teiboulet.) At your service, Sir!
Triboulet. Just now, indeed, I've no occasion for it.
Saltabadil. So much the worse ! You'll find me, when you list. Before the palace of the Duke of Maine. At noon each day I take my morning's stroll: My name's Saltabadil !
Teiboulet.
Of gipsy race?
Saltabadil. Burgundian too!
De Gordes (to De Pienne, taking out his tablets).
A jewel of a man, Whose name (lest I forget) at once I write.
Saltabadil. Sir, you'll not think the worse of me for this.?
Triboulet. What for ! why should I ? every one must live.
Saltabadil. I would not be a beggar, idler, rogue ! Then I've four children.
Triboulet.
Whom 'twere barbarous To leave unfed. [Trying to get rid of him.
Heaven keep you in its love !
De Pienne (to De Gordes). 'Tis still too light ! Return we here anon.
[Exeunt De Pienne and De Goedes.
200 DRAMAS [act ii.
Triboulet {roughly to Saltabadil). Good day !
Saltabadil (bowing). Your humble servant, Sir. Adieu ! \^Exit.
Triboulet [watching him as he retires). How much ahke his cruel trade to mine ; — His sword is sharp, but with a tongue more keen I stab the heart ! Aye, deeper far than he.
Scene 2. — Triboulet {alone),
[Saxtabadil having departed, Triboulet gently opens the door in the wall. He looks anxiously round, and taking the key out of the lock, carefully shuts the door on the inside. He then paces the court with an air of melan- choly and abstraction.
Triboulet. The old man cursed me ! even as he spoke I mocked and taunted him ; — and yet, oh shame ! My lip but smiled. His sorrow touched my soul. Accurst indeed ! — [^he sits down on the stone seat.
For man with nature leagues To make me wicked, heartless, and depraved ! Buffoon ! Oh, heav'n ! — deformed, despised, disgraced ; Always that thought, or sleeping or awake, — It haunts my dreams, and tortures me by day : The vile buffoon — the wretched fool of court Who must not, cannot, dare not, for his hire Do aught but laugh ! Oh grief ! oh misery ! The poorest beggar, or the vilest slave, — The very galley convict in his chains. May weep and soothe his anguish with his tears. Alas, I dare not ! Oh, 'tis hard to feel Bowed down to earth with sore infirmities ; Jealous of beauty, strength, or manly grace, —
sc. II.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 201
With splendour circled, making me more sad.
In vain my wretchedness would hide from man, —
In vain my heart would sob its griefs alone. —
My patron comes, — the joyous, laughing king,
Beloved of women ! heedless of the tomb ;
Well shapcn, handsome. King of France, — and young.
And with his foot he spvu'ns me as I hide;
And, yawning, cries, " Come, make me laugh, buffoon."
Alas, poor fool ! — and yet am I a man,
And rancorous hate, and pride, and baffled rage,
Boil in my brain, and make my soul like hell.
Ceaseless I meditate some dark design.
Yet, feeling, nature, thought, must I conceal,
And at my master's sign make sport for all.
Abjection base! where'er I move to feel
My foot encumbered with its galling chain.
By men avoided, loathed, and trampled on ; —
By women treated as a harmless dog.
Soh ! gallant courtiers and brave gentlemen,
Oh, how I hate you ! — here behold your foe ;
Your bitter sneers I pay j^ou back with scorn,
And foil and countermine your proud desires.
Like the bad spirit, in your master's ear
I whisper death to each aspiring aim,
Scattering, with cruel pleasure, leaf by leaf,
The bud of hope — long ere it come to flower.
You made me wicked : — yet what grief to live
But to drop poison in the cup of joy
That others drink ! — and if within my breast
One kindly feeling springs, to thrust it forth
And stun reflection with these jingling bells.
Amidst the feast, the dance, the glittering show,
Like a foul demon, seek I to destroy.
For very sport, the happiness of all.
Covering with hollow, false, malignant smile
The venomed hate, that festers at my heart.
Yet am I wretched ! \^He rises from the stone seat.
202 DRAMAS [act ii.
No, not wretched here ! This door once past, existence comes anew: Let me forget the world, — no past regret Shall dim the happiness that waits me here.
^He falls into a reverie. The old man cursed me ! Why returns that thought ? Forebodes it evil ? Pshaw ! art mad ? — for shame !
\^He knocks at the door of the house. A young girl dressed in white rushes out, and throws herself into his arms.
Scene 3. — Blanche — Triboulet ; afterwards Dame
Berarde.
Triboulet. My child ! [He presses her to his bosom with delight.
Ah, place your arms around my neck ; Come to my heart, my child ! I'm happy now ; Near thee all's joy! I live, I breathe again.
[He gazes at her with transport. More beauteous every day. Blanche, art thou well, — Quite well.'' Dear Blanche ! come kiss me once again.
Blanche. You are so kind, dear father.
Triboulet.
No, indeed, I do but love thee. Thou'rt my life, my blood. Blanche, if I lost thee ! — oh, the thought is death.
Blanche {putting her hand on his forehead). What makes you sigh so heavily, my father.'' Tell me your sorrows ; trust your grief with me. Have we no kindred.'' Where are all our friends?
Triboulet. Daughter, thou hast rone
sc. III.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 203
Blanche.
Tell me then your name.
Triboulet. Why would'st thou know it?
Blanche.
When at dear Chinon, The little village where I lived before, The neighbours call'd me orphan, till you came.
Triboulet. 'Twere far more prudent to have left thee there ; But I could bear my sad, sad life no longer; I yearned for thee — I wanted one to love me.
Blanche, Well, if you will not tell me of yourself —
Triboulet (not listening to her). You go not out?
Blanche. Two months have I been here, And but eight times to mass gone forth.
Triboulet.
'Tis well.
Blanche. At least you'll tell me of my mother now?
Triboulet. No, no, forbear to wake that chord, my child. Let me not think upon how much I've lost; Wert thou not here I'd deem it all a dream : A woman different from all womankind, Who knew me poor, deserted, sick, deformed. Yet loved me, even for my wretchedness. Dying, she carried to the silent tomb The blessed secret of her sainted love : Love, fleeter, brighter than the lightning's flash;
204 DRAMAS [act ii.
A ray from Paradise, illuming Hell.
Oh, earth, press lightly on that angel breast,
Where only did my sorrow find repose.
But thou art here, my cliild. Oh God, I thank thee !
l^He bursts into tears.
Blanche. Oh, how you weep ! indeed I cannot bear To see you thus — it makes me wretched too.
TbibouleTo Would'st have me laugh.?
Blanche.
Dear father, pardon me. Tell me your name, — confide your grief in me.
Triboulet. I am thy father. Ask me not for more ; In this great world some hate me — some despise ; But here at least, where all is innocence, I am thy father — loved, revered. No name Is holier than a father's to his child.
Blanche. Dear father!
Triboulet (again embracing her).
Ah, what heart responds like thine? I love thee, as I hate all else beside. Sit thee down by me. Come, we'll talk of this. Art sure thou lov'st me? Now that we are here Together, and thy hand is clasped in mine, Why should we speak of anything but thee? The only joy that Heaven vouchsafes, my child! Others have parents, brothers, loving friends, Wives, husbands, vassals, a long pedigree Of ancestors, and children numerous — But I have only thee ! Some men are rich,
sc. III.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 205
Thou art my only treasure, Blanche ! my all.
Some trust in Heaven : I trust alone in thee.
What care I now for youth, or woman's love.
For pomp or grandeur, dignities or wealth.''
These are brave things, but thou outweigh'st them all ;
Thou art my counti'y, city, family —
My riches, happiness, religion, hope —
My universe; I find them all in thee.
From all but thee, my soul shrinks, trembling, back.
Oh, if I lost thee ! The distracting thought
Would kill me, if it lived one instant more !
Smile on me, Blanche! thy pretty, artless smile,
So like thy mother's ; she was artless too. —
You press your hand upon your brow, my child,
Just as she did. My soul leaps forth to thine,
Even in darkness — I can see thee still • —
For thou art day, and light, and life to me,
Blanche. Would I could make you happy !
Triboulet.
Happy ! Blanche ! I am so happy when I gaze on thee — My very heart seems bursting with delight.
[^Passes his hand through her hair, and smiles. What fine dark hair ! I recollect it once So very light! Who would believe it now.''
Blanche. Some day, before the curfew bell has tolled, You'll let me take a walk, and see the town.''
Triboulet. Oh, never, never ! Thou hast not left home Unless with Dame Berarde.''
Blanche.
Oh. no!
206 DRAMAS [act ii.
TttIBOUL,ET.
Beware 1
Blanche. Forth, but to church, I go !
Triboulet. (Aside.) She may be seen,
Perhaps pursued, torn from me, and disgraced. Hah! were it so! the v/retched jester's daughter There's none would pity. (Aloud.) I beseech thee, Blanche, Stir not abroad. — Thou know'st not how impure. How poisonous is the Paris air to woman: How heartless profligates infest the streets. And courtiers baser still! (Aside.) Oh, Heaven, protect. Watch o'er, preserve her from the damning snares And touch impure, of libertines, whose breath Hath blighted flowers pure and fair as she. Let e'en her dreams be holy ! — Here at least Her hapless father, resting from his woes. Shall breathe, with grateful heart, the sweet perfume Of this fair rose of innocence and love !
l^He buries his face in his hands and bursts into tears.
Blanche. I'll think no more of going out, dear father, But do not weep.
Triboulet. These tears relieve me, child. So much I laughed last night : — but I forget. The hour to bear my hated yoke draws nigh. Dear Blanche, adieu !
Blanche (embracing him).
You'll soon be here again.
Teiboulet. Alas, I am not master of my will.
sc. III.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 207
Ho ! Dainc Berarde ! — Whene'er I visit here
\^An old duenna enters. None see me enter?
Berarde, Nay, of course not, Sir ! This street's deserted !
[/f is now nearly dark, the King appears outside the wall, disguised in a dark-coloured dress. He exam- ines the high wall and closed door with gestures of impatience and disappointment.
Triboulet.
Dearest Blanche, adieu! (to Dame Berarde). The door towards the quay is ever closed.'' I know a house more lonely e'en than this, Near St. Germain ! I'll see to it to-morrow.
Blanche. The terrace, father, is so pleasant here, Above the gardens.
Triboulet. Go not there, my child !
}[He listens. Ha ! footsteps near !
l^He goes to the gate, opens it, and looks out: the King slips into a recess in the wall near the door, which Triboulet leaves open.
Blanche (pointing to the terrace).
But may I not at night Breathe the pure air?
Triboulet.
Alas ! you might be seen.
l^Whilst he is speaking to Blanche, his back towards the door, the King slips in, unseen by all, and conceals himself behind a tree.
208 DRAMAS [act ii.
{To Dame Berarde) You let no lamp from out the casement shine.
Berarde. Why, gracious powers ! what man could enter here .?
\She turns and sees the King behind the tree. Just as she is about to cry out, the King holds a purse out to her, which she takes, weighs in her hand, and is silent.
Blanche {to Triboulet, who has been to examine the ter- race with a lantern. Why dost thou look ? — what f earest thou, my father ?
Triboulet. Nought for myself, but everything for thee. Farewell, my child !
[ He again folds her in his arms; a ray of light from the lantern held by Dame Berarde falls upon them.
The King.
The Devil ! — Triboulet ! (he laughs). Triboulet's daughter! — why, the jest's divine.
Triboulet (returning). A thought disturbs me : — when from church you come Has no one followed thee?
[^Blanche is confused and casts down her eyes.
Berarde.
Oh, never. Sir!
Triboulet. Shriek out for help, if any one molest Or stop thy path.
Berarde. I'd scream and call the guard.
Triboulet. Whoever knocks, keep closed to all the door.
sc. IV.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 200
Berarde. Tho' 'twere the King?
Triboulet. Much more if 'twere the King. \^He embraces Blanche again, and goes out, carefully shutting the door after him.
Scene 4. — Blanche, Dame Berarde, the King.
(^During the first part of this scene, the King still remains behind the tree.)
Blanche. Yet feels my heart remorse.
Berarde.
Remorse ? — for what ?
Blanche, How sensitive to every fear he seems ! How every shadow darkens o'er his soul ! Ev'n as he left, his eyes were wet with tears. Dear, good, kind father ! should I not have told How, every Sunday, when we leave the church, He follows me ! — you know ! — that fine young man ?
Berarde. Why speak of that? — already, unprovoked. Your father's humour sets most fierce and strange; Besides, of course, you hate this gentleman.
Blanche.
Hate him ! — Ah, no ! — Alas ! I shame to say,
His image never fades upon my mind ;
But from the hour when first his looks met mine,
Where'ere I gaze, methinks I see him there.
Would it were so ! Oh, 'tis a noble form !
So gentle, yet so bold ! so proud his mien ! 14
210
DRAMAS
[act II.
Methinks upon a fiery courser's back He'd look right nobly !
[_As Dame Berarde stands near the King, he puts a handful of gold into her hand.
He's so accomplished.
Berarde.
Well, he charms me too;
Blanche. Such a man must be — —
Berarde.
Discreet and wise !
Blanche. His looks reveal his heart; 'Tis a great heart!
Berarde. Oh, wonderful ! immense ! [At every sentence that Berarde speaks she holds out her hand to the King, who puts money in it.
Courageous I
Blanche.
Berarde. Formidable !
Blanche.
Yet so kind !
Berarde.
So tender!
Blanche. Generous !
Berarde Magn
Blanche.
Magnificent !
All that can please !
sc. iv.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 211
Berarde. His shape without a fault, — His eyes, his nose, liis forehead.
[^Holds out her hand for money at each word.
The King (aside).
Nay, by Jove, If she admires in detail, I'm undone : No purse can long resist, I'm stripped of all.
Blanche. I love to speak of him.
Berarde. I know it, child
The King {aside, giving more money). Oil upon fire.
Berarde. So tall, kind, handsome, good, Great-hearted, generous.
King {aside).
There ! She's off again.
Berarde. 'Tis some great nobleman, his airs so grand. His glove I noted, broidcred on with gold.
l^The King makes signs rvhen she holds out her hand, that he has nothing left.
Blanche. Oh no ! I would not he were rich or great. But some poor country student ; for I think He'd love me better.
Berarde. Well, it may be so, If you prefer it! {Aside) Heavens! what a taste! These love-sick girls will move by contraries.
l^Again holding out her hand to the Ring.
212 DRAMAS [act ii.
(Aloud.) But this I'm sure, he loves you to despair.
IThe King gives nothing. (Aside.) Is he then drained! No money, Sir! no praise!
Blanche. How long it seems till Sunday comes again ! Until I see him, sadness with my soul Dwells night and day ; when on the altar last My humble gifts I placed, he seemed as though He would have spoken. How my heart did throb! Oh I am sure, love hath possessed him too ! My image never, never quits his mind. Different from other men, his looks sincere Tell me no woman fills his heart but me ; That, shunning pleasure, solitude he seeks To think on me.
Berarde. l^Making a last effort, holding out her hand to the King. I stake my head 'tis true !
The King (taking off a ring and giving it to Berarde). This for thi^ head.
Blanche. Oh, how I wish, whene'er I think of him by day, and dream by night. He were beside me : I would tell him then,
Be happy ; oh be mine, for thee
[^The King comes from behind the tree, and stretches out his arms towards her, going on his knee whilst she has her face turned from him. When she looks round again he speaks, finishing her speech.
The King.
I love ! Say on ; oh, cease not ! say thou lov'st me, Blanche : Love sounds so sweetl}^ from a lip like thine.
sc. IV.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 213
Blanche (frightened, looks round for Dame Berarde, who
has purposely/ disappeared). Oh! I'm betrayed, alone, and none to help!
The King. Two happy lovers are themselves a world.
Blanche. Whence come you, Sir?
The King.
Frpm heaven or from hell, 'Tis of no import — angel, man, or fiend, I love thee!
Blanche. Heavens ! if my father knew. I hope none saw you enter ! Leave me, Sir !
The King. Leave thee, whilst trembling in my arms you rest, And I am thine, and thou art all to me! Thou lov'st me!
Blanche (confused). Oh, you listened !
The King.
'Tis most true; What sweeter music could I listen to?
Blanche (supplicating). Well, if you love, leave me for love's own sake.
The King. Leave thee, when now my fate is linked with thine ! Twin stars, in one horizon, doubly bright,^
1 Victor Hugo's lines run thus: —
" Quand notre double 6toile au meme horizon brille ! " But as I cannot find that double stars were at all suspected in the days of Francis the First, I have taken the liberty to avoid the anachronical by a slight alteration of the text.
214 DRAMAS [act ii.
When heaven itself has chosen me to wake
Within thy virgin breast the dawn of love,
That soon shall blaze like noon! 'Tis the soul's sun;
Dost thou not feel its soft and gentle flame?
The monarch's crown, that death confers or takes, —
The cruel glory of inhuman war;
The hero's name the rich man's vast domains, —
All these are transient, vain and earthly things.
To this poor world, where all beside doth fade.
But one pure joy remains, — 'tis love! 'tis love!
Dear Blanche, such happiness I bring to thee.
Life is a flower, and love its nectared juice,
'Tis like the eagle mated with the dove, — •
'Tis trembling innocence with strength allied, —
'Tis like this little hand, thus lost in mine.
Oh let us love ! ^He embraces her, she resists.
Blanche. No ! leave me ! Berarde {aside, peeping out from the terrace).
All goes well ! She's snared!
The King. Oh, tell me thou dost love !
Berarde.
{Aside.) The Wretch!
The King. Blanche, say it o'er again.
Blanche {bending down her eyes).
You heard me once. You know it.
The King. Then I'm happy !
Blanche.
I'm undone!
sc. IV.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 215
The King. No, blest with me!
Blanche.
Alas ! I know you not ! Tell me your name.
Berarde. (Aside.) High time to think of that.
Blanche. You are no nobleman, no courtier, sure ; My father fears them.
The King.
No, by heaven ! ^ — (Aside.) Let's see (he deliberates). Godfrey Melune I'm called, a student poor, So poor !
Berarde (who is just counting the money he has given her.
holds up her hand). (Aside.) The liar!
\Enter De Pienne and Pardaillan, they carry a dark lantern, and are concealed in cloaks.
De Pienne {to Pardaillan).
Here 'tis, chevalier! Berarde {runs down from the terrace). Voices outside I hear.
Blanche.
Oh, heaven ! ray father.
Dame Berarde {to the King). Leave us ! — away !
The King. What traitor mars my bliss? Would that my hands were grasping at his throat!
Blanche {to Berarde). Quick ! quick I — Oh, save him ! Ope the little ^nte That leads towards the quay.
216 DRAMAS [act ii.
The King.
Leave thee so soon I Wilt love to-morrow, Blanche?
Blanche.
The King.
And thou-f*
For ever !
Blanche. Thou may'st deceive ; for I've deceived my father.
The King. Never ! — One kiss on those bright eyes !
Blanche.
No ! No ! [The King, in spite of her resistance, seizes her in his arms, and kisses her several times.
Berarde. A most infuriate lover, by my soul!
[Exit the King with Berarde. [Blanche remains for sovie time with her eyes fixed on the door through which the King has passed; she then enters the house. Meanwhile the street is filled with Courtiers, armed and wearing mantles and masques. De Gordes, De Cosse, De Brion, De Montmorency, De INIontchenu, and Clement Marot, join De Pienne and Pardaillan. The night is very dark — the lanthorns they carry are closed. They make signals of recognition, and point out Triboulet's house. A servant attends them hearing a scaling ladder.
sc. v.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 217
Scene 5. — Blanche — the Courtiers. Afterwards
Triboulet.
Blanche comes out on the terrace; she holds a flamheau in her hand, which throws its light upon her countenance.
Blanche. Godfrey Melune! Oh, name that I adore, Be graven on my heart !
De Pienne (fo the Courtiers).
Messieurs, 'tis she !
De Gordes. Some bourgeois beauty; how I pity you, Who cast your' nets amongst the vulgar throng.
\^As he speaks, Blanche turns round, and the light falls
full on her features.
De Pienne.
What think you now?
Marot.
I own the jade is fair.
De Gordes. An angel, — fairy, — an accomphshed grace.
Pardaillan. Is this the mistress of our Triboulet.? The rascal!
De Gordes. Scoundrel !
Marot. Beauty and the Beast! 'Tis just! Old Jupiter would cross the breed.
218 DRAMAS [act ii.
De Pienne.
Enough ! we came to punish Triboulet ; We are all here, determined, well prepared, With hatred armed, — aye, and a ladder too, — - Scale we the walls, and having seized the fair, Convey her to the Louvre ! Our good king Shall greet the beauty at his morning's levee,
De Cosse. And straightway seize her, as most lawful prey.
Marot. Oh, leave the Devil and Fate to settle that.
De Gordes. 'Tis a bright jewel, worthy of a crown.
[^Enter Triboulet absorbed in thought.
Triboulet. Still I return, — and yet I know not why. The old man cursed me !
[/w the dark he runs against De Gordes. Who goes there?
De Gordes {runs back to the conspirators, and whispers).
Messieurs, 'Tis Triboulet!
De Cosse. Oh, double victory ! Let's slay the traitor !
De Ptenne.
Nay, good Count, — not so : — Pray, how, to-morrow, could we laugh at him.?
De Gordes. Oh, if he's killed, the joke's not half so droll.
De Cosse. He'll spoil our plans.
sc. v.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 219
Marot. No ! leave you that to me, — I'll manage all.
Triboulet (aside). Some whispering I hear. Marot {going up to Triboulet). What! Triboulet!
Triboulet (fiercely). Who's there .'^
'Tis I.
What 1?
Marot.
Triboulet.
Marot. Marot.
Don't eat me up!
Triboulet.
The night's so dark.
Marot. Satan has made an inkstand of the sky.
Triboulet. Why are you here?
Marot. We come ( you surely guess ) : — (he laughs ) De Cosse's wife we aim at, for the king.
Triboulet. Ah, excellent!
De Cosse (aside). Would I could break his bones!
Triboulet. How would you enter, — not by open force ^
220 DRAMAS [act ii.
Marot {to De Cosse). Give me your key. (De Cosse passes him the key).
{To Tkiboulet) This will ensure success. Feel you De Cosse's arms engraved thereon?
Triboulet {aside, feeling the Jcey). Three leaves serrate : I know the scutcheon well, — There stands his house. What silly fears were mine !
{returning the key to Marot.) If all you purpose be to steal the wife Of fat De Cosse — faith, I'm with you too.
Marot.
We are all masqued.
Triboulet.
Give me a mask as well. [Marot puts on a mask, and ties it with a thick hand- kerchief, or bandage, covering both Triboulet's eyes and ears.
Marot {to Triboulet). You guard the ladder.
I can see nothing.
Triboulet.
Are there many here?
Marot. 'Tis so dark a night {to the Courtiers). Walk as you will, and talk without disguise, The trusty bandage blinds and deafens him.
l^The Courtiers mount the ladder, burst open the door of the terrace, and enter the house. Soon afterwards one returns, and opens the door of the court-yard from within. Then the whole body rush out, bear- ing Blanche, half senseless. After they have left the stage, her voice is heard in the distance.
sc. v.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 221
Blanche (m the distance). Help ! help me, father !
Courtiers (m the distance) Victory ! she is ours !
Triboulet (at the bottom of the ladder) How long must I stand doing penance here? Will they ne'er finish? Soh! I'll wait no more.
\^He tears off the maslc, and discovers the bandage. Hah ! my eyes bandaged !
[He tears off the mask and bandage. By the light of a lanthorn left behind, on the ground, he sees some- thing white, which he takes up, and discovers to be his daughter's veil. He looks round — the ladder is against his own wall — the wall-door is open. He rushes into his house like a madman, and returns dragging out Dame Berarde, half dressed and scarcely awake. He looks round in a state of bewilderment and stupor, tears his hair, and utters some inarticulate sounds of agony. At last his voice returns — he breaks forth into a cry of despair.
Oh, the curse ! — the curse !
\He falls down in a swoon.
END OF THE SECOND ACT.
ACT THIRD: THE KING
Scene 1. — Royal antichamber at the Louvre, furnished in the style of the Renaissance. Near the front of the stage, a table, chair, and footstool. At the back of the scene, a large door richly gilt. On the left, the door of the King's sleeping apartment, covered with a tapestry hanging. On the right, a beaufet, with vessels of porcelain and gold. The door at the hack opens on to a terrace with garden behind.
The Courtiers.
De Gordes. 'Tis fit we plan the end of this adventure.
De Pienne. Not so ; let Triboulct still writhe and groan, Ne'er dreaming that his love lies hidden here!
De Cosse. Aye, let him search the world. Yet, hold, my lords! The palace guard our secret might betray.
De Montchenu. Throughout the Louvre all are ordered well; They'll swear no woman came last night within.
Pardaillan. Besides, to make the matter darker still, A knave of mine, well versed in strategy. Called at the poor fool's house and told he saw, At dead of night, a struggling woman borne To Hautefort's palace.
222
sc. I.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 223
Marot {takes out a letter).
This last night sent I: {He reads). "Your mistress, Triboulet, I stole; If her fair image dwells with thee, Long may that image fill thy soul ; But her sweet self leaves France with me." Signed with a flourish, John de Nivelles.
[Courtiers all laugh vociferously.
Pardaillan.
Gods ! what a chase !
De Cosse.
His grief is joy to me.
De Gordes. Aye, let the slave, in agony and tears, With clenching hands, and teeth that gnash with rage, Pay in one day our long arrears of hate.
{The door of the Royal apartment opens, and the King enters dressed in a magnificent morning dress; he is accompanied by De Pienne; the Courtiers draw near. The King and De Pienne laugh immoder- ately.
The King {pointing to the distant door). She's there!
De Pienne {laughing). The loved one of our Triboulet.
The King {lajighing). Steal my Fool's mistress ! — Excellent, i'f aith !
De Pienne. Mistress or wife.'*
The King {aside). A wife and daughter tpo! So fond a fool I ne'er imagined him !
224 DRAMAS [act hi.
De Pienne. Shall I produce her now?
The King.
Of course, Pardleu! [De Pienne leaves the room, and returns immediately, leading in Blanche, closely veiled and tremblings The King sits down in his chair, in a careless atti- tude.
De Pienne. Enter, fair dame ; then tremble as you will. Behold the King !
Blanche {still veiled).
So young ! — is that the King ? She throws herself at his feet. At the first sound of Blanche's voice, the King starts and then signs to the Courtiers to retire.
Scene 2. — The King — Blanche.
The King, when left alone with Blanche, takes the veil from
her face.
The King. Blanche !
Blanche. Godfrey Melune ! Oh Heav'n !
The King {bursting into a fit of laughter).
Now, l)y my faith! Whether 'tis chance or planned, the gain is mine. My Blanche ! my beautiful, my heart's delight. Come to my arms !
Blanche (rising and shrinking back).
The King ! — forgive me, Sire ; Indeed, I know not what to say. — Good Sir, Godfrey Melune ; — but no ! you are the King.
l^She falls on her knees again. Whoe'er thou art, alas ! have mercy on me !
sc. II.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 225
The King. Mercy on thee ! my Blanche, whom I adore ! Francis confirms the love that Godfrey gave. I love, thou lovest, and we both are blest. The name of King dims not the lover's flame. You deemed me, once, a scholar, clerk. Lowly in rank, in all but learning poor ; And now that chance hath made me nobler born, And crowned me King, is that sufficient cause To hold me suddenly in such abhorrence? — I've not the luck to be a serf — what then ?
[^The King laughs heartily,
Blanche (aside). Oh, how he laughs ! — and I with shame could die !
The King.
What fetes, what sports and pageants, shall be ours ! What whispered love in garden and in grove! A thousand pleasures that the night conceals ! Thy happy future grafted on mine own — We'll be two lovers wedded in delight. Age must steal on, and what is human life.? A paltry stuff", of mingled toil and care. Which love with starry light doth spangle o'er; Without it, trust me, 'tis a sorry rag — Blanche, 'tis a theme I've oft reflected on, And this is wisdom : — honour Heaven above, Eat, drink, be merry, crowning all with love !
Blanche (confounded and shuddering). Oh, how unlike the picture fancy drew !
The King. What did you think me, then, a solemn fool, A trembling lover, spiritless and tame. Who thinks all women ready to expire With melting sympathy, because he sighs And wears a sad and melancholy face.? 15
226 DRAMAS [act hi.
Blanche. Oh, leave me! — (Aside.) Wretched girl!
The King.
Know'st who I am ? — Why, France — a nation — fifteen million souls — Gold, honour, pleasures, power uncurbed by law. All, all are mine : — I reign and rule o'er all. I am their sovereign, Blanche, but thou art mine — I am their King, Blanche, wilt not be my Queen?
Blanche. The Queen ! Your wife !
The King (laughing heartily).
No ! virtuous innocence ; The Queen, my mistress: 'tis the fairer name.
Blanche. Thy mistress ! Shame upon thee !
The King.
Hah! so proud.?
Blanche (indignantly). I'll ne'er be such ! My father can protect me !
The King.
My poor Buffoon ! my Fool ! my Triboulet ! Thy father's mine ! — my property ! my slave I His will's mine own !
Blanche (weeping). Is he, too, yours.'' \^She sobs out.
The King (falling on his knees). Dear Blanche ! too dear to me !
Oh, weep not thus ! but, pressed against my heart
l^He endeavours to embrace her.
sc. II.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 227
Blanche. Forbear !
The King. Say but again, thou lov'st me, Blanche !
Blanche. No ! no ! — 'tis passed.
The King.
I've pained thee tlioug-htlessly. Nay, do not sob ! Rather than force from thee Whose precious drops, my Blanche, I'd die with shame, Or pass before my kingdom and my court For one unknown to gallantry and fame. A King, — and make a woman weep ! Ye gods !
Blanche. 'Tis all a cheat ! I know you jest with me ! If you be King, let me be taken home. My father weeps for me, I live hard by De Cosse's palace; but you know it well. Alas ! who are you ? I'm bewildered ! — lost ! Dragg'd like a victim here 'midst cries of joy; My brain whirls round. 'Tis but a frightful dream! You, that I thought so kind. ( Weeping). Alas ! I think I love you not! {suddenly starting back).
I do but fear you now !
The King {trying to take her in his arms). You fear me, Blanche !
Blanche {resisting). Have pity !
The King {seizing her in his arms).
Well, at least One pardoning kiss !
Blanche {struggling). No ! no !
228 DRAMAS [act hi.
The King (laughing).
(Aside). How strange a girl!
Blanche (^forces herself away). VIelp !. Ah ! that door !
IShe sees the door of the King's own room, rushes in, and closes it violently.
The King {taking out a little key from his girdle).
'Tis lucky I've the key ! \^He opens the door, rushes in, and locks it behind him.
Marot ( who has been watching for some time at the dcMir at the back of the stage). >5he flies for safety to the King's own chamber ! Alas! poor lamb! (He calls to De Gordes, who is outsfie).
Hey, count !
De Gordes (peeping in).
May we return?
Scene 3. — Marot — The Courtiers — Triboulet.
All the Courtiers come in except De Pienne, who remd Ss watching at the door.
Marot (pointing to the door). The sheep seeks refuge in the lion's den!
Pardaillan (overjoyed). Oh ho ! poor Triboulet !
De Pienne (entering).
Hush ! hush ! he comes ! Be all forewarned ; assume a careless air.
Marot. To none but me he spoke, nor can he guess. At any here.
Pardaillan. Yet might a look betray.
sc. III.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 229
l^Enter Triboulet. His appearance is unaltered. He has the usual dress and thoughtless deportment of the Jester, only he is very pale.
[De Pienne appears to be engaged in conversation, but is privately making signs and gestures to some of the young nobles, who can scarcely repress their laughter.
Triboulet {^advancing slowly to the front of the stage). They all have done this ! guilt is in their looks : — Yet where concealed her ? — It were vain to ask — But to be scoffed at !
^He goes up to Marot with a gay and smiling air. Ah, I'm so rejoiced To see you took no cold last night, Marot.
Marot. Last night!
Triboulet {affecting to treat it as a jest). The trick, I own, was neatly played.
Marot. The trick !
Triboulet. Aye ! well-contrived !
Marot.
Why, man, last night, When curfew tolled, ensconced between the sheets I slept so soundly, that the sun was high This morn when I awoke.
Triboulet (affecting to believe).
I must have dreamed. [Triboulet sees a white handkerchief upon the table, and darts upon it; he examines the initials.
Pardaillan {to De Pienne). See, Duke, how he devours my handkerchief !
230 DRAMAS [act hi.
Teiboulet (with a sigh). Not hers!
De Pienne (<o the young Courtiers, who cannot control their
laughter). Nay, gentlemen, what stirs your mirth?
De Gordes (pointing to Maeot). . 'Tis he, by Jupiter!
Triboulet.
They're strangely moved. Sleeps the King yet, my lord? (advancing to De Pienne.)
De Pienne.
He doth, good Fool.
Triboulet. Methinks I hear some stir within his room.
[^He attempts to approach the door.
De Pienne (preventing him). You'll wake his Majesty!
De Gordes (to Pardaili^an).
Viscount, hear this : — Marot (the rascal) tells a pleasant taje. How the three Guys, returning Heaven knows whence, Found each, last night, — what sayest thou, Buffoon? — His loving wife with a gallant!
Marot.
Concealed 1
Triboulet. Ah, 'tis a wicked world in which we live !
De Cosse. Woman's so treacherous !
Triboulet.
My Lord, take heed!
sc. III.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 231
De Cosse. Of what?
Triboulet. Beware ! the case may be your own ; Just such a pleasant tale of you they tell; E'en now there's something peeps above your ears.
l^Makes a sign of liorns.
De Cosse {ma fury). Hah!
Triboulet {speaking to tJie Courtiers, and pointing to De
Cosse. 'Tis Indeed an animal most rare ; When 'tis provoked, how strangely wild its cry ! Hah! {mimicking De Cosse).
[^The Courtiers laugh at De Cosse. Enter a Gentleman bearing the Queen's livery.
De Pienne. Vandragon ! what now ?
Gentleman.
Her Majesty Would see the King, on matters of import.
[De Pienne makes signs that it is impossihle.
Gentleman. Madame de Breze is not with him now!
De Pienne {angrily). The King still sleeps !
Gentleman.
How, Duke ! — a moment past You were together!
De Pienne {makes signs to the Gentleman, who will not understand him, and which Triboulet observes with breathless attention).
He has joined the chase.
I
232 DRAMAS [act hi.
Gentleman. Indeed ! without a horse or huntsman, then, For all his equipages wait him here.
De Pienne. Confusion ! {Then in a rage to the messenger^ Now, Sir, will you understand.'' The King sees nobody to-day.
Triboulet {in a voice of thunder).
She's here ! She's with the King ! ( The Courtiers are alarmed. )
De Gordes. What she ? — I'f aith he raves.
Triboulet. Ah, gentlemen, well know you what I mean ; Nor shall you fright me from my jjurpose now. She, whom last night j^ou ravished from my home — Base cowards all ! — I^Iontmorcncy, Brion, De Pienne, and Satan (for with fiends you're leagued), She's here, — She's mine !
De Pienne.
What then, my Triboulet? You've lost a mistress ! Such a form as thine Will soon find others.
Triboulet {in a loud voice).
Give me back my child!
Courtiers {appalled). His child!
Triboulet. My daughter! Do you taunt me now.'* Why, wolves and courtiers have their offspring too, And why not I ? Enough of this, my lords ; If 'twere a jest, 'tis ended now! You laugh, —
sc. III.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 233
You whisper ! Villains ! 'twas a heartless deed. I'll tear her from you. Give me back my cliild! She's there !
^He rushes to the door of the King's room. All the Courtiers interpose and prevent him.
Marot. His folly has to madness turned.
Triboulet. Base courtiers ! demons ! fawning race accurst ! A maiden's honour is to you as nought — A king's fit prey — a profligate's debauch. Your wives and daughters (if they chance to please), Belong to him. The virgin's sacred name Is deemed a treasure, burthensome to bear: A w^oman's but a field — a yielding farm Let out to royalty. The rent it brings, A government, a title, ribbon, star ! Not one amongst ye give me back the lie. 'Tis true, base robbers ! you would sell him all ! {to De Gordes) — Your sister, sir!
( to Pardaillan ) — Your mother !
( to De Brion ) — You ! — Your wife ! Who shall believe it? — Nobles, dukes, and peers; A Vermandois from Charlemagne who springs ; A Brion from Milan's illustrious duke ; A Gordes Simiane ; a Pienne ; a Pardaillan ; And you, Montmorency ! What names are these Who basely steal away a poor man's child.'' O never from such a high and ancient race. Such blazons proud, sprung dastards such as ye. But from some favoured lacquey's stolen embrace: You're bastards all!
De Gordes. Bravo, Buff^oon I
284 DRAMAS [act in.
TaiBOULET.
How much Has the King given for this honoured service? You're paid, — I know it. ^Tears his hair.
I, who had but her, — What can the King for me ! He cannot give A name like yours, to hide me from mine own: Nor shape my hmbs, nor make my looks more smooth. Hell ! — he has taken all ! I'll ne'er go hence Till she's restored ! Look at this trembling hand, — 'Tis but a serf's ; no blood illustrious there ; — Unarmed you think, because no sword it bears, — But with my nails I'll tear her from ye all !
\^He rushes again at the door — all the Courtiers close upon him; he struggles desperately for some time, hut at length, exhausted, he falls on his knees at the front of the stage. All ! all combined against me ! ten to one !
(^turning to Marot). Behold these tears, Marot ! — Be merciful ; Thine is a soul inspired. Oh, hav€ a heart ! Tell me she's here ! Ours is a common cause, For thou alone, amidst this lordly throng. Hast wit and sense. Marot ! — Oh, good Marot !
(turns to the Courtiers). Even at your feet, my Lords, I sue for grace; I'm sick at heart ; alas, be merciful ! Some other day I'll bear your humours better ; For many a year, your poor mis-shaped Buffoon Has made you sport — aye, when his heart would break. Forgive your Triboulet, nor vent 3'our spleen On one so helpless ; give me back my child — My only treasure — all that I possess ! Without her, nothing in this world is mine. Be kind to me ! another night hke this Would sear my brain, and whiten o'er my hair.
sc. III.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 235
l^The door of the King's room opens, and Blakche, agitated and disordered, rushes out, and, with a cry of terror, throws herself into her father''s arms.
Blanche. My father, ah! {She buries her head in her father's bosom).
Triboulet. My Blanche ! my darhng child ! Look ye, good Sirs, the last of all my race. Dear angel ! — Gentlemen, you'll bear with me — You'll pardon, I am sure, these tears of joy. A child like this, whose gentle innocence Even to look on makes the heart more pure. Could not be lost, you'll own, without a pang.
(to Blanche). Fear nothing now; 'twas but a thoughtless jest. Something to laugh at. — How they frightened thee ! Confess it, Blanche. [Embraces her fondly.
But I'm so happy now. My heart's so full, I never knew before How much I loved. I laugh, that once did weep To lose thee ; yet to hold thee thus again. Is surely bliss. — But thou dost weep, my child.''
Blanche {covering her face with her hand). Oh, hide me from my shame !
Teiboulet {starting).
What mean'st thou, Blanche.''
Blanche {pointing to the Courtiers). Not before these ; I'd blush and speak, alone.
Triboulet {turns in an agony to the King's door). Monster ! — She too !
Blw^nche {sobbing and falling at his feet).
Alone with thee, my father!
236 DRAMAS [act iii.
Triboulet (striding tozvards the Courtiers). Go, get ye hence ! And if the King pretend To turn his steps this way,
{to Vermandois) You're of his guard'. Tell him he dare not ! — Triboulet is here !
De Pienne. Of all the fools, no fool e'er equalled this.
De Gordes. To fools and children sometimes must we yield, Yet will we watch without.
\_Exeunt all the Courtiers but De Cosse.
Triboulet.
Speak freely to me, Blanche. {He turns and sees De Cosse.
{In a voice of thunder). You heard me, Sir?
De Cosse {retiring preci'pitately). These fools permit themselves strange liberties.
Scene 4. — Triboulet — Blanche.
Triboulet {gravely and sternly). Now, speak !
Blanche {with downcast eyes, interrupted by sobs). Dear father, 'twas but yesternight
He stole within the gate {She hides her face).
I cannot speak.
[Triboulet presses her in his arms, and kisses her forehead tenderly. But long ago, (I should have told you then,) He followed me, yet spoke not, and at church, As sure as Sunday came, this gentleman
Triboulet {fiercely). The King !
sc. IV.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 237
Blanche. Passed close to ine, and, as I think,
Disturbed my chair, that I might look on him. Last night he gained admittance.
Tejboulet.
Stop, my child; I'll spare thy shame the pang of telling it ; I guess the rest. {He stands erect.)
Oh, sorroAv, most complete ! His loathsome touch has withered on thy brow The virgin wreath of purity it wore, And in its stead has left the brand of shame ! The once pure air that did environ thee His breath has sullied. Oh, my Blanche ! my child ! Once the sole refuge of my misery. The day that woke me from a night of woe. The soul through wliich mine own had hopes of Heaven, A veil of radiance, covering my disgrace, The haven still for one by all accurst, An angel left by God to bless my tears, The only sainted thing I e'er did trust ! What am I now? Amidst this hollow court. Where vice, and infamy, and foul debauch. With riot wild, and bold effrontery, reign ; These eyes, aweary with the sight of crime, Turned to thy guileless soul to find repose ; Then could I bear my fate, my abject fate. My tears, the pride that swelled my bursting heart. The witty sneers that sharpened on my woes — Yes, all the pangs of sorrow and of shame I could endure, but not thy wrongs, my child! Aye, hide thy face and weep ; at thy young age Some part of anguish may escape in tears ; Pour what thou can'st into a father's heart.
(Abstractedly.)
238 DRAMAS [act hi.
But now, enough. The matter once despatched, We leave this city, — aye, if I escape !
[^Turning with redoubled rage to the King's chamber. Francis the First! May God, who hears my prayer. Dig in thy path a bloody sepulchre, And hurl thee down, unshrived, and gorged with sin !
Blanche (aside). Grant it not, Heaven ! for I love him still.
De Pienne {speaking outside). De Montchenu, guard hence to the Bastile Monsieur St. Vallier, now your prisoner.
Enter St. Valuer, Montchenu, and Soldiers.
St. Vallier. Since neither Heaven doth strike, nor pitying man Hath answered to my curse on this proud King, Steeped to the lip in crime, — why, then 'tis sure The monarch prospers, and my curse is vain.
Triboulet (turning round, and confronting him). Old man, 'tis false ! There's one shall strike for thee !
END OF THE THIRD ACT.
ACT FOURTH: BLANCHE
Scene 1. — The scene represents the Place de la Greve, near la Tournelle, an ancient gate of the City of Paris. On the right is a miserable hovel, which purports, by a rude sign, to be house of entertainment, or auberge of the lowest description. The front of the house is towards the spectators, and is so arranged, that the inside is easily seen. The lower room is wretchedly furnished. There is a table, a large chimney, and a narrow staircase lead- ing to a sort of loft or garret above, containing a truckle bed, easily seen through the window. The side of the building to the left of the actor has a door which opens inwards. The wall is dilapidated, and so full of chinks and apertures, that what is passing in the house may be witnessed by an observer outside. The remainder of the stage represents the Greve. On the left is an old ruined wall and parapet, at the foot of which runs the river Seine. In the distance beyond the river is seen the old City of Paris.
Teiboulet — Blanche outside — Saltabadil inside the
house.
l^During the whole of this scene, Triboulet has the ap- pearance of one anxious and fearful of surprise. Saltabadil sits in the Auberge, near the table, engaged in cleaning his belt, and not hearing what is passing without.
Triboulet. Thou lov'st him still?
239
240 DRAMAS [act iv.
Blanche. For ever !
Triboulet.
Yet I gave Full time to cure thee of this senseless dream.
Blanche.
Indeed, I love him.
Triboulet. Ah, 'tis woman's heart ! But, Blanche, explain thy reasons — why dost love.?
Blanche. I know not.
Triboulet. 'Tis most strange ! — incredible !
Blanche. Not so ! — It may be 'tis for that I love — Say 'that a man doth risk his life for ours, Or husband bring us riches, rank and fame. Do women therefore love ? — In truth, I know. All he hath brought me are but wrongs and shame, And yet I love him, tho' I know not why. Whate'er is linked with him ne'er quits my mind. 'Tis madness, father! Can'st thou pardon still? Though he hath wronged, and thou art ever kind. For him I'd die as surely as for thee.
Triboulet. I do forgive thee.
Blanche. Then he loves me too. •
Insensate ! — No !
Triboulet.
Blanche. He pledged his faith to me,
sc. I.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 241
And with a solemn oath confirmed his vows, Such loving things ! — with such resistless grace He speaks, no woman's heart his truth can doubt. His words, his looks, so eloquent, so kind, 'Tis a true King, a handsome, and a brave!
Triboulet. 'Tis a cold, perjured, and relentless fiend! Yet 'scapes he not my vengeance.
Blanche.
Dearest father, You once forgave him.
Triboulet.
Till the snare was spread For his dark villainy, I dared not strike.
Blanche. •
'Tis now a month — (I tremble as I speak) — You seemed to love the King.
Triboulet.
'Twas but pretence ; Thou shalt have vengeance I
Blanche.
Father, spare your child!
Triboulet. Thy senseless passion might be turned to hate, If he deceived thee.
Blanche.
He ! I'll ne'er believe it 1
Triboulet, What if those eyes, that plead his cause with tears, Beheld his perfidy — would'st love him still ? 16
242 DRAMAS [act iv.
Blanche. I cannot tell. He loves me ! nay, adores. 'Twas but last night
Triboulet [interrupting her, sneeringly).
What time.?
Blanche.
About this hour. Triboulet. Then witness here, and, if thou can'st, forgive !
\^He draws her to the house, and directs her gaze through one of the apertures in the wall, where all that passes within may he seen.
Blanche. Nought but a man I see.
Triboulet. Look now ! [The King, dressed, as an Officer, appears fro^n a, door wliich communicates with an apartment within.
Blanche (starting).
Oh, father! [During the following scene, Blanche remains, fixed as a statue, against the fissure in the zvall, observing what is passing within, inattentive to all else, and only agitated from time to time with a convulsive shudder.
Scene 2. — Blanche — Triboulet outside — Saltaba- DiL — The King — Maguelonne inside.
The King {striking Saltabadil familiarly on the shoulder'). Two things at once — your sister and a glass !
Triboulet (aside). The morals of a King by grace divine; Who risks his life in low debaucheries,
sc. II.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 243
And doth j^rcfcr the wine that damns his sense, If proffered by some tavern Hebe's hand !
The King (sings). " Changeful woman, constant never,
He's a fool who trusts her ever,
For her love the wind doth blow.
Like a feather, to and fro." ^ [Saltabadil goes sullenly to the next room, returning with a bottle and glass, which he places on the table. He then strikes twice on the floor with the handle of his long sword, and at this signal a young girl, dressed in the Gipsy dress, bounds quickly down the stair. As she enters, the King tries to seize her in his arms, but she slips away. Saltabadil recommences cleaning his belt.
The King (to Saltabadil). My friend, thy buckle would be brighter far Cleaned in the open air.
Saltabadli (sullenly).
I understand. [^He rises, salutes the King awkwardly, opens the door and comes out. He sees Triboulet, and comes cautiously towards him. Blanche sees nothing but the young Gipsy girl, who is dancing round the King.
Saltabadil (in a low voice to Triboulet). Shall he die now.?
Triboulet.
Not yet ! — return anon. [Triboulet makes signs to him to retire. Saltabadil disappears behind the parapet wall. Meantime the King endeavours to caress the young Gipsy.
1 The reader's attention is requested to these verses. They are made the means of producing, in the Fifth Act, a most startling dra- matic effect.
244 DRAMAS [act iv.
Maguelonne {slippi/ng away). No, No!
The King. Thou ofFerest too much defence. A truce! Come hither! (The girl draws nearer).
'Tis a week ago, At Triancourt's Hotel, (Ah, let me see, Who took me there? — I think 'twas Triboulet,) There first I gazed upon that beauteous face. 'Tis just a week, my goddess, that I love thee, And thee alone.
Maguelonne.
And twenty more besides; To me, a most accomplished rake you seem.
The King. Well, well ! I own some hearts have ached for me. True, I'm a monster !
Maguelonne.
Coxcomb !
The King.
'Tis most true ! But, tempter, 'twas j^our beauty lured me here. With most adventurous patience to endure A dinner of the vilest ; — and such wine ! Your brother's hang-dog looks have soured it: An ugly wretch ! How dares he shew his face So near those witching eyes and lips of bliss ! It matters not. I stir not hence to-night.
Maguelonne (aside). He courts the snare! {to the King, who tries to embrace her).
Excuse me !
The King.
Why resist?
sc. II.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 245
Maguelonne. Be wise!
The King. Wh}^ this is wisdom, Maguelonne, Eat, driiik, and love; I hold exactly there With old King Solomon.
Maguelonne (laughing).
Ha ! ha ! I think Thou lov'st the tavern better than the church.
The King {stretching out his arms to catch her). Dear Maguelonne !
Maguelonne {runs round behind the table). To-morrow !
The King {seizing the table with both hands).
Say again That odious word, thy fence I'll overthrow ; The lip of beauty ne'er should say to-morrow.
Maguelonne {comes suddenly round and sits by the
King). Well, let's be friends !
The King {taking her hand). Ah, what a hand is thine ! So soft, so taper ! — 'twere a Christian's part, Without pretence to over sanctity, To court thy blow, and turn his cheek for more.
Maguelonne {pleased). You mock me.
The King. Never !
Maguelonne.
But I am not fair.
246 DRAMAS [act, iv.
The King. Unkind to me, and to thyself unjust! Queen of inexorables, know'st thou not How tyrant love doth rule the soldier's heart? " And if bright beauty doth our suit approve. Though 'twere 'midst Russia's snows, we blaze with love."
Maguelonne {bursting into a fit of laughter). I'm sure you've read that somewhere in a book.
The King {aside). Quite possible! {Aloud.) Come, kiss me!
Maguelonne.
Sir, you're drunk!
The King. With love!
Maguelonne.
I know you do but jest with me. And couch your wit against a silly girl.
[^The King succeeds in giving her a kiss, and tries a second time, which she refuses. Enough !
The King. I'll marry thee.
Maguelonne {laughing).
You pledge your word. l^The King clasps her round the waist, and whispers in her ear. Blanche, unable to bear the scene any longer, turns round, and totters towards her father.
Triboulet {after contemplating her for some time vn
silence ) . What think'st thou now of vengeance, ni}' poor child?
Blanche. Betrayed ! ungrateful ! — Oh, my heart will break !
sc. II.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 247
He hath no soul, no pity, kindness — none ! Even to that girl, who loves him not, he says The same fond words that once he said to me.
l^Hides her head in her father*s bosom. And oh, that shameless creature!
Triboulet.
Hush! no more! Enough of tears, leave now revenge to me !
Blanche. Do as thou wilt.
Triboulet. I thank thee.
Blanche.
Yet, alas! Father, I tremble when I read thy looks. What would'st thou do?
Triboulet.
I pray thee, ask me not! All is prepared ! — Now to our house, my child ; There quick disguise thee as a cavalier, iMount a swift steed, and store thy purse with gold ; — Hie thcc to Evreux, stop not on the road. And by to-morrow's eve I'll join thee there. Beneath thy mother's portrait stands a chest — Thou know'st it well — the dress lies ready there. The horse stands saddled. Do as I have said, But come not here again ; for here shall pass A deed most terrible. Go now, dear Blanche!
Blanche. You'll surely come with me.?
Triboulet.
Impossible !
218 DRAMAS [act iv.
Bl4nche (aside). My heart feels sick and faint.
Triboulet,
Now, fare thee well! Remember, Blanche, do all as I have said !
l^Exit Blanche. [During this scene, the King and IMaguelgnne con- tinue laughing, and talking in a low voice. As soon as Blanche is gone, Triboulet goes to the parapet and makes a sign for Saltabadil who ap- pears from behind the wall. Night draws on; the stage becomes darker.
Scene 3. — Triboulet — Saltabadil outside: — The King ■ — Maguelonne ( inside the house ) .
Triboulet (counting out the gold to Saltabadil). You ask for twenty, — here are ten in hand. Art sure he stays the night?
[^He stops in the act of giving him the money.
Saltabadil (goes to examine the appearance of the
night).
The storm comes on. In one short hour, the tempest and the rain Shall aid my sister to detain him here.
Triboulet. At midnight I return.
Saltabadil.
No need of that. Thank Heaven, I've strength enough, unhelped, to throTf A corpse into the Seine.
Triboulet,
That triumph's mine. These hands alone shall do it.
sc. IV.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 249
Saltabadil.
As for that, Even as you please ; 'tis no affair of mine. I balk no fancies. In a sack concealed, Your man shall be delivered you to-night.
Triboulet (gives him the gold). 'Tis well ! — At midnight, and the rest are thine.
Saltabadil. It shall be done ! How call you this gallant ?
Triboulet. Would'st know his name ? — Then hear mine own as well. For mine is chastisement, and his is crime!
\_Exit Triboulet.
Scene 4. — Saltabadil — The King — Maguelonne.
[Saltabadil, alone outside, examines the appearance of the sky, which is becoming gradually more overcast. It is almost night. The lightning -flashes, and thunder is heard in the distance.
Saltabadil. The storm o'erhangs the city, — aye, that's well. This place will soon be lonely as the grave. 'Tis a strange business this, and, by my head ! I cannot fathom it. These people seem Possessed with something that I can't divine.
l^He examines the sky again. During this time the King is laughing with Maguelonne. He en- deavours to embrace her.
Maguelonne (repulsing him). My brother's coming !
The King.
Sweetest one, what then?
250 DRAMAS [act iv.
Saltabadil enters, closing the door after him. A loud
peal of thunder.
Maguelonne. Hark, how it thunders !
Saltabadil.
Listen to the rain.
The King. Well, let it rain ! 'tis our good pleasvu'e here To stop this night, [^Slapping Saltabadil on the shoulder.
Maguelonne (laughing at him).
'Tis our good pleasure ! Well ! This is a King indeed ! Your family May he alarmed.
[Saltabadil makes signs to her not to prevent him.
The King.
Nor wife nor child have I. I care for none.
Saltabadil {aside).
There's Providence in that. [The rain falls heavily. The night becomes quite dark.
The King. Thou, fellow, may'st go sleep, e'en where thou wilt.
Saltabadil {bowing). Most happy.
Maguelonne {in an earnest whisper, while lighting the
lamp ) . Get thee hence !
The King {laughs and speaks aloud).
In such a night ! I'd scarcely turn a poet out of doors.
sc. IV.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 251
SxVLTABADiL {tts'idc to Maguelonxk, sJiowiug the gold). Let him remain. I've ten good crowns of gold — As much more when 'tis done !
(To the King) Most proud am I To offer my poor chamber for the night.
The King. Bcshrew me now, 'tis some infernal den, Where summer bakes one, and December's snows Freeze every vein.
Saltabadil. I'll show it, with your leave.
The King. Lead on !
[Saltabadil talces the lamp; the King goes to Mague- LONNE, and whispers something in her ear. Then both mount the narrow staircase, Saltabadil, pre- ceding the King.
Maguelonne {she looks out at the window).
Ah, poor young man ! How dark without.
\^The King and Saltabadil are seen through the win- dow of the room above.
Saltabadil (to the King). Here is a bed, a table, and a chair!
The King {measuring them). Three, six, nine feet in all. Thy furniture Hath surely fouglit at Marignan, my friend, 'Tis chopped, and cut, and hacked so wondrous small.
[^He examines the window, in which there is no glass- How healthy 'tis to sleep i' the open air: No glass — no curtains ! sure the gentle breeze Was ne'er more courteously received than here. Good night, good fellow !
252 DRAMAS [act iv.
Saltabadil (descending the stairs). Heaven preserve you, sir!
The King. In truth, I'm weary, and would sleep awhile, —
[^He places his hat and sword on the chair, takes off his boots, and throws hi7nself on the bed. 'Tis a sweet girl ! — that Maguelonne, so gay, So fresh, so young. I trust the door's unbarred.
[^He gets up and tries the lock. Ah, 'tis all right !
[^Throws himself again on the bed, and is soon fast
asleep. [Maguelonne and Saltabadil are sitting down be- low. The tempest rages. Thunder, lightning, and rain incessant. Maguelonne sits with some needle-work. Saltabadil, with a nonchalant air, is emptying the bottle of wine the King has left. Both seem lost in thought.
Maguelonne {after a pause of some duration).
Methinks this Cavalier Most prepossessing!
Saltabadil.
Faith, I think so, too — He fills my purse with twenty crowns of gold !
Maguelonne. How many.''
Twenty.
Saltabadil.
Maguelonne.
Oh, he's worth much more !
Saltabadil. Go up, pert doll ! and if his sleep be sound, Bring down his sword !
[Maguelonne obeys. The storm rages violently. At this moment Blanche enters from the back of the
f^c. v.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 253
stage, dressed as a man, in a black riding habit, boots and spurs. — She advances slowly to the crev- ice in the wall. Meanwhile Saltabadil, continues to drink; and Maguelonne, with a lamp in her hand, bends over the sleeping King.
Maguelonne.
He sleeps. Alas ! poor youth. \^She brings down his sword to Saltabadil.
Scene 5. — The King asleep in the upper room. Saltaba- dil and Maguelonne in the room below. Blanche outside.
Blanche (walking slowly in the dark, guided by the flashes
of lightning. Thunder incessant). A deed most terrible ! ! Is reason fled ? There's something more than nature buoys me up : — Even in this dreadful house he stops to-night! Oh, pardon, Father, pardon my return — My disobedience ! I could bear no more The agony of doubt that racked my soul — I, who have lived, till now, unknowing all The tears and sorrows of this cruel world Midst peace and flowers ! — now am hurled at once From happy innocence to guilt and shame ! Love tramples on the ruined edifice Of virtue's temple, that his torch has seared! His fire's extinct — the ashes but remain : — He loves me not ! Was that the thunder's voice ? It wakes me from my thoughts ! Oh, fearful night ! Despair has nerved my heart — my woman's heart That once feared shadoAvs 1
l^She see the light in the upper window. Ah, vAmt is't they do? How my heart throbs! They would not slay him, sure?
[^Noise of thunder and rain.
254 DRAMAS [act iv.
Saltabadil {within Heaven growls above as though 'twere married strife — One curses, — t' other drowns the earth with tears.
Blanche. Oh, if my father knew his child were here!
Maguelonne (within).
Brother !
Blanche (startled). Who spoke?
Maguelonne (louder).
Why, brother?
Saltabadil.
Well, what now?
Maguelonne. Thou canst not read my thoughts?
Saltabadil. Maguelonne.
Saltabadil. The fiend confound thee !
Not I!
But guess!
Maguelonne.
Come ! this fine young man So tall ! so handsome ! — who lies wrapped in sleep As thoughtless and as trusting as a child ! — We'll spare his life!
Blanche.
Oh, heaven!
Saltabadil.
Take thou this sack. And sew these broken seams.
sc. v.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 255
Maguelonne.
What would you do?
Saltabadil. E'en place therein thy handsome, tall gallant, When my keen blade hath dealt with him above, And sink his carcase, garnished with yon stone, Deep in the river's bed.
Maguelonne.
But —
Urge me no more.
Saltabadil.
Silence, girl!
Maguelonne. Yet —
Saltabadil.
Wilt thou hold thy peace.'' Wert thou consulted, no one would be slain. On with thy work.
Blanche. What dreadful pair are these ! Is it on hell I gaze.''
Maguelonne.
Well, I obey: But you must hear me.
Saltabadil.
Umph!
Maguelonne.
You do not hate This gentleman.
Saltabadil.
Not I. I love the man That bears a sword. 'Tis by the sword I live.
256 DRAMAS [act iv.
Maguelonne. Whj stab a handsome youth, to please, forsooth, An ugly hunchback, crooked as an S !
Saltabadil. Hark ye awhile, the simple case I'll state. A hunchback gives, to slay a handsome man — I care not whom, — ten golden crowns in hand, And ten besides, whene'er the deed is done. Of course — he dies !
Maguelonne.
Why not the old man slay When he returns to pay thee o'er the gold? 'Twere all the same.
Blanche.
IVIy father !
Saltabadil {with indignation).
Hark ye now : — I'll hear no more of. this. Am I a thief, — A bandit, cut-throat, cheat? Would'st have me rob The client who employs and pays my sword?
Maguelonne. Couldst thou not place this log within the sack? The night's so dark, the cheat he could not tell.
Saltabadil. Ha ! ha ! Thy trick would scarce deceive the blind. There's something in the clammy touch of death That baffles imitation.
Maguelonne.
Spare his life!
Saltabadil. I say — he dies !
sc. v.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 257
Maguelonne.
I'll scare him from his sleep : — Save and protect him hence.
Blanche.
Good, generous girl !
Saltabadil. JNly twenty crowns !
Maguelonne. »Tis true!
Saltabadil. He must not live.
Hear reason, then;
Maguelonne.
I say he shall not die ! [She places herself in a determined attitude at the foot of the stairs; Saltabadil, fearing to wake the King, stops in his purpose, apparently thinking how to compromise the affair,
Saltabadil, Hear me : — At midnight comes my patron back ; If any stranger chance to pass this way. And claim our shelter, ere the bell shall toll, I'll strike him dead, — and offer, in exchange. His mangled body for thy puppet yonder. So that the corse he throws into the Seine,
j He cannot guess the change. But this is aU
' That I can do for thee.
Maguelonne.
Gramercy, brother, — In the fiend's name, who'er can pass this way.?
Saltabadil.
Nought else can save his life! 17
258 DRAMAS [act iv.
Maguelonne.
At such an hour !
Blanche. Oh God ! thou temptest me ! Thou bid'st me die To save a perjured hf e ! Oh, spare me yet! I am too young. Urge me not thus, my heart !
[^Thunder rolls. Oh, agony ! Should I go call the guard ? No, all is silence ! darkness reigns around : — Besides, these demons would denounce my father ; Dear father, I should live to thank thy love, — To cherish and support thy failing years. Only sixteen ! — 'tis hard to die so young ; — To feel the keen, sharp dagger at my heart !
Ah me ! how cold the plashing rain comes down ! i
My brain seems fire — but my limbs are ice !
[^A clock in the distance strikes one quarter.
Saltabadil. 'Tis time! [^The clock strikes two more quarters.
Three-quarters past eleven now ! Hear'st thou no footsteps? Ere the midnight hour, It must be done. [He puts his foot on the first stair.
Maguelonne (bursts into tears).
Oh, brother, wait awhile !
Blanche. This woman weeps, yet / refuse to save. He loves me not! Have I not prayed for death? That death would save him, but my heart recoils.
Saltabadil (attempting to pass Maguelonne). I'll wait no longer.
Blanche. If he'd strike me dead With one sharp sudden blow! not gash my face,
sc. v.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 259
Or mangle me. How chilling falls the rain ! Oh, it is horrible to die so cold.
[Saltabadil, agdin attempts to pass Maguelonke.
Blanche graduullij drags herself round to the
door, and gives a feeble knock.
Maguelonne. A knock.
Saltabadil. 'Tis but the wind.
Maguelonne (Blanche knocks again).
Again ! — a knock ! \^She runs to the window, opens it, and looks out.
Saltabadil [aside). 'Tis passing strange !
Maguelonne.
Who's there.''
(Aside to Saltabadil.) A traveller!
Blanche {faintly). A night's repose !
Saltabadil {aside).
A sound eternal sleep !
Maguelonne {aside). Aye, a long night indeed !
Blanche.
Haste ! haste ! — I faint !
Saltabadil. Give me the knife!
Maguelonne. Poor wretch ! his hand hath struck Upon the portal of his tomb !
(Aside to Saltabadil.) Be quick!
DR^\3IAS
AC
IT.
Bdind tiK door, m strike lur
3i-iv;5Lz).
in!
I dare nd! Ma^tz^: v^rn (haif draggi&f '- :- w).
\^Ai ike pmsses ike fkraAeid, Sj. i r i .^n. striia.
IThe Carimm fdBs.
ACT FIFTH: TRIBOULET
Scene 1. — The Stage represents the same scene as the Fourth Act; hut the house of Saltabadil is completely closed. There is no light within. All is darkness.
[Triboulet comes slowly from the back of the stage, enveloped in his mantle. The storm has somewhat diminished in violence. The rain has ceased; but there are occasional flashes of lightning, and dis- tant thunder is heard.
Triboulet. Now is the triumph mine ! The blow is struck That pays a hngering month of agony. 'Midst sneers and ribald jests, the poor Buffoon Shed tears of blood beneath his mask of smiles.
[^Examines the door of the house. 1'his is the door — oh vengeance exquisite ! — Thro' which the corse of him I hate shall pass ; The hour has not yet tolled ; yet am I here To gaze upon thy tomb! Mysterious night. [Thunder.
In heaven a tempest ; murder upon earth ! Now am I great indeed. My just revenge Joins with the wrath of God. I've slain the King!! And such a king ! — upon whose breath depends The thrones of twenty monarchs ; and whose voice Declares to trembling millions, peace or war ! He wields the destinies of half mankind, And falling thus, the world shall sink with him. 'Tis I that strike this mighty Atlas down!
261
262 DRAMAS [act v.
Through me, all Europe shall his loss bewail. Affrighted earth, e'en from its utmost bounds, Shall shriek! Thy arm hath done this, Triboulet. Triumph, Buffoon ! — exult thee in thy pride ; A fool's revenge the globe itself doth shake !
l^The storm continues. A distant clock strikes twelve. The hour!! \^He runs to the door, and knocks loudly.
Voice {from within). Who knocks?
Triboulet.
'Tis I! admit me! haste!
Voice (within). All's well ; but enter not !
[^The lower half of the door is opened, and Saltabadil crawls out, dragging after him an oblong-shaped mass, scarcely distinguishable m the darkness of the night.
Scene 2. — Triboulet — Saltabadil. Saltabadil.
How dull a load. Lend me your aid awhile ; within this sack Your man lies dead!
Triboulet.
I'll look upon his face. Bring me a torch !
Saltabadil.
By all the saints, not I.
Triboulet. What, canst thou stab, yet fear to look on death?
sc. III.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 263
Saltabadil. The guard I fear ! — the archers of the night ; You'll have no light from nie. My task is done. The gold !
[Triboulet gives it to him, then turns to gaze on the
dead body.
Triboulet. 'Tis there! {Aside) — so hatred hath its joys!
Saltabadil. Shall not I help you to the river's side.?
Triboulet. Alone I'll do it.
Saltabadil.
Lighter 'twere for both.
Triboulet. 'Tis a sweet load; to me 'tis light indeed!
Saltabadil. Well, as you will ; but cast it not from hence.
^Pointing to another part of the wall. The stream runs deepest there. Be quick. Good-night.
\^He re-enters the house, closing the door after him.
Scene 3. — Triboulet alone, his eyes fixed on the body.
Triboulet. There lies he ! dead ! Would I could see him now.
\_He examines the sack. It matters not, 'tis he ! — his spurs peep forth. Yes ! yes ! 'tis he !
\^He rises up and places his foot on the body. Now, giddy world, look on ! Here see the Jester ! There, the King of Kings,
264 DRAMAS [act v.
Monarch o'er all, unrivalled, Lord supreme! Beneath my feet I spurn him as he lies. The Seine his sepulchre, this sack his shroud. Who hath done this ? 'Tis I — and I alone, Stupendous victory ! When morning dawns The slavish throng will scarce believe the tale, But future ages, nations yet unborn Shall own, and shudder at, the mighty deed. What, Francis of Valois, thou soul of fire, Great Charles's greater rival. King of France, And God of battles ! at whose conquering step The very battlements have quaked for fear! Hero of jMarignan, whose arm o'erthrew Legions of soldiers, scattered like the dust Before the impetuous wind ! whose actions beamed Like stars o'ershining all the universe, Art thou no more? — unshrived, unwept, unknown, Struck down at once 1 In all thy power and pride. From all thy pomps, thy vanities, thy lusts. Dragged off and hidden like a babe malformed; Dissolved, extinguished, melted into air; Appeared and vanished like the lightning's flash. Perhaps to-morrow, — haggard ! trembling I pale ! And prodigal of gold — thro' every street Criers shall shout, to wond'ring passers by, Francis the First — Francis the First is lost ! 'Tis strange!
(After a short sUence.) But thou, my poor long-suffering child, Thou hast thy vengeance. What a thirst was mine That craved for blood ! Gold gave the draught ! 'Tis quench'd I [He bends over the body in a fit of ungovernable rage. Perfidious monster I Oh, that thou couldst hear ! My child, more precious than a monarch's crown, My child, who never injured aught that breathed, You foully robbed me of, and gave her back
sc. III.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 265
Disgraced and shamed ; but now the triumph's mine. With well dissembled art I lured thee on, And bade thy caution sleep, as if the woe That breaks a father's heart could e'er forgive ! 'Twas a hard strife, the weak against the strong: The weak hath conquered ! He who kissed thy foot Hath gnawed thy heartstrings. Dost thou hear me now, Thou King of Gentlemen ! The wretched slave, The Fool, Buffoon, scarce worth the name of man — He whom thou called'st dog — now gives the blow !
[He strikes the dead hody. 'Tis vengeance speaks, and at its voice the soul, How base soe'er, bursts from its thralling sleep. The vilest are ennobled, changed, transformed: Then from its scabbard, like a glittering sword. The poor oppressed one, draws his hatred forth, The stealthy cat's a tiger, and the Fool Becomes the executioner of kings. Would he could feel how bitterly I hate ! But 'tis enough. Go seek thou in the Seine Some loyal current that against the stream May bear thy mangled corse to Saint Denis. Accursed Francis !
\^He takes the sack hy one end, and drags it to the edge of the wall; as he is about to place it on the parapet Maguelonne comes out, looks round anxiously, and returns with the King, to whom she makes signs that he may now escape unseen.
At the moment that Triboulet is about to throw the body into the Seine, the King leaves the stage in the opposite direction, singing carelessly, —
The King. ** Changeful woman! — constant never! He's a fool who trusts her ever! "
266 DRAMAS [act v.
Triboulet {dropping the body on the stage).
Hah! what voice was that? Some spectre of the night is mocking me !
[^He turns round, and listens in a state of great agita- tion. The voice of the King is again heard in the distance.
The King.
" For her love the wind doth blow Like a feather to and fro."
Triboulet. Now, by the curse of Hell ! This is not he ! Some one hath saved him ! — robbed me of my prey ! — Betrayed ! betrayed !
l^Runs to the house, but only the upper window is open.
Assassins ! — 'Tis too high ! What hapless victim has supplied his place — What guiltless life? — I shudder! (Feels the body.)
'Tis a corpse But, who hath perished? 'Tis in vain to seek From this abode of hell — a torch to break The pitchy darkness of this fearful night! I'll wait the lightning's glare !
\^He waits some moments, his eyes fixed on the half- opened sack, from which he has partly drawn forth the body of Blanche.
Scene 4. — Triboulet — Blanche.
A flash of lightning! Triboulet starts up with a frenzied
scream.
Triboulet.
Oh, God! My child! Hah, what is this ? My hands are wet with blood —
sc. IV.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 267
My daughter ! Oh, my brain ! — Some hideous dream Hath seized my senses ! 'Tis impossible ! But now she left me ! Heaven be kind to me ! 'Tis but a maddening vision — 'tis not she !
[^Another flash of lightning. It is my child — my daughter ! Dearest Blanche ! These fiends have murdered thee ! Oh, speak, my child ! Speak to thy father! Is there none to help? Speak to me, Blanche! My child! My child! Oh, God!
[^He sinks down exhausted.
Blanche. (Half-dying, but rallying at the cries of her father — In a faint voice — ) Who calls on me?
Triboulet (m an ecstasy of joy).
She speaks ! She grasps my hand ! Her heart beats yet ! All-gracious Heaven, she lives !
Blanche. [^She raises herself to a sitting position. Her coat has been taken off, her shirt is covered with blood, her hair hangs loose; the rest of her body is concealed. Where am I?
Triboulet,
Dearest, sole delight on earth, Hear'st thou my voice? Thou know'st me now?
Blanche.
My father !
Triboulet, Who hath done this? What dreadful mystery! I dare not touch, lest I should pain thee, Blanche. I cannot see, but gently guide my hand. Where art thou hurt?
268 DRAMAS [act v.
Blanche {gasping for breath).
The knife — has reached — my heart. I felt — it pierce me.
Triboulet.
Who has struck the blow.'*
Blanche. The fault's mine own, for I deceived thee, father! I loved too well ! And 'tis for him — I die.
Triboulet. Oh, retribution dire ! — the dark revenge I plotted for another falls on me ! But how.? — what hand? — Blanche, if thou can'st, explain!
Blanche. Oh, ask me not to speak !
Triboulet (covering her with kisses).
Forgive me, Blanche ! And jet to lose thee thus !
Blanche.
I cannot breathe ! Turn me this way ! — Some air I
Triboulet.
Blanche ! Blanche ! my child ! Oh, do not die! (Turns round in despair.)
Help, help! Will no one come.'* Will no one help my child? The ferry bell Hangs close against the wall. An instant now I'll leave thee, but to call assistance here, And bring thee water.
[Blanche makes signs that it is useless. Yet I must have aid. (Shouts for help.) What, ho ! — Oh, live to bless your father's heart ! My child, my treasure, all that I possess
sc. IV.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 269
Is thee, my Blanche ! — I cannot part with thee ! Oh, do not die !
Blanche (in the agony of death).
Help, father ! — Raise me up ! Give me some air !
Triboulet.
My arm hath pressed on thee. I am too rough. I think 'tis better now. Thou hast more ease, dear Blanche ! — For mercy's sake, Try but to breathe till some one pass this way To bring thee succour. — Help ! Oh, help my child !
Blanche {with difficulty). Forgive him, father !
[^She dies. Her head falls hack on his shoulder.
Triboulet (m an agony).
Blanche ! — She's dying ; — Help ! [^He runs to the ferry -bell, and rings it furiously. Watch ! murder ! help ! [He returns to Blanche.
Oh, speak to me again. One word — one, only one. In mercy speak !
[^Essaying to lift her up. Why wilt thou lie so heavily, my child .? Only sixteen ! ■ — so young ! Thou art not dead. Thou would'st not leave me thus. Shall thy sweet roice Ne'er bless thy father more ? Oh, God of Heaven ! Why should this he? How cruel 'twas to give So sweet a blessing. Yet forbear to take Her soul away ere all its worth I knew. Why didst thou let me count my treasure o'er.? Would'st thou had died an infant! aye, before Thy mother's arms had clasped thee ! or that day (When quite a child) thy playmates wounded thee, I could have borne the loss. But, oh, not now, My child ! my child !
[^ number of people, alarmed by the ringing of the hell,
270 DRAMAS [act v.
now come in, being present during the latter part of the foregoing speech.
A Woman.
His sorrow wrings my heart!
Triboulet. So je are come at last ! — indeed, 'twas time !
[^Turning to a waggoner, and seizing him by the arm. Hast thou a horse, my friend ? — a loaded wain ?
Waggoner. I have — (^aside) How fierce his grasp!
Triboulet.
Then take my head, And crush it 'neath thy wheels ! — my Blanche ! my child !
Another Man. This is some murder! Grief has turned his brain: Better to part them. [They drag Triboulet away.
Triboulet.
Never ! — here I'll stay. I love to look upon her, though she's dead. I never wronged ye — why then treat me thus? I know ye not. Good people, pity me! {To the Woman.) Madam, you weep — you're kind. In mercy beg They drag me not from hence.
l^The Woman intercedes ; they let him come bach to the body of Blanche. He runs wildly to it, and faUs on his knees.
Upon thy knees — Upon thy knees, thou wretch, and die with her!
The Woman. Be calm — be comforted. If thus you rave You must be parted!
Triboulet {wild with grief).
No! no! no!
sc. IV.] THE KING'S DIVERSION 271
[^Seizes her in his arms, and suddenly stops in his grief — his senses are evidently/ wandering.
I think She breathes again. She wants a father's care! Go some one to the town, and seek for aid: I'll hold her in my arms. — I'm quiet now.
[He takes her in his arms and holds her as a mother
would an infant. No ! she's not dead, God will not have it so, He knows that she is all I lov'd on earth. The poor deformed one was despised by all, Avoided, hated. None were kind to him But she! she loved me, my delight, my joy: When others spurned, she loved and wept with me. So beautiful, yet dead ! Your kerchief, pray. To smoothe her forehead. See, her lip's still red. Oh, had you seen her, as I see her still, But two years old: her pretty hair was then As fair as gold! [Presses her to his heart,
Alas ! most foully wronged, My Blanche, my happiness, my darling child! When but an infant, oft I've held her thus: She slept upon my bosom just as now — And when she woke, her laughing eyes met mine. And smiled upon me with an angel's smile. She never thought me hideous, vile, deformed. Poor girl! she loved her father. Now she sleeps! Indeed, I know not what I feared before — She'll soon awaken! Wait awhile, I pray. You'll see her eyes will open ! Friends ! you hear I reason calmly. I'm quite tranquil now; I'll do whate'er you will, and injure none, So that you let me look upon my child.
[He gazes upon her face. How smooth her brow, no early sorrows there Have marked the fair entablature of youth. (^Starting.) Ha! I have warmed her little hand in mine.
272
DRAMAS
ACT V.
(To the people.) Feel how the pulse return
{Enter a Surgeon.)
The Woma2j {to Teiboulet).
The surgeon's here.
Teiboulet. Look, Sir, examine, I'll oppose in nought. She has but fainted, is't not so?
Surgeon {after feeling her pulse, says coldly).
She's dead! [Triboulet starts up convulsively, the Surgeon goes on examining the zvound. The wound's in her left side. 'Tis very deep. Blood must have flowed upon the lungs. She died By suffocation.
TaiBOULET {with a scream of agony).
I have slain my child! [^He falls senseless on the ground,
Frederick L. Slous.
I
RUY BLAS:
A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.
(1838.) TRANSLATED BY MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND.
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
Three sorts of spectators compose what we are accustomed to call the play-going public. Firstly, women ; secondly, think- ers ; and thirdly, the general crowd. That which the last- named chiefly requires in a dramatic work is action ; what most attracts women is passion ; but what the thoughtful seek above all else is the portrayal of human nature. If one studies attentively these three classes of spectators this may be remarked; the crowd is so delighted with incident, that often it cares little for characters and passions.^ Women, whom action likewise interests, are so absorbed in the develop- ment of emotion, that they little heed the representation of characters. As for the thoughtful, they so much desire to see characters, that is to say living men, on the scene, that though they willingly accept passion as a natural element in a dramatic work, they are almost troubled by the incidents. Thus what the mass desires on the stage is sensational action ; what the women seek is emotion ; and what the thoughtful crave is food for meditation. All demand pleasure, — the first, the pleasure of the eyes ; the second, the gratification of the feelings; the last, mental enjoyment. Thus on our scene are three distinct sorts of work ; the one common and inferior, the two others illustrious and superior, but all sup- plying a want : melodrama for the crowd ; tragedy which analyses passion for the women ; and for the thinkers, comedy that paints human nature.
1 That is to say, style. For if action can in many cases express itself by action alone, passions and characters, with few exceptions, are expressed by speech. Now the words of the drama — words fixed and not fluctuating — form style.
Let the personage speak as he should speak, sibi constet, says Horace. All is in that.
275
276 AUTHOR'S PREFACE
Let us say, in passing, that we do not lay down an infalli- ble law, and we entreat the reader to make for himself the restrictions which our opinions may contain. Rules always admit of exceptions ; we know well that the crowd is a great body, in which all qualities are to be found, — the Instinct for the beautiful and the taste for mediocrity, love of the ideal and liking for the matter-of-fact. We know also that every great intellect ought to be feminine on the tender side of the heart; and we are aware that, thanks to that mysterious law which attracts the sexes to each other, as well mentally as bodily, very often a woman is a thinker. This under- stood, and after again beseeching the reader not to attach too rigid a meaning to our statement, there only remains for us to proceed.
To every man who considers seriously the three sorts of spectators we have just indicated it will be evident that all are to be justified. The women are right in wishing to have their hearts touched ; the thinkers are right in desiring to be taught ; and the crowd is not wrong in wishing to be amused. From these established facts the laws of the drama are de- duced. In truth, that fiery barrier called the footlights separates the world of reality from that ideal world where the dramatist's art is to create, and make live in conditions combined of art and nature, characters, that is to say, and we repeat it, men ; into these men and these characters to fling the passions which develop some and modify others ; and at last, in the conflict of these characters and these pas- sions with the great laws of Providence to show human life, that is to say events, great and small, pathetic, comic, and terrible, which prove for the heart what we call interest, and for the mind what may be considered the truths of moral philosophy ; such is the aim of the drama. One sees that the drama is tragedy by its illustration of the passions, and comedy by its portrayal of characters. The mixed drama is the third great form of the art, comprising, encircling, and making fruitful the two others. Corneille and Moliere would remain independent of each other if Shakespeare were not
AUTHOR'S PREFACE 277
between them, giving to Corneille his left hand, and to Mo- liere his right. In this manner the two opposite electric forces of comedy and tragedy meet, and the spark struck out is the drama.
In explaining, as he understands them, and as he has al- ready often stated, the laws and the end of the drama, the author is not ignorant of the limitation of his own powers. He defines now — and let it be so understood — not what he has done, but what he has endeavoured to do. He shows what his aim was. Nothing more.
We can but write a few hues at the beginning of this book ; we have not space for necessary details. Let us then be permitted to pass on, without dwelling otherwise on the tran- sition from the general ideas which we have just indicated, and which in our opinion, the conditions of the ideal being main- tained, rule the entire art, to some of the special reflections which this drama, Ruy Bias, will suggest to the attentive mind.
And first, to take only one side of the question, from the point of view of the philosophy of history, what is the spirit of his drama? Let us explain. At the moment when a monarchy is about to fall several phenomena may be observed. First, the nobility has a tendency to break up, and in dissolv- ing divides after this fashion : —
The kingdom totters, the dynasty destroys itself, law de- cays ; political unity crumbles away by the action of intrigue ; the best born of society are corrupt and degenerate ; a mortal enfeeblement is felt on all sides without and within; great purposes of the state fall low, and only little ones stand forth — a mournful public spectacle ; more police, more soldiers, more taxes ; every one divines the end has come. Hence among all there is a weariness of expectancy and fear of the future, distrust of all men, and general discouragement, with profound discontent. As the malady of the State is in the head, the nobility, who are the nearest, are the first attacked. What becomes of them then? One party, the least worthy and the least generous, remains at court. All will soon be
278 AUTHOR'S PREFACE
engulfed, there is no time to be lost, men must hasten to en- rich and aggrandise themselves and profit by circumstances- Each thinks only of himself. Without pity for the country each man acquires a little private fortune in some depart- ment of the public evil. He is courtier and minister, and hastens to be prosperous and powerful. He is clever and unscrupulous, and he succeeds. Offices of the state, honours, places, money, they take all, and covet all, and pillage every- where; they live only for ambition and cupidity. They hide the evils which human infirmity may engender, under a grave exterior. And as this debased life, given up to the excite- ments of the vanities and pleasures of pride, has for its first condition oblivion of all proper sentiments, a man is made ferocious by leading it. When the day of misfortune ar- rives some monstrous quality is developed in the fallen court- ier, and the man becomes a fiend.
The desperate state of the kingdom drives the other half of the nobility, the best and best born, into another mode of living. They retire to their palaces, their estates and country houses. They have a horror of public affairs, they can do nothing, the end of the world is at hand, what use is it to lament? They must divert themselves, and shut their eyes, live, drink, love, and be merry. Who knows.'' Have they not yet perhaps a year before them? This said, or even simply thought, the gentleman takes the thing in earn- est, multiplies his establishment tenfold, buys horses, en- riches women, orders fetes, pays for orgies, flings away, gives, sells, buys, mortgages, forfeits, devours, gives him- self up to money lenders, and sets fire at the four corners to all he has. One fine morning a misfortune happens to him. It is that, though the monarchy goes down hill at great speed, he himself is ruined before it. All is finished, all is burnt. Of this fine blazing life there remains not even the smoke that has passed away ; some ashes, nothing more. Forgotten and deserted by all except his creditors, the poor gentleman then becomes what he may, — a little of the adventurer, a little of the swash-buckler, a little of the
AUTHOR'S PREFACE 279
Bohemian. He sinks and disappears in the crowd, that great, dull, black mass, which until this day he has scarcely noticed, from afar off, under his feet. He plunges therein and takes refuge there. He has no more gold, but there remains to him the sun, that wealth of those who have noth- ing. At first he dwelt in the highest society ; see, now that he herds with the lowest, and accommodates himself to it, he laughs at his ambitious relative who is rich and powerful ; he becomes a philosopher, and compares thieves to courtiers. For the rest he is good natured, brave, loyal and intelligent; a mixture of poet, prince and scamp ; laughing at every- thing; making his comrades to-day thrash the watch, as for- merly he bade his servants, but not doing it himself; com- bining in his manner, with some grace, the assurance of a marquis with the effrontery of a gipsy ; soiled outside, but wholesome within; and having nothing Jeft of the gentle- man but his honour which he guards, his name which he hides, and his sword which he shows.
If the double picture we have just drawn is a faithful representation of the state of all monarchies at a given mo- ment, it is especially and in a striking manner true of that of Spain at the close of the seventeenth century. Thus, if the author has succeeded in executing this part of his plan, which he is far from assuming, in the drama before the reader, the first half of the Spanish nobility of that period is depicted in Don Salluste, and the second half in Don Cffisar ; the two being cousins, as is seemly.
Here, as throughout, let it be well understood that in sketching our outline of the Castilian nobles towards 1695 we would wish to reserve rare and revered exceptions. Let us continue.
Always in examining tliis monarchy and this epoch, below the nobility thus divided — and which up to a certain point may be personified in the two men just named — one sees trembling in the shade something great, gloomy, and un- recognized. It is the people. The people for whom is the future but not the present; the people orphans, poor, Intel-
280 AUTHOR'S PREFACE
ligent and strong, placed very low, and aspiring very high; bearing on their backs the marks of servitude, and in their hearts the premonitions of genius ; the people serfs of the great lords, in their abject misery, in love with the only form which in this decaying society represents for them in divine radiance authority, charity, and fertility. The peo- ple should be represented in the character of Ruy Bias.
Now above these three men, who thus considered should make move and be apparent to the spectator three facts, and in these facts all the Spanish monarchy of the seventeenth century, — above these men, we say, is a pure and luminous creature, a woman, a queen. Unhappy as wife, because she is as if she had not a husband ; unhappy as queen, be- cause she lives as if without a king; inclining towards those beneath her by royal pity, and also perhaps by womanly instinct, looking downwards, while Ruy Bias — personifica- tion of the people — looks up.
In the author's opinion, and without wishing to slight what the accessory characters may contribute to the truth- fulness of the entire work, those four personages, so grouped, comprise the leading principles which present themselves to the philosophical historian of the Spanish Monarchy as it was a hundred and forty years ago.^ To those four person- ages we might add a fifth, namely, Charles the Second. But in history, as in the drama, Charles the Second of Spain is not a figure, but a shadow.
Now let us hasten to say that what has just been stated is not an explanation of Ruy Bias. It is only one of the aspects. It is the impression which, if the drama be worth studying seriously and conscientiously, would be produced on the mind from the point of view of the philosophy of history.
But, small as it may be, this drama, like everything in the world, has many aspects, and it can be looked at in many other ways. One can take many views of an idea, as of a
1 Written in 1838.
AUTHOR'S PREFACE 281
mountain. It depends on our position. Let pass, for the sake of making ourselves clear, a comparison that is infi- nitely too presumptuous. Mont Blanc seen from the Croix- de-Flecheres does not resemble Mont Blanc seen from Sal- lenches. It is, however, always Mont Blanc.
In the same manner, to descend from a very great thing to a very little one, this drama, of which we have just indicated the historical meaning, presents quite another aspect if we look at it from a still more elevated point of view, that is to say the purely human. Then Don Salluste would be the personifi- cation of absolute egotism, anxiety without rest ; Don Caesar, his opposite in all respects, would be regarded as the type of generosity and thoughtless carelessness ; and Ruy Bias would exprc-.s the spirit and passion of the community, and spring- ing forth the higher in proportion to the violence of their compression; the queen would exemplify virtue undermined by wearying monotony.
Simply from the literary point of view the aspect of this design, such as it is, entitled Ruy Bias, would again change. Tl>e three governing forms of the art would appear there personified and summed up. Don Salluste would be the mixed drama ; Don Cassar, comedy ; and Ruy Bias, tragedy. The drama provides action, comedy confuses it, and tragedy de- cides it.
All these aspects are just and true, but not one of them is complete. Absolute truth is only to be found in the entire work. If each finds therein what he seeks, the poet, who does not flatter himself about the remainder, will have at- tained his end. The philosophical motive of Ruy Bias is a people aspiring to a higher state; the human subject is a man who loves a woman ; the dramatic interest is a lackey who loves a queen. The crowd who flock every night to wit- ness this work, because in France public attention never fails to be directed to mental efforts, whatever they may be be- sides, the crowd, we say, see only in Ruy Bias the last, the dramatic subject, the lackey; and they are right.
And what we have just said of Ruy Bias seems to us appli-
282 AUTHOR'S PREFACE
cable to every other production. The old renowned works of the masters are even more remarkable in that they offer more facets to study than others. Tartuffe makes some laugh, and others tremble. Tartuffe is the domestic serpent — the hypocrite; or rather, hypocrisy. He is sometimes a man, and sometimes an idea. Othello is for some but a black man who loves a fair woman; for others he is an up- start who has married a patrician; for some he is a jealous man; for others the personification of jealousy. And this diversity of opinion takes nothing from the fundamental unity of the composition. We have said so elsewhere ; there are a thousand branches and one trunk.
If in this work the author has particularly Insisted on the historical significance of Ruy Bias, it is that in his opinion, by its historical meaning — and it is true by that alone — Ruy Bias is allied to Hernani. The grand fact of the con- dition of the nobles is shown in Hernani, as in Ruy Bias, by the side of existing royalty. Only in Hernani, as an abso- lute monarchy was not yet established, the nobility still struggled with the king, here by haughtiness, there by the sword, in a mixture of feudalism and rebellion. In 1519 the great lord lived far from court, in the mountains as bandit Hke Hernani, or in patriarchal state like Ruy Gomez. Two centuries later the position is changed. The vassals have become courtiers, and if from circumstances the noble has still occasion to conceal his name, it is not to escape from the king, but to elude his creditors. He does not become a bandit, he turns Bohemian. One feels that royal des- potism has passed during these long years over the noble heads, bending some and crushing others.
And, if we may be permitted this last word between Her- nani and Ruy Bias, two centuries of Spanish life are framed ; two great centuries, during which the descendants of Charles the Fifth were permitted to rule the world ; two centuries of a state which Providence — and it is a remarkable thing — would not prolong another hour, for Charles the Fifth ^ was 1 Charles the Fifth of Germany and First of Spain.
AUTHOR'S PREFACE 283
born In 1500, and Charles the Second died in 1700, In 1700 Louis the Fourteenth inherited from Charles the Fifth, as in 1800 Napoleon inlierited from Louis the Fourteenth. These great dynastic apparitions, which from time to time illuminate history, are for the author a beautiful and pa- thetic spectacle to which the eyes often turn. He tries at times to transfer something of their interest to his works. Thus he has striven to show Hernani in the bright light of an aurora, and to cover Ruy Bias with the gloom of twilight. In Hernani the sun of the House of Austria was rising ; in Ruy Bias it was setting.
Paris, November 9,5th, 1838.
V
J
PERSONAGES OF THE DRAMA
RuY Blas.
Don Salluste de Bazan.
Don CiESAE de Bazan.
Don Guritan.
The Count de Camporeal.
The Marquis de Santa-Cruz.
The Marquis del Basto.
The Count d'Albe.
The Marquis de Priego.
Don Manuel Arias.
Montazgo.
Don Antonio Ubilla.
Covadenga.
GUDIEL.
A Lackey. An Alcaid. An Usher. An Alguazil. A Page.
Dona Maria de Neubourg, Queen of Spain. The Duchess d'Albuquerque. Casilda. A Duenna.
Ladies, Lords, Privy Councillors, Pages, Duennas, Alguazils, Guards,
and Gentlemen Ushers.
Madrid, 169 — .
285
• RUY BLAS
ACT FIRST: DON SALLUSTE
[The Hall of Danae in the King's Palace at Madrid. Mag- nificent furniture in the half-Flemish Style of Philip IV. At the left, a large window with small squares of glass set in gilt frames. On each side a low door leading to some interior apartments. At the hack, a large glass partition with gilt frames opens hy a glass door on a long corridor. This corridor, which stretches all along the stage, is concealed hy wide curtains that fall from top to hottom of the glass partition. A tahle with writing materials, and an easy chair.
Don Salluste enters hy the little door at the left, followed hy RuY Blas, and hy Gudiel, who carries a cash-hox and other packages as if in preparation for a journey. Don Salluste is dressed in hlack velvet, in the fashion of the Court of Charles II., and wears the Golden Fleece. Over his hlack dress he has a rich mantle of light vel- vet embroidered with gold and lined with hlack satin. A sword with a large hilt. A hat with white feathers. Gudiel is in hlack and wears a sword. Ruy Blas is in livery — leggings and undercoat brown; overcoat turned up with red and gold. Bareheaded and without a sword.
Scene 1. — Don Salluste de Bazan, Gudiel; Ruy Blas at intervals.
Don Salluste. That window open, Ruy Bias — and shut The door.
287
288 DRAMAS [act i.
[RuY Blas obeys, and then, at a sign from Don Sal- LUSTE goes out hy the door at the bach- Don Salluste walks to the window.
All here still sleep. 'Tis nearly dawn. {He turns suddenly towards Gudiel.)
It Is a thunderbolt ! Ah, yes, my reign
Is over, Gudiel ! Exiled and disgraced,
All lost in but a day. At present, though,
The thing is secret — speak not of it, pray.
Yes, only for a little love affair,
• — At my age senseless folly I admit —
And with a nobody — a serving maid
Seduced — ill luck ! because she was about
The Queen, who brought the girl from Neubourg here.
This creature wept, complained of me, and dragg'd
Into the royal chambers her young brat;
Then I was ordered to espouse the girl,
And I refused. They banished me. Me — me
They exiled ! After twenty years of work
So difficult, engaging day and night,
Years of ambition. I, the President,
Abhorr'd by all the Court Alcaids, who named
Me but with dread. Chief of the house Bazan
That is so proud ; my credit, power, and all
I did, and had, and dreamed, honours and place
One moment sweeps away, amid the roars
Of laughter of the crowd.
Gudiel.
None know it yet, My Lord.
Don Salluste. Ah, but to-morrow ! 'Twill be known To-morrow ! We shall then be on our way. I will not fall. No, no, I'll disappear.
{He hastens to unbutton his doublet.)
sc. I.] RUY BLAS 289
You always fasten me as if I were
A priest. You strain my doublet; and oh, now
1 stifle.
(He sits down.) Ah, with th' air of innocence I'll dig a deep, dark mine! Chased — chased away!
{He rises.)
GUDIEL.
Whence came the blow, my Lord?
Don Salluste.
'Twas from the Queen. Oh, Gudiel, I will be revenged. Thou know'st, Thou understandest me — whom thou hast taught And aided well for twenty years in things Long past. Thou know'st where turn my darkened
thoughts. As a skill'd architect can at a glance Measure the depth of wells that he has sunk. I will set out for my Castilian lands, Estates of Finlas there to brood and plan. All for a girl! Thou must — for time is short — Arrange for our departure. First I'd speak A word at any risk unto the scamp Thou know'st. It may be that he proves of use. I know not. But till night I'm master here. I will have vengeance • — how I cannot tell ; But I will make it terrible. Go now, At once get ready — hasten — silent be ! You shall go with me — hasten.
[Gudiel, bows and exit. Don Salluste calls,
Ruy Bias !
RuY Blas (appearing at the door at the back). Excellency ?
Don Salluste. Within the Palace walls 19
290
DRAMAS
[act I.
I sleep no more ; thus shutters should be closed, The keys be left.
RuY Blas.
My Lord, it shall be done.
Don Salluste. Listen, I beg. In two hours will the Queen, In coming back from mass unto her room Of state, pass through the corridor ; you must Be there.
RuY Blas. I will, my Lord.
Don Salluste (at the window).
See you that man I' the square — a paper to the guard he shows And passes? Sign to him without a word That he may enter by the back stair way.
[RuY Blas obeys. Don Salluste continues, point- ing to the little door on the right. Before you go look in the guard room there — See if three Alguazils on duty are As yet awake.
RuY Blas {He goes to the door, half opens it and comes back). My Lord, they sleep.
Don Salluste.
Speak low. I shall be wanting you, so go not far Away. Keep watch that we be not disturbed.
\^Enter Don C^sar de Bazan. Hat staved in. A ragged cloak, which conceals all his dress except stockings that hang loose, and shoes that are split open. Sword of a brawler. As he enters, he and Ruy Blas glance at each other from opposite sides with gestures of surprise.
sc. II.] RUY BLAS 291
Don Salluste (observing them, aside). Looks were exchanged ! Can they each other know !
l^Exit Ruy Blas.
Scene 2. — Don Salluste — Don C^sae.
Don Salluste. So, bandit, you are here!
Don C^sar.
Yes, cousin, yes. Benold me.
Don Salluste. Great the pleasure 'tis to see A beggar!
Don C^sar (bowing). I delighted am.
Don Salluste.
Your doings, sir.
Don CiESAR (graciously). Which you approve.?
Don Salluste.
We know
Oh yes.
They're mighty meritorious. Don Charles
De Mira but the other night was robb'd.
They took from him his sword with scabbard chased,
And shoulder belt. As 'twas near Easter Eve,
And he a knight of bless'd St. James, the band
Let him retain his cloak.
Don C^sar.
Just heaven, why?
292 DRAMAS [act I.
Don Salluste. Because upon it was embroidered plain The order. Well, what say you to all this?
Don C^sar. The devil ! I but say we live in times Most dreadful. Oh, what will become of us If thieves pay court to good St. James, and count Him of themselves.''
Don Salluste.
You were with them.
Don C^sae.
Well, yes; If I must speak, I was. But your Don Charles I did not touch. I only gave advice.
Don Salluste. Worse still. Last night, just when the moon had set, A crowd of low riff-raff, — all sorts of men. Shoeless and ragged, rushed out from their dens Pell-mell unto the Mayor Square, and then Attacked the guard. There you were.
Don C-fiSAB.
Cousin, yes, 'Tis true. But always I disdain to fight The mere thief -catchers. There I was — that's all ; For during all the row, I walked apart Beneath th' Arcade, verse making. Ah, they knock'd Each other about finely.
Don Salluste.
That's not all.
Don C^^ar. WeU, what is it?
sc. II.] RUY BLAS 293
Don Salluste. 'Mong other things, in France They say that you, with rebels Hke yourself, Did force the lock of the strong money box Of the Excise.
Don Cj;sar. Oh, I deny it not, France is the country of an enemy.
Don Salluste. Again, in Flanders, meeting with Don Paul Barthelemy, who then had just received The product of a vineyard he was charged To carry to Mons' noble Chapter, you Laid hands upon it, though the gold belonged E'en to the clergy.
Don CiESAE. In Flanders, was it? It might be so, for I have travelled much. And is that all?
Don Salluste.
The sweat of shame, Don Cassar, To my forehead mounts whene'er I think of you.
Don C^sar. Well, let it mount.
Don Salluste. Our family
Don C^sar.
No, stay; For only unto you in all Madrid My real name is known. So do not speak Of family.
Don Salluste. Only the other day,
294 DRAMAS [act
A marchioness, when leaving Church, spoke thus: Who is that brigand there below, who struts With nose turned up, and eyes upon the watch, Squaring himself with arms a-kimbo set? More tatter'd far than Job, and prouder he Than a Braganza — covering his rags With arrogance — handling his big sword-hilt Beneath his sleeve, that's all in slits, the while The blade about his heels hangs as he steps With masterful air, his cloak in dented gaps Resembling saws, his stockings all awry.
Don C^sar (glancing at his own attire). And then, of course, you promptly answered her. It is dear Zafari!
Don Salluste.
No Sir, I blush'd.
Don C-s;sar. Ah, well, the lady had her laugh. I like To make a woman laugh.
Don Salluste.
Your comrades are Swashbucklers infamous.
Don C^sar.
Mere learners they — Scholars — each one as gentle as a sheep.
Don Salluste. You everjrwhere are seen with women vile.
Don C^sar* Oh Love's bright radiance ! Oh sweet Isabels ! What fine things now one hears of you ! A shame It is to treat you thus — beauties with sly And laughing eyes, to whom I tell at night The sonnets I have made at morn.
sc. II.] RUY BLAS 295
Don Salluste.
In short.
The friend you are of Matalobos, that Galician tliief who desolates Madrid, Defying our police.
Don C^sae. If you will deign I beg you let us reason. Without him
Bare-backed I should have been — that would have looked Tjnseemly. Seeing me without a coat, Though it was winter time, he felt for me. — That amber-perfumed fop, the Count of Albe, Was robbed but lately of his doublet fine, His silken one
Don Salluste. Well.?
Don CiESAR.
I it is who have it, Matalobos gave it me.
Don Salluste.
The Count's pelisse! And you are not ashamed.?
Don C^sae.
I'm n'er ashamed Of wearing a good coat, 'broidered, galloon'd. That keeps me warm in winter — makes me smart In summer time. Look, here it is, quite new.
\^He half opens his cloak, and shows a superb doublet of rose-colored sat'vn embroidered m gold. By scores, love-letters written to the Count Are cramm'd i' the pockets. Oft, when poor, love-sick, With nought to eat, a steaming vent hole I Discover, from the which comes up the smell
296 DRAMAS [act i.
Of cooking, cheating then bj turns my heart And stomach, I can sit me down to read The Count's sweet letters, revelHng there ahke I' the scent of feasting, and a dream of love.
Don Salluste. Don Caesar
Don C^sab. Cousin, now a truce, I beg. Unto reproaches. A grandee I am, And of your kindred. Caesar is my name, The Count Garofa, but upon my birth 'Twas folly crown'd me. Lands and palaces I had, and well I paid the Celimenes.
Pshaw ! Scarcely twenty years I knew before ,
The whole had vanished, only there remained {
Of my good fortune — true or false — a pack ;i
Of creditors to howl about my heels. /
Good faith! I took to flight and changed my name, ■
Now am I but a boon companion found, }
Zafari, whom none know by other name •,
Save you. No money, Master, give you me; I do without. At night, with head upon
The stones, before the ancient palace walls 'i
Of Teve, there these nine years past I've stopp'd. I slumber with the blue sky overhead, |
And happy thus. 'Tis a fine fortune, mine! The world believes me to the Indies gone, Or to the devil — dead. The fountain near Supplies my drink, and afterwards I walk With air of glory. My own palace, whence My money flew, Is tenanted to-day By the Pope's Nuncio, Espinola. Well When I by chance am there, I give advice Unto the Nuncio's workmen — occupied
sc. II.] RUY BLAS 297
In sculpturing a Bacchus o'er the door. — But will you lend me just ten crowns?
Don Salluste.
Hear me
Don C^sar (crossing his arms). Now, what is't you would say?
Don Salluste.
I sent for you
Tnat I might serve you. I, childless and rich,
And much the elder, see you, C«esar, now
With sorrow and regret to ruin dragged,
And fain would save you. Bully that you are,
You are unfortunate. I'll pay your debts.
Restore your palace — place you at the Court,
And make of you again a lady-killer.
Let then Zafari be extinguished now.
And Csesar newly born. I wish that you
Henceforth should, at your will, my fortune use
Fearless, and taking with both hands, nor care
For future needs. When we have relatives
We must support them, and be pitiful.
l^While Don Salluste is speaking Don Cesar's coun- tenance takes more and more the expression of astonishment, joyous and hopeful. At last he bursts out.
Don C^sar. You always had a devil's wit, and what You've said just now 's most eloquently put. Go on.
Don Salluste. Yes, Caesar, I v,ill do all this On one condition. I'll explain it all A moment hence. First take my purse.
298 DRAMAS [act i.
Don CiESAR {weighing the purse, which is full of gold).
This is Magnificent !
Don Salluste. And I intend for you Five hundred ducats.
Don C^sar {bewildered). Marquis !
Don Salluste.
From to-day.
Don C-esar. By Jove, I'm yours to order. Now then tell Conditions • — name them. On a brave man's faith My sword is at your service to command. Your slave I am, and, if you wish it so, I'll cross blades with the Don Spavento, who A captain is that comes from hell.
Don Salluste.
No, not Your sword can I accept, for reasons good.
Don C^sar. What then.? Right little else have I.
Don Salluste (drawing nearer and lowering his voice) o
You know, And in this case 'tis lucky, all the rogues About Madrid.
Don C^sar. You do me honour.
Don Salluste.
You Can always In your train bring all the pack; You could raise up a tumult if need be. I know it. All this may be useful now.
sc. II.] RUY BLAS 299
Don CiESAR. Upon my word it seems you would invent An opera. What part am I to take? Shall I compose the verse, or symphony? Command, I for a frolic row am good.
Don Salluste {gravely). 'Tis to Don Cassar that I speak, and not Zafari {lowering his voice more and more). List! 'Tis for a
stern result I need that some one should in secret work And aid me with his skill to bring about A great event. Not mischievous am I, But times there are when without any shame One the most delicate turns up his sleeves And sets to work. Thou shalt be rich, but thou Must help me silently to spread a net As in the night bird-catchers do. A web That's strong, but hid by shining glass, a snare Such as is set for lark or girl. The plan, It must be terrible and wonderful. I think you are not very scrupulous. — Avenge me.
Don CiESAR. You avenge !
Don Salluste.
Yes, me.
Don CiESAR.
On whom? Don Salluste. A woman.
Don C^sar {drawing himself up and looking haughtily at
Don Salluste). Halt! and say no more of this To me. Now, Cousin, on my soul I'll speak
300 DRAMAS [act i.
My mind to you. He who can claim the right
A sword to bear, and yet by stealthy means
Takes vengeance basely — on a woman too, —
Who, born patrician, acts the bailiff's part,
Were he grandee of Old Castile, and did
A hundred clarions follow him, and sound
Their din, were he with orders harness'd, were
He Marquis, Viscount, of the lineal heir
Of blameless, noble sire — for me he'd be
Only a scoundrel of the deepest dye.
Whom for such villainy I'd gladly see
Upon the gallows, hanging by four nails. '
Don Salluste. Caesar !
Don CiESAR. Add not a word, outrageous 'tis. [He throws the purse at the feet of Don Salluste. There — keep your secret and your money too. Ah, I can comprehend a theft, a stroke That's murderous, or in darkness of the night The forcing of prison doors — hatchet in hand And with a hundred desperate buccaneers. With howl and thrust, to slaughter jailers there, Claiming, we bandits, for an eye an eye. And tooth for tooth — men against men. That's well. But stealthily a woman to destroy. And dig a trap beneath her feet — perchance Abuse her, for who knows what chance may be ? — To take this poor bird in some hideous snare — Oh, rather than accomplish such dishonour, And be at such a price, my noble Lord, So rich and great — I say before my God, Who sees my soul, much sooner would I choose — Than reach such odious infamy — that dogs Should gnaw my bones beneath the pillory.
sc. II.] RUY BLAS 301
Don Salluste.
Cousin
Don C^sae. Your benefits I shall not need. So long as I shall find in my free life Fountains of water — in tlie fields fresh air, And in the town a thief who me provides With winter raiment; in my soul shall be Forgetfulness of past prosperity, When, Sir, before your palace's great doors. At noon I lay me down, my head in shade And feet in sunshine, without thought for what May be on waking. So adieu; — 'tis God Can judge between us. Now, Don Salluste, you I leave with people of the Court, who are Of your own sort ; I with the scamps will stay. I herd with wolves, but not with serpents.
Don Salluste.
An instant
Don C^sar. Now, my master, cease. Let us Cut short this visit; if 'twas meant to trap And send me off to prison — do it quick.
Don Salluste. I thought you, Cresar, much more hardened. Ah, My trial of you has succeeded well. I now am satisfied. Your hand, I pray.
Don C^sar. How — what?
Don Salluste. 'Twas but in jest I spoke to you. All that I said just now was but a test, And nothing more.
Hold
^02 DRAMAS [act i.
Don CiESAR. You've set me dreaming, though, About a woman, vengeance, and a plot
Don Salluste. A trap — imagination, that was all.
Don C-esab. Ah, well and good ! — But how about my debts ? Is paying them imagination, too? And the five hundred ducats promised me?
Don Salluste. I'm going now to fetch them.
\^He goes towards the door at the hack, and makes a sign to RuY Blas to come in.
Don CiESAR [aside, at the front, and looking across to Don Salluste).
Hum ! The face A traitor's is. And when the mouth says yes. The look implies, perhaps.
Don Salluste (to Ruy Blas).
Ruy Bias, stay here. (to Don CiESAR.) I'm coming back.
\^Exit hy little door at left. As soon as he is gone, Don C^sar and Ruy Blas approach each other eagerly.
Scene 3. — Don Caesar — Ruy Blas.
Don C^sar. No, I was not deceived; Upon my faith, 'tis thou, Ruy Bias !
Ruy Blas.
'Tis thou,
1
3C. III.] RUY BLAS 303
Zafari ! But how comest thou within The palace?
Don CiESAE. Oh, by chance. But soon I take Myself away. I am a bird, and like Free space. But thou.^^ this livery.'' is it worn For a disguise?
Am otherwise.
RuY Blas (bitterly). No, I'm disguised when I
Don C^sar. What is it that you say?
RuY Blas.
Give me thy hand to press again, as in
The happy time of joy and wretchedness.
When without home I lived, hungry by day
And cold at night, when I at least was free!
Then when thou knew'st me, I was still a man;
Born of the people both of us — alas !
It was life's morn ! — So much alike we were
That many thought us brothers, and from dawn
Of day we caroll'd — and at night we slept
Before our God, our Father and our Host,
Beneath starr'd heaven sleeping side by side.
Yes, we shared all things — but at last there came
The day — the mournful hour when we were forced
To go our different ways, but now unchanged,
After four years I find thee still the same;
As joyous as a child, and free as are
The gipsy folk. Always Zafari, rich
Though poor, who never had, and never aught
Desired ! But as for me, what change ! What can
I say, my brother? Orphan boy, brought up
From charity at College ! nursed in pride
And science, it but proved a mournful boon.
304 DRAMAS [act. i.
Instead of skilful workman I was made
A dreamer. Thou hast known me well. My thoughts
And aspirations lifted I to heav'n
In strophes wild. Against thy railing laugh
I brought a hundred answers. Knowing then
That strange ambition fired my soul, what need
Had I to work? But towards an end unseen
I moved ; I thought dreams true and possible,
And hoped all things from fate. — And since I am
Of those who pass long, idle days in thought
Before some palace gorged with wealth — and watch
The Duchesses go in and out — one day.
When torn by hunger in the street, I picked
Up bread where I could find it ; — brother, 'twas
By ignominious sluggishness. Oh, when
I was but twenty, full of confidence
In my own powers, I barefoot walked, but lost
In meditations on humanity ;
I built up many plans, a mountain made
Of projects. Pitying the ills of Spain
I thought, poor soul, that by the world myself
Was needed. Friend, the issue see — behold,
I am a lackey !
Don CiESAU. Yes, I know full well That want is a low door, Avhich, when we must By stern necessity pass through, doth force The greatest to bend down the most. But fate Has ever ebb and flow. So hope, I say.
RuY Blas [sJiaJcing his head)o My master is the Marquis of Finlas.
Don C^sar.
Don C^sar. I know him. Is it, then, that you reside Within this palace .f^
sc. III.] RUY BLAS 305
RuY Bjlas.
No ! until to-day, Just now, I never have the threshold cross'd.
Don C^sar. Ah, is it so? Your master from his place, His duties, must live here himself?
RuY Blas.
Oh yes. The Court may want him any hour. But he A little secret dwelling has — where perhaps In daylight he has never yet been seen. An unobtrusive house, a hundred steps Beyond the palace ; brother, there I live ; And by the secret door, of which alone He has the key, sometimes at night he comes Followed by men whom he lets in. These men Are masked and speak in whispering tones. They are Shut in together, and none ever knows What passes then. Of two black mutes I am The master and companion. But my name They know not.
Don C^sar. Yes, 'tis there that he receives His spies, as Chief of the Alcaids. 'Tis there He plans his many snares. Subtle is he, And holds all in his hand.
RuY Blas.
'Twas yesterday
He said " you must be at the palace ere
The dawn ; and enter by the golden grill."
I came, and then he made me don this suit,
This odious livery which you see me in.
And which to-day I for the first time wear. 20
ao6 DRAMAS [act i.
Don C^sae. Still hope!
RuY Blas.
I hope ! But you know nothing yet. To breathe 'neath this degrading garb, to lose Tlie joy and pride of life — all this is naught. To be a slave and vile, what matters that! But listen, brother, well. I do not feel This servile dress, for at my heart there dwells A hydra, with the fangs of flame, that binds Me in its fiery folds. If the outside Has shocked you — what would be could you but look Within?
Don C^sae. What can you mean?
RuY Blas.
Invent — suppose — Imagine — search your mind for all strange things Unheard of, mad, and horrible — a fate Bewildering! Yes, compose a deadly draught, And dig a pit more black than crime, more dull Than folly, still my secret thou wilt not Approach. Thou canst not guess it! Ah, who could, Zafari? In the gulf where destiny Has plunged me — plunge thine eyes ! I love the queen !
Don CiESAE. Good heavens!
RuY Blas.
Beneath a splendid canopy, Adorned at top with the Imperial globe There Is In Aranjuez, or may be In the Escurial — or sometimes here — A man that scarce is looked on from below. Or named, except with dread — before whose eyes We all of equal meanness seem, as if
8C. III.] RUY BLAS 307
That he were God. A man that men gaze on
With trembling, serving him on bended knee.
To in his presence stand with cover'd head
Is token of high honour. If he will'd
Our heads should fall, a sign would be enough.
His every whim is an event. He lives
Aione — superb — encased in majesty.
So bulwark'd and profound, its weight is felt
Through half the world. Well, now thou understand'st
That I the lackey — ah, yes even I
Am jealous of that man — yes, of the king !
Don C^sar. You jealous of the king !
RuY Blas.
Undoubtedly, Because I love his wife !
Don C^sab.
Unhappy one!
RuY Blas.
Listen : each day I watch to see her pass,
And like a madman am. And oh, the life
Of this poor thing is one long weariness.
Each night I dream of her. Oh, think what 'tis
For her to live in this dull court of hate,
And base hypocrisies, — married to one
Who in the chase spends all his time ! A king —
A fool — an imbecile ! at thirty years
Already old — and less than man — unfit
Alike to live or reign. And of a race
That's dying off. His father could not hold
A parchment, so debilitated he !
What misery for her, so young and fair.
Thus to be wedded to the second Charles !
Unto the sisters of the Rosary
She goes each eve — thou know'st it — traversing
308 DRAMAS [act
The Ortaleza street, — I cannot tell
How 'twas this madness grew within my heart,
But judge! She loves a little azure flower
Of Germany — I go each day a league
To Caramanchel, where alone I find
It grows. I have sought for it everywhere.
I pluck the finest, and a posy make.
Oh, but I tell you now these foolish things ! —
At midnight like a thief I scale the wall
Around the royal park, and place the flowers
Upon her favourite bench. Even last night
I dared to put a letter 'mid the flowers —
Truly a letter! Brother, pity me!
At night to reach this bank I have to mount
The wall where bristle iron spikes. I know
Some time that I shall leave my flesh thereon.
Now will she find my flowers — my letter too?
I know not — but you see how mad I am.
Don C^sar. It is the devil 1 Now take care — thy game Is dang'rous. There's the Count Oilate, he IovpS Her also, and keeps guard as Chamberlain As well as lover. On some night a trooper Unpitying might despatch you with one blow, Before your flowers were faded nailing them Unto your heart. Oh th' idea, I say. Is quite preposterous — loving thus the queen ! And why.'' It is a devil's scrape you're in.
RuY Blas (with energy). Do I not know it ! I myself ! My soul Is given over, I would sell it might I thus become like one of those young Lords That from this window I behold — who are A live off^cnce, entering with plumed hats And haughty brows. Yes, if I could but break My chain, and could, as they, approach the queen
sc. III.] RUY BLAS 309
In garments not degrading. But — oh ! rage,
To thus appear to her, and unto them!
To be for her a lackey ! pity me,
Oh God! [Approaching Don Cjesar.
But I must recollect myself. Aslc'st thou not when and why I loved her thus? One day — but what's the good of this.? 'Tis true My desperate madness I've made known to thee And all my thousand tortures made you share, In showing you my agony — but ask Not how — or wherefore ! only I love her — Insanely love her, that is all.
Don C^sar.
There now, Don't fret.
RuY Blas (pale and overcome, falling into the arm-chair).
No — no — I suffer — pardon me, Or rather fly from me, my brother. Go, And leave the wretched madman who but knows With horror that beneath the lackey's coat There rage the passions of a king !
Don C^sar {laying his hand on the shoulder of Ruy Blas).
Leave thee ! What, I ! who have not sufFer'd thus because I have not loved. Like a poor bell am I Without a clapper — beggar who e'en begs For love he knows not where. To whom from time To time fate throws some paltry coin. With heart Extinguished — drawn within itself, as from The tatter'd play-bill of the yester night. Seest thou that for this all absorbing love I envy quite as much as pity thee ! Oh, Ruy Bias !
[^ moment of silence, while with clasped hands tliey
look at each other sorrowfully, but with confiding
friendship.
310 DRAJNIAS [act l
Enter Don Salluste. He advances softly, looking at Don C^SAR and Ruy Blas with profound attention, they not perceiving him. In one hand he holds a hat and a sword, which on entering he places on an arm-chair, and in the other a purse which he lays on the table.
Don Salluste (io Don Cesar).
Here is the money. \^At the voice of Don Salluste, Rur Blas, suddenly aroused, starts up, and with eyes looking down, as- sumes an attitude of respect.
Don CiESAR {aside, and looking sideways at Don Salluste),
Ah,
The devil has me ! At the door no doubt
The artful one has listened. After all
What matter — Pshaw! {aloud to Don Salluste).
Don Salluste, thanks. \^He opens the purse — spreads the money on the table, handling the ducats delightedly. Then he ar- ranges them in two piles on the velvet cover. While he is counting them, Don Salluste goes to the back, looking behind him to be sure that Don CiESAR is not observing him. He opens the little door at the right. At a sign from him three Alguazils, armed with swords and dressed in black, appear. Don Salluste points out Don Cesar to them in a mysterious manner. Ruy Blas stands upright and motionless as a statue by the table, neither seeing nor hearing anything.
Don Salluste {in a low tone to the Alguazils).
You see That man who counts the money — follow him When he goes hence, and seize him silently, And without violence. And then embark By shortest way to Denia.
IHe gives them a sealed parchment.
8C. m.] RUY BLAS 311
Here is writ The order by my hand. And afterwards, Without attending to his statements, all Chimerical, you'll sell him on the sea T^ corsairs there will be from Africa, A thousand piastres for you — but be quicko
[^The three Alguazils bow and exeunt,
Don C^sar (finishing the arrangement of his ducats). Surely there's nothing more amusing than To equally divide the crowns that are One's own.
{He makes two equal piles, and turns to Ruy Blas).
Here, brother, is thy share
Ruy Blas.
How — what !
Don CissAR (pointing to one of the heaps of gold). Come — take, be free !
Don Salluste (aside, looking at them from the back).
The devil !
Ruy Blas (shaking his head in sign of refusal).
No — the heart It is that has to be delivered. No, My lot is here. I must remain.
Don C^sar.
Well — well Have thine own way. Art thou the crazy one.? And am I wise? God knows.
[^He gathers the money into the bag and puts it in hid
pocket.
Don Salluste (from the back, watching them).
How near alike They are in mien and face !
312 DRAMAS [act i.
Don C^sar (to Ruy Blas).
Adieu ! IluY Blas.
Thy hand ! [^Thet/ press hands. Exit Don Caesar without noticing Don Salluste, who has kept himself apart.
Scene 4. — Ruy Blas. Don Salluste. Don Salluste.
Ruy Bias!
Ruy Blas (turning quickly).
My lord?
Don Salluste.
I am not confident Whether 'twas fully daylight when you came This morning — tell me.
Ruy Blas.
Excellency, no, Not quite. I gave your pass without a word To the door-keeper, then came up.
Don Salluste.
Wore you A cloak?
Buy Blas.
I did, my Lord.
Don Salluste.
In that case then None in the Castle yet has seen on you This livery?
Ruy Blas.
Nor person of Madria.
sc. IV.] RUY BLAS 313
Don Salluste (pointing to the door by which Don Caesar
had gone out). That's well. Go, close the door. Take off this coat.
[RuY Blas takes off his livery-coat and throws it on a
chair. I think your writing's good. Write now for me.
[He makes a sign to Ruy Blas to seat himself at the table where there are writing materials. Ruy Blas obeys. My secretary you must be to-day, And first a love-letter must write ; you see I nothing hide from you — my queen of love Is Dona Praxedis — a witch that's come, I think, from paradise. There — I'll dictate. " A danger terrible environs me ; My queen alone can stay the tempest's force By coming to my house this night. If not, I'm lost. My life, my heart, my reason now I lay before the feet I kiss."
[He laughs, interrupting himself. Danger, A turn well put to draw her on. I am Expert. Women like much to save just those Who fool them most. Add now, " Come to the door That's at the end of the Avenue — at night You'll not be recognised. And one who is Devoted will be there to ope the door." 'Tis perfect, on my word. — Sign now.
Ruy Blas.
Your name,
My Lord?
Don Salltjste. Not so — sign Caesar. 'Tis the name In such adventures I adopt.
Ruy Blas {after having obeyed).
Unknown
314 DRAMAS [act i.
Will be the writing to the lady?
Don Salluste.
PsTiaw ! The seal will be enough. Oft thus I write. I go away at night-fall, Ruy Bias, And leave you here. I'm planning for you as A friend sincere. Your state shall change, but then You must obey me in all things. In you I've found a servant faithful and discreet.
Ruy Blas (bowing). My Lord!
Don Salluste. » To better your condition here I wish.
Ruy Blas (showing the letter he has just •written). How should the letter be addressed.''
Don Sali-uste. I will attend to that.
^Approaching Ruy Blas in a significant manner.
I wish your good. \_Silence for a few moments. Then he makes a sign for Ruy Blas to seat himself again at the table. Write thus. " I, Ruy Bias, the serving man Of the most noble Lord the Marquis of Finlas, engage to serve him faithfully On all occasions as a servant true In public or in secrecy." (Ruy Blas obeys.)
Now sign Your name. The date. That's well. Give it to me.
\^He folds and puts into his portfolio the letter and the paper which Ruy Blas has just written. Just now they brought me in a sword. — Ah, there It is upon the chair.
\He looks towards the arm-chair on which he had placed
sc. v.] RUV BLAS 315
the sword and hat — goes to it and takes up the sword.
The tie's of silk, Painted and 'broidered in the newest style —
^He makes Ruy Bi-as admire it. Take it. What say you to this foil, Ruy Bias? The hilt is workmanship of Gil the famed Engraver, he who chisels out a box For sweetmeats in a sword's hilt, to amuse The pretty girls.
{^He passes the scarf to which the sword is attached over the shoulders of Ruy Blas.
Now put it on — I want To see the effect on you. I do declare You look a noble every inch. (Listening.)
They come — Ah yes, 't is almost time the queen were here — The Marquis Basto ! —
[^The door at the end of the corridor opens. Don Sal- LUSTE unfastens his cloak and hastily throws it over the shoulders of Ruy Blas, just at the moment when the Marquis del Basto appears; then he goes up to the Marquis, drawing after him Ruy BiiAS in a stupefied state.
Scene 5. — Don Salluste, Ruy Blas, Don Pamfilo d'Avalos, Marquis del Basto, — afterwards the Mar- quis DE Santa-Cruz, then the Count d'Albe and all the Court.
Don Salluste {to the Marquis del Basto).
Let me to your grace Present my cousin — the Don Caesar — Count Of Garofa, near to Velalcazar.
Ruy Blas (aside). Oh heav'ns!
316 DRAMAS [act i.
Don Salluste (aside to Ruy Blas).
Silence !
Marquis del Basto (to Ruy Blas).
Sir, I am charin'd
[^He puts out his hand, xvhich Ruy Blas takes vn a con- fused manner.
Don Salluste {in a whisper to Ruy Blas).
Let be — Salute him, [Ruy Blas hows to the Marquis.
Marquis del Basto {to Ruy Blas).
Ah, I loved your mother much. {Aside to Don Salluste). How changed ! I scarcely would have known him.
Don Salluste {speaking low to the Marquis).
Ah! Ten years away !
Marquis del Basto {in the same manner).
Indeed !
Don Salluste {slapping Ruy Blas on the shoulder).
At last come back ! You recollect the prodigol he was? And how he squander'd the pistoles? Each night A dance or fete — a hundred instruments Of music on Apollo's fish-pond raged. Concerts and masquerades, and wildest pranks Dazzled ]\Iadrid with sudden scenes. Ruin'd In just three years! Truly a lion he. — He came from India in the galleon.
Ruy Blas {confused). My Lord
Don Salluste {gaily).
Oh, call me cousin — such we are.
sc. v.] RUY BLAS 317
We, the Bazans, are an old family,
Our ancestor was Inigucz d'lviza ;
His grandson, Pedro de Bazan, was wed
To Marianne de Gor. Their son was Jean;
Under king Philip he was admiral.
Jean had two sons, who on our ancient tree
Grafted two stocks for blazonry : I am
The Marquis of Finlas, and you the Count
Of Garofa, each equal in degree.
And by the women, Cjesar, 'tis the same.
'Tis Aragon you claim, I Portugal.
Your branch as lofty is as ours. I am
The fruit of one, and of the other you
The offspring are.
RuY Blas (aside).
Where is he dragging me? [^Whilst Don Salluste was speaking, the Marquis de Santa-Ckuz, Don Alvau de Bazan y Benavides, an old man with a white moustache and a thick xvig was approaching them.
Marquis de Santa-Cruz {to Don Salluste). You make it clear. If he your cousin is Mine is he too.
Don Salluste.
True, Marquis — for we come Of the same stock.
[He presents Ruy Blas to the Marquis de Santa-Cruz
Don Caesar.
Marquis de Santa-Cruz.
I opine It is not he whom we thought dead.''
Don Salluste.
It is.
818 DRAMAS [act i.
Marquis de Santa-Ceuz. He has come back then?
Don Salluste.
From the Indies.
Marquis de Santa-Cruz {looking at Ruy Blas).
Ah, Indeed !
Don SallustEo You then remember him?
Marquis de Santa-Cruz.
By Heav'ns, I recollect his birth.
Don Salluste (aside to Ruy Blas).
Half blind he is — The good man will not own it. 'Tis to prove His eyes are good he recognizes you.
Marquis de Santa-Cruz (extending his hand to Ruy Blas), Your hand, my cousin.
Ruy Blas (bowing).
My Lord
Marquis de Santa-Cruz (in a low tone to Don Salluste, and pointing to Ruy Blas).
He could not look I Better. (To Ruy Blas.) Charmed again to see you.
Don Salluste (in a low tone and taking the Marquis
aside).
His debts I mean to pay. I think that you can serve him, In your position, if some place at court Should vacant be — about the king or queen
Marquis de Santa-Cruz (in a low tone)o A charming youth he is ; I will not fail To think of it ; for he a kinsman is.
I
sc. v.] RUY BLAS 319
Don Salluste. At the Castilian council board I know You're powerful, I recommend him to you.
\^He quits the Marquis de Santa-Cruz, and goes to other nobles to xvhom he presents Ruv Blas. ■ Among them is the Count d'Albe very superbly
dressed, Don Salluste introduces Ruy Blas to him. My cousin, Caesar, Count of Garofa, Near to Vclalcazar.
[The nobles gravely exchange bows with Ruy Blas, who is abashed. Don Salluste to the Count de
RiBAGORZA.
You missed last night The Atalanta ballet? Lindamire Did dance divinely.
[He goes into ecstasies at the doublet of the Count
d'Albe.
Count, this is splendid !
Count d'Albe. Ah, I had one was rw-her — rose-coloured Satin with golden braid. Matalobos Stole it.
An Usher of the Court (from the back). The Queen is coming. Gentlemen, Arrange yourselves.
[The large curtains at the glazed side of the corrridor open. The nobles fall into line near the' door. The guards line a passage. Ruy Blas, breathless and beside himself, comes to the front as if to take refuge there. Don Salluste follows him.
Don Salluste (in a low voice to Ruy Blas). Are you not 'shamed that with Expanding fortunes, thus your heart should shrink? Awake. I quit Madrid. My little house
320 DRAMAS [act u
Near to the bridge, where you reside, I leave
For you to use, nothing reserving save
The secret keys. I leave the mutes with you.
Some other orders you will soon receive.
Obey, and I will make your fortune. Rise,
Fear nothing, for the time is opportune.
The Court's a territory where one moves
With little hght. Walk you with bandaged eyes.
I'll see for you, my man !
UsHEE {in a loud voice).
The Queen!
RuY Blas.
Queen ! oh ! [^The Queen appears magnificently attired and sur- rounded hy ladies and pages, and under a canopy of scarlet velvet supported by four gentlemen of the chamber bare headed. Ruy Blas, bewildered, gazes as if absorbed by this resplendent vision. All the Grandees of Spain cover, the Marquis del Basto, the Count d'Albe, the Marquis de Santa- Cruz, Don Salluste. Don Salluste moves rap- idly to the arm-chair, takes from it the hat, which he carries to Ruy Blas and puts on his head.
Don Salluste. What giddiness has seized you? Cover now, Caesar, you are grandee of Spain.
Ruy Blas {absent, low to Don Salluste).
And next, ' My lord, what is 't you order me to do?
Don Salluste {indicating the Queen, who is slowly passing
along the corridor). To please that woman, and her lover be.
ACT SECOND: THE QUEEN OF SPAIN
A Saloon next to the Queen's bedchamber. At the left a lit- tle door opening into that room. At the right, in an * angle of the wall, another door opening to the external apartments. At the back large .open windows. It is the afternoon of a fine day in summer. The face of a saint richly enshrined is against the wall; beneath it is read, " Holy Mary in Slavery." On the opposite side is a Madonna, before which a golden lamp is burning. Near to the Madonna is a full length portrait of Charles the Second.
At the rising of the curtain the Queen Dona Maria op Neubourg is in one corner seated beside one of her la- dies, a young and pretty girl. The Queen is in a white dress of cloth of silver. She is embroidering, but interrupts herself from time to time to chat. In the opposite corner is seated, in a high-backed chair, the Dona Juana de la Cueva, Duchess D'ALBuauERQUE, first lady of the Chamber, with tapestry in her hand, an old woman in black. Near to the Duchess a table where several ladies are engaged in feminine work. At the back stands Don Guritan Count d'Onate, the Chamberlain, a tall, thin man of about fifty-five years of age, with grey moustache, looking the old soldier though dressed with exaggerated elegance, wearing rib- bons down to his shoes.
Scene 1. — The Queen, The Duchess d'Albuquerque, Don Guritan, Casilda, Duennas.
The Queen. He's gone, however! And I ought to be At ease. Ah well, I am not, though ! this mail) 21 821
322 DRAMAS [act ii.
The Marquis of Finlas, weighs on my soul, He hates me so.
Casilda. According to your wish Is he not exiled?
The Queen. That man hates me.
Casilda.
Your majesty
Oh
The Queen.
'Tis true, Casilda. Strange
This man for me is like an angel bad.
One day — 'twas on the morrow he must leave —
He came as usual to kiss hands. The rest,
All the grandees, approach'd the throne in file;
I gave my hand — was sorrowful, and still.
Observing vaguely in the hall's dim light
A battle picture painted on the wall,
When, suddenly it was, my eyes looked down
Near to the table and perceived this man.
So dreaded, was advancing unto me.
Soon as I saw him nothing more I saw.
Slowly he moved, and fingered all the while
His poignard's sheath, so that at times the blade
I saw. Grave was he, yet he dazzled me
With looks of flame. Sudden he bent, and like
A creeping thing and then upon my hand
I felt his serpent-mouth !
Casilda.
He render'd you His homage; — do not we the same?
The Queen.
His lips Were not like other lips. 'Twas the last time
sc. I.] RUY BLAS 323
I saw him. Often since I've thought of him.
'Tis true that I liave other troubles, yet
I tell myself that hell is in that soul.
Only a woman am I to that man.
In dreams of night I meet again this fiend,
And feel his frightful kiss upon my hand ;
I see his eyes shine out with hatred's glare;
And as a deadly poison runs from vein
To vein, so e'en within my freezing heart
I feel the shudder of that icy kiss !
What sayest thou to this?
Casilda. But phantoms !
Madam, they are
The Queen. Ah, indeed — sorrows I know That are more real. (Aside.) Oh, but I must hide That which torments me. {To Casilda.) Those poor
mendicants Who dare not to approach — tell me
Casilda (going to the window).
Madam, I know. They still are in the square.
The Queen.
Here then,
Throw them my purse.
[Casilda takes the purse and throws it from the window.
Casilda.
Oh Madam, you who give Your alms so sweetly,
[^Pointing to Don Guritan who, standing erect and silent at the back of the stage, looks at the Queen with an expression of mute adoration.
Will you nothing throw In pity to the Count Onate — a word.
324 DRAMAS [act ii.
Only a word. A brave old man is he. With love beneath his armour, and a heart More soft than hard the rind !
The Queen.
So tiresome he !
Casilda. I know it. Yet I pray you speak to him.
The Queen {turning towards Don Guritan) Good day unto you. Count.
[Don Guritan, making three bows, approaches the Queen, sighing, to kiss her hand, which with an indifferent and absent manner she allows him to do. Afterxvards he returns to his place beside the chair of the Duchess.
Don Guritan (m retiring to Casilda).
How charming Is The Queen to-day !
Casilda {looking at him retreating).
Oh ! the poor heron ! near The stream that tempts, he stays. After a day Of quiet waiting, he but snatches up A "■ good day " or " good night," often a dry Cold word, and goes away delighted with This little morsel in his beak.
The Queen {with a sorrowful smile).
Be still!
Casilda. He only needs for happiness to see The Queen. To see you means delight for him !
\^Looking with ecstasy at a box on a round table. Oh, what a lovely box !
The Queen.
I have the key.
sc. I.] RUY BLAS 325
Casilda. This box of calambac is exquisite.
The Queen {giving her the Icey). Now open it and see. I've had it fill'd, My dear, with rehcs, and 'tis my intent To send it on to Neubourg — well I know My father will be greatly pleased with it.
[^She muses for a moment. Then suddenly forces her- self out of her reverie. I will not think ! That which is in my mind I wish to drive from it. ( To Casilda. ) Go to my room
And fetch me thence a book. What foolishness!
I don't possess a German book ! they all Are Spanish ! And the king is at the chase ; Always away. What weariness ! Near him. In six months, I have only pass'd twelve days.
Casilda. Who'd wed a king if she must live this way !
[The Queen again falls into reverie — and again rouses herself by a violent effort.
The Queen. I wish to go out now.
[At these words, pronounced imperiously by the Queen, the Duchess d'Albuquerque, who till this mo- ment had remained motionless in her chair, lifts up her head, then rising makes a low curtsey to the Queen.
Duchess d'Albuquerque (in a hard, curt manner).
It needs before The Queen goes out — it is the rule — that all The doors should opened be by some grandee Of Spain who has the right to bear the keys ; Now at this hour not one of them remains Within the palace.
326 DRAMAS [act ii.
The Queen.
Then you shut me up ! Duchess, in short, they wish that I should die !
The Duchess (with another curtsey). I am duenna of the chamber, so I must fulfil my duty {reseats herself).
The Queen {lifting her hands to her head despairingly,
aside ) .
Well, then, now To dream again! But no! {Aloud.) Ladies, be quick! A table — let us play at lansquenet !
The Duchess {to the ladies). Ladies, stir not {rising and curtseying to the Queen). Your
Majesty cannot, According to the ancient law, play cards. Except with kings or with their relatives.
The Queen {with an air of command). Well, then, go bring to me these relatives.
Casilda {looking at the Duchess). Oh this duenna !
The Duchess {making the sign of the Cross). To the King who reigns God has not given. Madam, any kin. The Queen his mother's dead. He's now alone.
The Queen. Let them, then, serve me a collation.
I
Casilda. That were amusing.
Yes,
The Queen.
I invite you now To it, Casilda.
sc. I.] RUY BLAS 327
Casilda (aside, looking at the Duchess). Oh, you proper — prim Old grandmother !
The Duchess (making a reverence).
When absent is the King, The Queen eats quite alone (re-seats herself).
The Queen (her patience at an end).
Oh God ! what is 't That I can do? Not take fresh air, nor play A game, nor even eat at mine own will ! Most truly I've been dying all the year That I've been Queen.
Casilda (aside, looking at her with compassion).
Oh the poor woman ! thus To pass her days in weariness in this Insipid Court ! with no distraction, save To see at border of this sleepy swamp
(looking at Don Guritan) An old, but love-sick Count, that stands upon One leg to dream.
The Queen (to Casilda).
Think now of something; say, What shall we do.?
Casilda. Ah, hold ! The King away, 'Tis you who rule. Just for amusement's sake Summon the Ministers.
The Queen (shrugging her shoulders).
A pleasure that! To see eight gloomy countenances ranged For talk with me concerning France, and its Declining king, of Rome, — they'd also tell About the portrait of the Archduke which They bear about at Burgos, 'mid the show
328 DRAMAS [act ii.
Of cavalcades, beneath a canopy
Of cloth of gold upheld by four Alcaids!
Oh, think of something else !
Casilda.
Well, now, 'twould be Amusing if some youthful equerry I made come up.
The Queen, Casilda !
Casilda.
Oh, I want
So much to look at some young man. Madam, This venerable Count is death to me. I think that through the eyes old age comes on. That we, by always looking at the old, Ourselves age all the sooner.
The Queen.
Foolishness ! There comes a time the heart asserts itself. As it wakes up from sleep, it loses joy.
( TJiought fully. ) My only happiness — ah, that is in The corner of the park, where I'm allowed To go alone.
Casilda. Fine happiness, indeed! A charming place ! where snares are set behind The marble forms — and where one nothing views. The walls around are higher than the trees.
The Queen. Oh, how I wish I could go out sometimes !
Casilda {in a low voice). Go out? Well, Madam, listen. Let us, though, Speak softly. In such a prison's gloomy shade
i
sc. I.] RUY BLAS 320
Nought is there so worth search and finding as
One precious sparkling jewel that is called
The key o' the fields. I have it ! And whene'er
You wish, in spite of foes, I'll let you out
At night, and through the town we both can gOo
The Queen, Heavens ! never ! Silence !
Casilda.
'Tis quite easy.
The Queen.
Peace ! (She draws a little away from Casilda, and falls into
reverie ) . Oh would that I, who fear the grandees here, Were still in my good Germany, beside My parents, as when with my sister dear I rambled freely through the fields ; and when We met the peasants trailing their rich sheaves, We talked to them. 'Twas charming. But alas ! One night a man arrived who said — and he Was dressed in black, I holding by the hand My sister, sweet companion — " Madam, you Are to be Queen of Spain." — My father was All joyous, but my mother wept. Now they Both weep. — I mean to send in secret soon This box unto my father, he'll be pleased. See you how everything disheartens me. My birds from Germany all died.
[Casilda looks across to the Duchess, and makes a sign of wringing the birds' necks.
And then They would not let me have the flowers that grew In mine own country. Never on mine ear Doth vibrate now a word of love. A Queen I am to-day. But formerly I knew
330 DRAMAS [act n.
What freedom was„ Truly thou say'st this park At eve is dreary — with its walls so high, One cannot see beyond. — Oh weariness !
\^Smging afar off is heard. What is that sound o^
Casilda.
The laundrywomen, they Are singing, as they pass the heather through.
[The singers approach. The words are heard. The Queen listens eagerly.
Song from Outside,
Why should we listen
To birds that rejoice.'' The bird the most tender
Sings now in thy voice.
Let God show or veil
The stars in the skies. The purest of stars
Shines now in thine eyes.
Let April renew
All the blossoms around, The loveliest flower
In thy heart will be found.
The passionate bird song,
The day star above. And the flower of the soul
But call themselves love!
The Queen (musing). Love — love ! Ah, they are happy ! And their song, Their voices, do me harm as well as good.
The Duchess (to the ladies). These women with their song annoy the Queen, Drive them away !
i
k\
sc. lo] RUY BLAS 331
The Queen {eagerly).
How, Madam ! scarcely can I hear them ; 'tis my will that they, poor things, Should pass in peace.
(To Casilda, pointing to a casement at the back.)
The trees are here less thick, This window opens to the country ; come Let us now try to look at them.
l^She goes towards the window with Casilda.
The Duchess (rising and curtseying).
Spain's Queen Must not look out of window.
The Queen {stopping and retracing her steps).
Oh, what next! The lovely sunset filling all the vales, The golden dust of evening rising o'er The way, the far-off songs to which all ears May listen, — these for me exist no more, Unto the world I've said adieu. Not e'en May I regard the nature made by God ! E'en others' freedom I may not behold !
The Duchess {making signs to the assistants to leave). Go now. To day is sacred to the Saints, Th' Apostles.
[Casilda goes towards the door. The Queen stops her.
The Queen. What! You leave me.-*
Casilda {pointing to the Duchess).
Madam, we Are ordered out.
The Duchess {curtseying to the ground).
'Tis right that we the Queen To her devotions leave.
l^All go out with profound reverence.
332 DRAMAS [act. ii.
Scene 2.
The Queen {alone).
To her devotions? Say rather to her thoughts ! How can I flee Now from them? All have left me, and alone I am, poor soul, without a torch to light My dusky way! (^Musing.) That bleeding hand whose
print Was on the wall ! Oh God, and could it be That he was hurt? If so it was his fault. Why would he climb the wall so high? And all To bring me flowers which they refuse me here ; For such a little thing to venture thus ! Doubtless his wounds were from the iron spikes — A scrap of lace hung there. A drop of blood Shed for me claims my tears. {Losing herself in reverie.)
Each time I go Unto to the bench, to seek the flowers, I say To God — whose help forsakes me — that I will No more return. And yet I still go back. — But he ! Behold three days have pass'd and he Has not been there. — And wounded ! — Oh, young man, Unknown, whoever thou may'st be, who thus Dost see me lonely, and afar from them Who cherish'd me, who without recompense, Or even hope of aught, comes to me thus 'Mid perils never counted — thou who shed'st Thy blood, and risk'st thy life to give a flower Unto the Queen of Spain, whoever thou May'st be — the friend whose shadow follows me — Since unto law inflexible my heart Submits, may'st thou be by thy mother loved. And bless'd by me !
[^Energetically/, and pressing her hand on her heart. But oh, his letter burns ! {Falling again into reverie.)
sc. II.] RUY BLAS 333
And lie that other ! the implacable Don Sallttete! I by destiny am now Afflicted and protected too. At once An angel follows me, and spectre dread. And without seeing them I feel a stir Amid the gloom that is perchance about Moments supreme to bring, in which a man Who hates me will come near to him who loves. Shall I by one be from the other saved? I know not. Oh my fate seems but the sport Of two opposing winds. To be a Queen How weak and poor a thing ! Ah, I will pray. (She kneels before the Madonna.) Oh Blessed Lady help me! For mine eyes I dare not raise to look on you! (She interrupts herself.)
Oh God ! The lace, the letter, and the flowers are fire !
\^She puts her hand to her hosom and takes out a crum- pled letter, some little dried blue flowers, and a morsel of lace stained with blood which she throws on the table; then she again kneels. Oh Virgin, thou the star o' the sea ! the hope Of martyrs! help me now! {Interrupting herself.) That letter !
\Turns half round to the table.
Ah! 'Tis that distracts me. {She kneels again.) Not again I'll
read The letter. Queen of sweet compassion ! you Who wert bestowed on all afflicted souls For sister ! Come, I call you !
\She rises, advances towards the table, then pauses, but at last grasps the letter as if yielding to an irresist- ible impulse.
Yes, I will Re-read it one last time, and after that Destroy it. ( With a sad smile. ) For a month, alas ! 'tis this
334 DRAMAS [act ii.
I've said! \^She unfolds the letter resolutely and reads.
" Madam, in dull obscurity Beneath your feet, and hidden in the shade, A man there is who loves you ! he the worm That suffers, loving thus a star; who would For you give up his soul, if so must be ; And who lies depths below, while you must shine On high." \^She places the letter on the table.
When souls are thirsty they must drink, Though it be poison !
\^She puts the letter and the lace in her bosom. Nought on earth have I. Ah, but I need some one to love. The King I would have truly loved, had he so will'd it. But me he leaves alone, of love bereft.
[^The great folding doors open. An Usher of the Chamber in full dress enters.
The Usher (in a loud voice). A letter from the King!
The Queen (as if suddenly awakened, with a joyful cry).
From him ! I'm saved !
Scene 3. — The Queen, the Duchess d'Albuquerque, Casilda, Don Guritan, Ladies in Waiting, Pages, Ruy Blas.
All enter with solemnity, the Duchess at their head, followed by the women. Ruy Blas remains at the bach of the chamber. He is magnificeritly dressed. His cloak falls OT'er his left arm and hides it. Tzco pages, carrying the King's letter on a cushion of cloth of gold, kneel before the Queen at a few paces distant.
Ruy Blas {at the back — aside). Where am I now.'' — How beautiful she is! Oh, for wliat purpose ani I here,''
sc. III.] RUY BLAS 335
The Queen (aside). 'Tis aid From heaven! (Aloud.) Give it me — be quick!
[^Turning to the portrait of the King.
My thanks Your majesty! (To the Duchess.) Whence comes this letter, say?
The Duchess. From Aranjuez, Madam, where the King Now hunts.
The Queen. And from my soul I thank him. He Has understood my need of words of love From him, in my lone weariness. Come then, Now give it me.
The Duchess (curtseying and pointing to the letter). I must inform you that The custom is, that whatso'er it be »
I first must open it and read.
The Queen.
Again ! — Ah well, then read.
[The Duchess takes the letter and slowly unfolds it.
Casilda. Let's hear the lines of love.
The Duchess (reading). " Madam, the wind is high, and I have killed Six wolves. Signed, Charles."
The Queen (aside). Alas!
Don Guritan (to the Duchess).
And is that all.'' The Duchess. Yes, Count,
336
DRAMAS
[act II.
Casilda (aside). Six wolves he's killed ! How this excites Th' imagination ! Tender is your heart, Exacting, weary, sick. Six wolves he's killed!
The Duchess (to the Queen, presenting the letter to her). If that your Maj esty ?
The Queen (pushing it away). Oh no.
Casilda (to the Duchess). And this Is really all?
The Duchess. Undoubtedly. What more Should he? Our king is hunting; on the way He writes declaring all he's killed, and states The weather he has had. All this is well.
[^Examining the letter again. He writes — ah no, he dictates.
The Queen (snatching the letter and examining it herself).
Then, in short, 'Tis not his hand, only his signature.
[^She examines it with more attention, and seems struck with stupor. (Aside.) Is it delusion.? the hand writing's just The same as that o' the letter !
[^She indicates with her hand the letter she has just hidden in her bosom.
Oh, what's this.'' (To the Duchess.) Who, then, conveyed the letter?
The Duchess (pointing to Ruy Blas).
He is there.
The Queen (half turning towards Ruy Blas). That young man?
sc. III.] RUY BLAS 337
The Duchess.
'Twas he himself who brought it. He's a new equerry his Majesty Has given to the Queen. A noble whom, As from the King, my Lord of Santa Cruz Has introduced to me.
The Queen. His name.''
The Duchess. He is The noble Caesar de Bazan — the Count Of Garofa. If rumour be believed He is the most accomplish'd gentleman That can be found.
The Queen.
That's well. I'll speak to him. (To RuY Blas.)
Sir
I tremble.
RuY Blas (aside, trembling). Ah, she sees — she speaks to me. Oh God !
The Duchess (to Ruy Blas). Count, approach.
Don Guritan (aside, and looking sideivays at Ruy Blas).
I did not dream Of this, — that young man ! he an equerry !
[Ruy Blas, pale and troubled, slowly advances.
The Queen. You come from Aranjuez.'^
Ruy Blas.
Yes, Madam.
The Queen.
The king is well? 22
338 DRAMAS [act ii.
[RuY Blas hows, she iioints to the royal letter. This letter was bj him Dictated?
RuY Blas. He on horseback was when he
{^Hesitates a moment. To one of his attendants did the hnes Dictate.
The Queen {aside, looking' at Ruy Blas). His looks so pierce me that I dare Not ask to whom. (Aloud.) 'Tis well, you may depart. Ah! —
[Ruy Blas, who had stepped back a few paces, turns again towards the Queen. Many nobles were assembled there? (Aside.) Why am I stirr'd on seeing this young man?
[Ruy Blas bows, and she continues. Who were they?
Ruy Blas.
Names I do not know. I was But there a few short moments, for Madrid I quitted but three days ago.
The Queen (aside). Three days ! l^She looks at Ruy Blas with a troubled expression.
Ruy Blas (aside). Another's wife! Oh frightful jealousy! Of whom? A gulf has opened in my heart.
Don Gueitan (approaching Ruy Blas). You are an equerry unto the Queen. One word with you. Know you your duty? You To-night must in the next room stay to be In readiness to open to the king Should he arrive.
sc. 111.] RUY BLAS S89
RuY Blas {trembling, aside). I open to the king! {Aloud.) But he is absent now.
Don Guritan.
Yet may he not, Though unexpectedly, return.''
RuY Blas {aside)
Ah — how !
Don Guritan {aside, observing Ruy Blas). Wliat ails him ?
The Queen {who has heard all and is, looking at Ruy Blas).
Oh, how pale he grows! [Ruy Blas, tottering, leans his arm on a great chair.
Casilda {to the Queen).
Madam, This young man's ill!
Ruy Blas {supporting himself with difficidtif). I — I — oh, no ! But strange It is, how that — the sun — fresh air — the length
Of road {Aside.) To open to the King!
\^He falls fainting on to the arm-chair. His cloak slips aside and shows his left hand to be bound up in blood-stained linen.
Casilda. Great God, He's wounded. Madam, in the hand!
The Queen.
A wound! Casilda. He's losing consciousness! Quick, make him breathe. Some essence.
340 DRAMAS [act ii.
The Queen {feeling in her ruff). Here's a flask of mine contains An extract.
[^At this moment her glance falls on the ruffle Ruy Blas wears on his right arm. Aside. 'Tis the self same lace ! {When she took the flask from her bosom, she in her trouble drew out the morsel of lace which was hidden there. Ruy Blas, whose eyes were fixed on her, saw and recognized it.
Buy Blas (distracted).
Oh — oh! [^The eyes of the Queen and Buy Blas meet. Silence.
The Queen {aside). 'Tis he!
Buy Blas {aside). Upon her heart !
The Queen {aside). 'Tis he!
Buy Blas {aside).
Grant God That now I die!
\_In the confusion of the women pressing round Ruy Blas, no one had remarked what passed between the Queen and him.
Casilda {holding the flask for Buy Blas to inhale from). How were you injured, say? Was it just now? Ah no! The wound I see Must have re-opened on the wa3\ And why, How happened it, that j^ou were made to bear The message fi'om the King?
The Queen.
I hope that soon You'll finish questioning.
sc. III.] RUY BLAS 341
The Duchess {to Casilda).
What's this, my dear. Unto the Queen?
The Queen. Since it was he who wrote The letter, it was well he brought it me, Was it not so.^*
Casilda. But he has never said He wrote it.
The Queen (aside). Oh! (To Casilda.) Be still!
Casilda (to Ruy Blas).
How is your Grace? Are you now better?
Ruy Blas. I am restored !
The Queen (to the Ladies).
'Tis time That we retire. To his apartments let The Count be led. (To the Pages at the back.)
You know the King will not Come back to-night. He will remain away Through all the hunting season.
[^She retires with her attendants to her apartments.
Casilda (watching her go out).
Ah, the Queen Has something on her mind.
IShe goes out hy the same door as the Queen, carrying the little casket of relics.
Ruy Blas (remains alone).
[He seems as if listening for some time with deep joy to
the last words of the Queen, and lost in reverie.
The morsel of lace which the Queen had let fall in
her trouble had remained on the ground. He picks
342 DRAMAS [act ii.
it up, looks at it xmth emotion, and covers it with kisses. Then he raises his eyes to heaven.
Mercy, oh God! Make me not mad!
{Looking at the morsel of lace).
'Twas surely near her heart! \^He hides it in his bosom. — Enter Don Guritan hy the door of the room into which he had followed the Queen. He walks sloxoly towards Ruy Blas. When close to him, he, without saying a word, half- draws his sword, and compares its appearance with that of Ruy Blas'. They are not alike. He puts hack his sword into the scabbard. Ruy Blas looks at him with surprise.
Scene 4. — Ruy Blas — Don Guritan.
Don Guritan (again pushing back his sword). I will bring two that are of equal length.
Ruy Blas.
What mean you, Sir
Don Guritan (gravely).
I was most deep in love In sixteen hundred and fifty. Then I dwelt In Alicante. There a young man was. As handsome as tlie loves; he looked too near Upon my mistress, passing every day Beneath her balcony, before the old Cathedral ; he was prouder than a Captain Of an Admiral's ship ; Vasqucz his name, and though Bastard he was ennobled. Him I killed.
[Ruy Blas tries to interrupt him; but Don Guritan prevents him by a gesture, and continues. And after that — it was towards sixty-six — Gil, Count of Iscola, — a splendid knight,
sc. IV.] RUY BLAS 343
Sent to my beaut}', named Angelica, A loving letter which she showed, and a siave Named Grifel of Viserta. Ilim I had Despatched, and slew myself the master.
RuY Blas.
Sir!
Don Guritan {continuing). And later — near the year eighty — I had cause To think I was deceived b}' beauty, one Of easy ways, through Tirso Gamonal, One of those youths whose haughty faces charm, And go so v.ell with splendid feathers. 'Twas The time when mules were shod with purest gold. I slew Don Tirso Gamonal.
RuY Blas.
But what, Sir, means all this.''
Don Guritan.
It means to show you. Count, That if you draw, there's Avater in the well, And that to-morrow morn the sun will rise At four o'clock ; that there's a lonely spot Behind the chapel, far from any road. Convenient for men of spirit. You They call Caesar, I am named Don Gaspar Guritan Tassis y Guevarra, Count Of Onate.
RuY Blas (coldly). Well, Sir, I will be there. [A few moments before, Casilda, out of curiosity, had entered softly by the little door at the back, and had listened to the last words without having been seen by the speakers.
344 DRAMAS [act h.
Casilda {aside). A duel! I must tell the Queen.
\^She disappears hy the little door,
Don Guritan (still imperturbable).
If, Sir, It pleases you to study and to know My tastes, for your instruction I will say I never much admired a coxcomb, or A ladies' man with curled moustache, on whom The women like to look, who sometimes are All lackadaisical, and sometimes gay. Who in the house speak with their eyes, and fall In charming attitudes upon arm-chairs. Just fainting at some little scratches.
RuY Blas.
But
I do not understand.
Don Guritan.
You understand Quite well. We both desire the same good things. And in this palace one of us is one Too many. You are equerry, in short. And I the Chamberlain. And so our rights Are equal. I am ill-provided, though. Our shares are not the same. I have the right Of age, and you of youth. This frightens me. At table where I fast, I see sit down A hungry youth, with strong terrific teeth And flaming eyes, and air of conqueror; This troubles me ; for vain contention were Upon love's territory — that fine field. Which always trembles with mere trifles, — I Should make th' assault but badly. I've the gout. Besides, I am not such an arrant fool A« for the heart of a Penelope
sc. v.] RUY BLAS 345
To wrestle with a spark so prompt to faint. Because you're handsome, tender, winning, 'tis That I must kill you.
RuY Blas.
Well, then, pray try.
Don Guritan.
Count
Of Garofa, to-morrow morn at hour
Of sunrise, at the place that's named, without
A servant or a witness, if you please,
We'll slaughter one another gallantly.
With sword and dagger, like true gentlemen
Of houses such as ours.
\^He extends his hand to Ruy Blas, who takes it.
RuY Blas,
No word of this? (The Count makes a sign of assent.) Until to-morrow. [Exit Ruy Blas.
Don Guritan (alone). No — no tremor in His hand I found. To know he'll surely die, And be thus calm, proves him to be a brave Young fellow.
INoise of a key in the little door of the Queen's room. Some one surely's at that door? [^The Queen appears and walks briskly towards Don Guritan, who is surprised and delighted to see her. She holds the little casket in her hands.
Scene 5. — Don Guritan — The Queen.
The Queen (smiling). 'Twas you I sought to find!
346 DRAMAS [act ii.
Don Guritan.
What brings to me Tills honour?
The Queen (placing the casket on the round table). Oh, 'tis nothing — or, at least, A small affair, my Lord (she laughs). Just now 'twas said, 'Along other things — you know how foolish are The women — and Casilda said, maintained That you, for me, aught that I asked would do.
Don Guritan. And she was right.
The Queen (laughing). But I the contrary Declared.
Don Guritan. Then, Madam, you were wrong.
The Queen.
She said That you for me would give your soul — your life
Don Guritan. Casilda spoke right well in saying that.
The Queen. But I said No.
Don Guritan. And I say yes, all things I for your Majesty would do.
The Queen.
All things?
Don Guritan. Yes all.
The Queen. Well let us see ! — swear now that you
sc. v.] RUY BLAS 347
To please me will this instant do the thing I ask you.
Don Guritan. By the venerated King My patron saint, King Gaspar, I do swear! ("(nninand, and I obey or die!
The Queen (taking up the casket).
Well then, You will set out and leave Madrid at once, And carry straight this box of calanibac To Neubourg, to my father th' Elector. Take it.
Don Guritan (aside). Fm caught, indeed! (Aloud). What! to Neubourg!
The Queen. To Neubourg.
Don Guritan. Ah! six hundred leagues from here!
The Queen. Five hundred 'tis and fifty, —
[pointing to the silken cover of the box. Pray take care That on the road the blue fringe does not fade.
When shall I start?
Don Guritan.
The Queen. This instant.
Don Guritan.
Let it be
To-morrow !
The Queen. No, I cannot yield.
348 DUAMAS [act ii.
Don Guritan (aside).
Entrapp'd lam. (Aloud). But
The Queen. Now set off.
Don Guritan.
But why Is this? ■■
The Queen. You've promised me.
Don Guritan. Affairs
The Queen.
Impossible.
Don Guritan. The object is so frivolous
The Queen.
Be quick!
One day alone!
Now do my bidding.
Don Guritan.
The Queen. No, not a moment.
Don Guritan.
For
The Queen.
Don Guritan. I
The Queen. No.
sc. v.] RUY BLAS 349
Don Guritan. But
The Queen. Don Guritan.
Set off.
If — if
The Queen. Yes, I will kiss you !
[^She puts her arms round his neck and kisses him.
Don Guritan (vexed and yet delighted).
I resist No more. I will obey you, Madam. {Aside.) God Made Himself man ; so be't. As woman 'tis The devil comes !
The Queen {pointing to the window), A carriage there below Is waiting for you.
Don Guritan. All then is prepared! [He writes hurriedly a few words on a piece of paper and rings a little hell. A Page enters. Page, take unto Don Csesar de Bazan This letter, and without one moment lost.
{Aside.) This duel must be taken up again
When I return. I shall come back! {Aloud.) I go At once to satisfy your Majesty.
The Queen. Now I'm contented.
[He takes the casket, kisses the Queen's hand, makes a low how and exit. The next minute the sound of wheels is heard.
The Queen {falling into a chair). He sjiall not be kill'd !
ACT THIRD : RUY BLAS
The Council Chamber of the King's palace at Madrid. At the back of a large door above some steps. In the angle to the left an opening closed by tapestry of a raised warp. In the opposite angle a window. To the right a square table with a green velvet cover around which are placed stools for eight or ten persons, corresponding to the number of desks placed on the table. At the side of the table which faces the audience is a large arm- chair, covered with cloth of gold, and surmounted by a canopy of the same material, with the arms of Spain and the royal crown emblazoned. A chair at one side of it. When the curtain rises the Privy Cowncil of the King is about to sit.
Scene 1. — Don Manuel Arias, President of Castile; Don Pedro Velez de Guevarra, Count de Cam- POREAL, Knight-Counsellor of the Chief Exchequer. Don Fernando de Cordova y Aguilar Marquis de Priego of the same quality. Antonio Ubilla, Chief Secretary of the Revenue. Montazgo, Counsellor of the Black Robe for India. Covadenga, Chief Secretary ' for the Isles. Many other Counsellors. Those of the Robe in black. The others in Court Dress. Cam- POREAL has the Cross of Calatrava on his mantle, Priego the Golden Fleece at his neck. Don Manuel Arias, President of Castile, and the Count de Camporeal chat together in low tones at the front. The others form groups here and there in the Hall.
Don Manuel Arias. Behind such fortune lurks a mystery.
350
sc. I.] RUY BLAS 851
Count de Camporeal. He has the Golden Fleece. Behold him made 'Chief secretary — minister — and now Duke d'Olmedo he is !
Don Manuel Arias.
All in six months.
Count de Camporeal. In some strange secret way he has been raised.
Don Manuel, Arias {mysteriously). The Queen !
Count de Camporeal.
In fact, the king an invalid, Insane at heart, lives at his first wife's tomb. He abdicates the throne, shut up within Th' Escurial, and leaves the Queen alone To govern all things.
Don Manuel Arias.
Dear Camporeal, She reigns o'er us — Don Caesar over her.
Count de Camporeal. His way of life is quite unnatural. In the first place, he never sees the Queen ; They seem to shun each other. You may doubt My word, but for six months I've watched them well. For reasons good, and of it I am sure. Then, from morose caprice, his dwelling is A little lodge that's near th' Hotel Tormez, With shutters ever closed — where negroes two Guard well the close-shut doors — Lackeys who could Tell much, if only that they were not dumb.
Don Manuel Arias. Mutes, then.?
Count de Camporeal.
Yes, mutes. His other servitors
352
DRAMAS
[act III.
Remain in those apartments which he has Within the palace.
Don Manuel Arias.
It is strange, indeed.
Don Antonio Ubilla (who joined them a few moments
before ) . He comes of an old family, — enough That is.
Count de Camporeal. The strange thing seems that he pretends To be an honest man.
(To Don Manuel Arias.) Cousin he is Unto the Marquis Salluste, who last year Was banished — therefore 'twas that Santa Cruz Befriended him. — In former years, this man, Don Csesar, who to-day our master proves, Seemed but the greatest fool the moon saw born — ~ A hare-brained dolt — we know the people well Who knew him. He for revenue consumed His fortune — changed his loves, his carriages Each day. His fancies had ferocious teeth, That could have eaten in a year Peru. One day he ran away, 'twas not known where.
Don Manuel Arias. But time has made of this gay fool a sage Severe.
Count de Camporeal. Frail women prudish grow when aged.
Ubilla. I think the man is honest.
Count de Camporeal (laughing).
Simpleton, Ubilla ! to be dazzled thus by such
sc. I.] RUY BLAS S53
A probity! {in a significant tone). The household of the
Queen, Civil and ordinary {looking at some papers), almost costs Seven hundred thousand golden ducats now In yearly charges. Here's assuredly A shady calm Pactolus, where one might In safety throw a very certain net ; The water trouble, and the fish is there.
Marquis de Priego {coming forward). Ah, that does not displease you. But unwise Are you to speak thus freely. Let me say, j\Iy late grandfather, he who was brought up With the Count-Duke, did oft advise that we Should gnaw the king — but kiss the favourite. Now let us, gentlemen, engage ourselves With public business.
\_They sit round the table; some taJce up pens, others
turn over the papers. The remainder are idle. A
brief silence.
MoNTAZGO {whispering to Ubilla).
I have asked from you, Out of the money meant for purchasing Of relics, just a sum enough to buy The post of Alcaid that my nephew wants.
Ubilla {whispering). You — you — you said you'd shortly give the place Of bailiff o' the Ebro to my cousin Melchior of Elva.
Montazgo {exclaiming).
Only just now We dowered your daughter. The festivities O' the nuptials still proceed. — Without a pause I am assailed.
Ubilla {whispering).
The Alcaid's post is yours. 28
354 DRAMAS [act m.
MoNTAZGO {whispering). And yours the bailiff's.
[^They press hands.
CovADENGA {rising).
Gentlemen, we are Castllian counsellors, and needful 'tis, In order that each keeps within his sphere, To regulate our rights and take our shares. The revenue of Spain is scatter'd when A hundred hands control it. We need now To end this public evil. Some acquire Too much, the others do not have enough. The farming of tobacco goes to you, Ubilla. Indigo and musk belong To Marquis de Priego. Camporeal Receives the taxes of eight thousand men, The import dues, the salt, a thousand sums, And five per cent, on gold, on jet, and on The amber.
{To MONTAZGO.)
You who with a restless eye Regard me, you have managed for yourself To have the tax on arsenic, and the rights Of snow. You have dry docks, and cards, and brass, The ransoms of the citizens that should Be punished with the stick — the ocean tithes, And those on lead and rosewood. Notliing, Sirs, Have I. Decree me something.
Count de Camporeai, {bursting out laughing).
Oh, the old Devil! Of all he takes the largest share Of profits. If the Indies we except, He has the islands of both seas. What spread Of wings! He holds Majorca in one claw. And with the clutches Teneriff e !
sc. II.] RU\ BLAS 355
CovADENGA {growing angry). I say I've nothing !
Marquis de Priego (laughing).
He the negroes has. [^They rise, all speaking at once and quarrelling.
MONTAZGO.
I should long since have made complaint. I want The forests.
CovADENGA (to the Marquis de Priego). Let me have the arsenic, then The negroes unto you I will give up.
\^A few moments before Ruy Blas had entered by the door at the back, and had witnessed this scene with- out having been observed by the speakers. He is dressed in black velvet, zvith a mantle of scarlet vel- vet; he has a white feather in his hat, and wears the Golden Fleece (t his neck. At first he listened to them in silence, but suddenly he advances with soft steps and appears in their midst at the height of the quarrel.
Scene 2. — The Same — Ruy Blas.
Ruy Blas {bursting on them). I wish you joy !
\^All turn round. Silence of surprise and uneasiness.
Ruy Blas puts on his hat, crosses his arms, and continues lookhig them full in the face. Oh faithful ministers !
And virtuous counsellors ! Behold your mode
Of working, servants you who rob the house!
And without shame the dark hour choose, when Spain
Weeps in her agony ! - — caring for nought
Except to fill your pockets — afterwards
To flee away ! Branded you are before
356 DRAMAS [act hi.
Your country sinking into ruin. Oh,
Her grave you've dug, and robbed her in it too.
But look — reflect — and have some shame. The worth
Of Spain, her virtue and her greatness pass
jAway. Since the Fourth PhiHp's time we've lost
Not only Portugal and the Brazils
Without a struggle made, but in Alsace
Brisach, Steinfort in Luxembourg, and all
The Comte to its last small town ; Rousillon,
Ormuz and Goa, five thousand leagues of coast
And Pernambuc, and the blue mountains' range.
But see — from western shores unto the east
Europe, which hates you, laughs at you as well.
As if your King a phantom only were,
Holland and England share his states, and Rome
Deceives you ; half an army is the most
You dare to risk in Piedmont ; though supposed
A friendly country. Savoy and its Duke
Abound in subtle dangers. France awaits
The hour propitious to attack and take.
And Austria also watches you. And then
Bavaria's Prince is dying — that you know.
As for your viceroys — your Medina, fool
Of love, fills Naples with such tales as are
A scandal ; Milan's sold by Vaudemont,
Leganez loses Flanders. What for this
The remedy.'' The state is indigent.
The state is drained of troops and money both.
Upon the sea — where God his anger shows —
We have already lost three hundred ships
Without our counting galleys. And you dare !
Ye Sirs, for twenty years the People — think Of it — and I have reckoned it is thus — Have borne the burden under which they bend For you — your pleasures and your mistresses ; — The wretched people whom you still would grind. Have sweated for your uses, this I say.
sc. II.] RUY BLAS 357
More than four hundred milhons of their gold ! And this is not enough for jou ! and still
My masters ! Ah, I am ashamed ! At home
The spoilers, troopers, traverse all the land
And fight, the harvest burning. Carbines too
Are pointed at each thicket, just as 'twere
The war of princes ; war is there between
The convents, war between the provinces,
All seeking to devour their neighbours poor,
Eaters o' the famished on a vessel wreck'd!
Within your ruined churches grows the grass,
And they are full of adders. Many great
By ancestry, but workers none. Intrigue
Is all, and nothing springs from loyalty.
A sewer is Spain, to which th' impurity
Of all the nations drains. — In his own pay
Each noble has a hundred cut-throats, who
Do speak a hundred tongues. The Genoese,
Sardinian, Flemish. — Babel's in Madrid.
The magistrates, so stern to poverty.
Are lenient to the rich. When night comes on
There's murder, then each one cries out for help !
But yesterday they robb'd me, yes, myself.
Near the Toledo bridge. One half Madrid
Now robs the other half, judges are bribed.
No soldier gets his pay. Old conquerors
O' the world — the Spaniards that we are — see now
What army have we.? It but bai'ely shows
Six thousand men who barefoot go; a host
Made up of beggars, Jews, and mountaineers.
Who, armed with daggers, dress themselves in rags.
And every regiment plies a double trade.
When darkness falls disorder reigns, and then
The doubtful soldier changes to a thief.
The robber IMatalobos has more troops
Than any Baron. One of his followers
Made war upon the king of Spain. Alas !
358 DRAMAS [act hi.
The country peasantry, unshamed, insult
The carriage of the king. And he, your lord.
Consumed by grief and fear, stays all alone
Within the Escurial, with but the dead
He treads upon, and stoops his anxious brow
From which the empire crumbles fast ! Behold,
Alas ! all Europe crushing 'neath its heel
This land, once purpled — which is now in rags.
The state is ruined in this shocking age;
And you dispute among yourselves who shall
The fragments take ! The Spanish nation, once
So great, lies in the shadow enervate.
And dies while you upon it live — mournful
As a lion that to vermin is a prey ! —
Oh, Charles the Fifth, in these dread times of shame
And terror, oh, what dost thou in thy tomb
Most mighty Emperor? Arise, — come, see
The best supplanted by the very worst;
This kingdom, now in agony — that was
Constructed out of Empires — near its fall.
It wants thine arm ! Come to the rescue, Charles !
For Spain is dying, blotted out, self slain !
Thy globe, which brightly shone in thy right hand,
A dazzling sun that made the woi'ld believe
That thenceforth at Madrid the day first dawn'd.
Is now a dead star, that in the gloom grows less
And less — a moon three quarters gnaw'd away,
And still decreasing ne'er to rise again
But be effaced by other nations ! Oh,
Thy heritage is now put up for sale.
Alas ! they make piastres of thy rays,
And soil thy splendours ! Giant ! can it be
Thou sleepest? By its weight thy sceptre now
They sell! A crowd of dwarfs deformed cut up
Thy royal robes to make their doublets, while
Th' Imperial Eagle, which beneath thy rule
Covered tl.e world, and grasped its thunderbolts
sc. 11.] RUY BLAS 859
And darted flame, a poor unfcathcr'd bird
Is cooking in their stew-pan infamous !
[^The Counsellors are silent in their consternation. But the jVIaruuis de Priego and the Count de Campo- REAL raise their heads and look angrily at Ruy Blas. Then Camporeal, after having spoken to Priego, goes to the table and xcrites a few words on a piece of paper which they both sign.
Count de Camporeal (pointing to the Marquis de Priego
and presenting the paper to Ruy Blas). In both our names, your Grace, I tender you The resignation of our posts.
Ruy Blas (taking the paper calmly).
Thanks. You Will with your family retire,
{To Priego.)
You, Sir, To Andalusia.
(To Camporeal.) You, Count, unto Castile. To his estates each one. Set out To-morrow.
\_The two nobles bow and exeunt haughtily wearing their hats. Ruy Blas, turning to the other counsellors. Whoso'er declines to go My road, can follow now those gentlemen.
[^Silence for awhile. Ruy Blas seats himself in a chair with a back, placed by the side of the royal chair, and begins to open letters. While running his eyes over them one after another, Covadenga, Arias, and Ubilla exchange a few words in low tones.
Ubilla (to Covadenga, indicating Ruy Blas). A master we have found, my friend. This man Will rise to greatness.
360 DRAMAS [act hi.
Don Makuel Arias.
Yes, if he has time.
COVADENGA.
And if he does not lose himself at view Of all too near.
Ubilla. He will be Richelieu!
Don ]\Ianuel Arias. Unless 'tis Olivarcz ^ that he proves !
RuY Blas (after having run over in an excited manner a letter he had just opened). A plot! what's this? Now, Sirs, what did I say?
( Reading. ) " Duke d' Olmedo must watch. A snare there is Preparing to remove a personage, One of the greatest of IMadrid." (Examining the letter.)
They say Not whom. But I will watch. — Anon^'mous The letter is.
Enter a Court Usher who approaches Ruy Blas with
a profound bow. How now ^ — what's this?
Usher.
Unto Your Excellence, th' Ambassador of France I now announce.
Buy Blas. Ah, Harcourt ! at this time
I cannot see him.
Usher (bowing). And the Nuncio
1 Caspar Guzman, Count d'Olivarez, Minister of Philip the Fourth of Spain. For a time he seemed the redresser of abuses, l)ut commerce and agriculture declined under his sway, and his foreign policy was disas- trous. He was ultimately banished from Court and died in disgrace. — Teans.
sc. II.] RUY ELAS 361
Imperial waits in the saloon of honour To see your Excellence.
RuY Blas.
Oh, at this hour It is impossible.
\_The Usher boxvs and exit. A few moments previously a Page dressed in a livery of pinJdsh-grey and silver, had entered and approached Ruy Blas.
RuY Blas (perceiving him). My Page, to none Whatever am I visible just now.
The Page (in a low voice). The Count de Guritan, who has return'd From Neubourg
Buy Blas (with a gesture of surprise).
Ah ! — Page, show to him my house I' the suburb, saying that to-morrow he Will find me there — if it should please him. Go.
[^The Page exit. (To the Counsellors.) We shall have work together soon to do. In two hours, gentlemen, return.
[^All exeunt, bowing low to Buy Blas. [Ruy Blas is alone, a7id walks a few steps, absorbed in deep reverie. Suddenly in the corner of the room the tapestry is raised, and the Queen appears. She is dressed in xvhite, with a crown on her head. She seems radiant xvith joy, and looks at Ruy Blas with an expression of respect and admiration. She holds back the tapestry with one arm, behind which is perceptible a dark recess, in which a little door can be distinguished. Ruy Blas, in turning round, sees the Queen, and remains as if petrified by the apparition.
862 DRAMAS [act in.
Scene 3. — Ruy Blas — The Queen. The Queen.
Oh, thanks! Ruy Blas.
Oh, Heaven
The Queen. You have dc:ie well to speak them thus. I can refrain no longer, Duke. I must Press now that lojal hand so strong and true.
l^She walks quickly toxcards him and takes his hand, which she presses before he can prevent her.
Ruy Blas (aside). To shun her for six months, and then at once Thus suddenly behold her !
(Aloud.) Madam, you
Were there
The Queen. Yes, Duke, and I heard all you said. Yes, I was there, and listened v.ith my soul !
Ruy Blas (pointing to the hiding-plcLce). I never thought Madam, that hiding-place
The Queen. It is unknown to all. A dark recess That the Third Philip hollowed in the wall. By means of which the master heard all things While, spirit-like, invisible. And oft From there have I beheld the Second Charles, Mournful and dull, attend the Councils where They pillaged him and sacrificed the State.
Ruy Blas. And what said he?
sc. III.] RUY BLAS 363
The Queen. He nothing said.
RuY Blas.
What did he, then?
Nothing !
The Queen. He to the hunting field Went off. But you ! Your threatening words still ring Upon mine ear. Oh ! in what haughty ways You treated them, and how superbly right You were ! The border of the tapestry I raised and saw you. Yes, your flashing eyes With lightning overwhelmed them, and without Fury. Unto them everything was said. You seemed to me the only upright one! But where, then, have you learn'd so many things.'' How comes it that you know effects and cause? That everything you know? Whence cometh it That your voice speaks as tongues of kings should speak, Why, then, were you like messenger of God, So terrible and great ?
RuY Blas.
Because — because I love you ! I whom all these hate. Because I know full well that what they seek to crush Must fall on you ! Because there's nothing can Dismay a reverent passion so profound. Therefore to save you I would save the world! Unhappy man, who loves you with such love. Alas ! I think of you as think the blind Of day. Oh, Madam, hear me. I've had dreams Uncounted. I have loved you fr^m afar, From the deep depths of shade ; I have not dared To touch your finger-tips. You dazzled me As sight of angel might. I've suffered much.
364
DRAMAS
[act iit
Truly I have. Ah, Madam, if you knew! Six months I hid my love — but now I speak. I fled — I shunned you, but I tortured was. I am not thinking of these men at all. I love you ! And, oli God ! I dare to speak The words unto your Majesty. Now say, What I must do? Should you desire my death, I'll die. Oh, pardon me — I'm terrified !
The Queen. Oh, speak ! enchant me ! Never in my life Such words I've heard. I listen. 'Tis thy soul That speaking overwhelms nie quite. I need Thy voice, thine eyes. Oh, if thou knewest ! I It is who suffered ! Ah, a hundred times
When in the last six months your eyes shunn'd mine
But no, I must not say these things so fast
I'm most unhappy. Silent let me be. I am afraid!
RuY Blas (listening with rapture). Oh, Madam, finish. You With joy fill up my heart.
The Queen.
Well, listen, then. {^Raising her eyes to heaven, Yes, I will tell him all. Is it a crime? So much the worse ! But when the heart is torn One cannot help but sliow what there was hid. Thou fied'st the Queen? Ah, well, the Queen sought thee. Each day she came there to that secret place. And listened to thee, gathering up thy words. Silent, in contemplation of thy mind. Which judged, and resolutely willed. Thy voice Enthralled me, and gave interest to all. To me thou secm'dst the real king, the right True master. I it was that in six months —
The Queen. "Don Caesar— I to you give up my soul. The Queen for others, I to you am but a woman."
Dramas. Ruy Bias: Act III, Sc. Ill, Page 363.
sc. III.] RUY BLAS 365
Perchance thou doubtcst — made thee mount unto
The summit; where by fate thou should'st have been,
A woman placed thee. All tliat concerned me
Thou hast considered. First it was a flower,
But now an Empire. Ah, I reverence thee.
At first I thought thee good — but afterwards
I found thee great. My God, 'tis this that wins
A woman ! If I now do ill, oh why
Was I incarcerated in this tomb,
As in a cage they put a dove, deprived
Of hope, of love, without one gilded ray?
— Some day, when we have time, I'll tell thee all
That I have suffered, I, ever alone.
As if forgot! humiliated too
Most constantly. Now judge. 'Twas yesterday,
My chamber I disliked ; you know — for you
Know all things — rooms there are where we feel more
Depressed than in some others. Mine I wished
To change. Noav see what chains are ours, they would
Not let me. Thus a slave am I. O Duke,
It must have been tliat heaven sent thee here
To save the tottering state, and from the gulf
To draw the people back — the working ones,
And love me who thus suffer. Ah I tell
Thee all at random, in my simple way.
You must, however, see that I am right.
Madam.
RuY Blas {falling on his knees).
The Queen {gravely). Don Caesar — I to you give up My soul. The Queen for others, I to you Am but a woman. By the heart to you It is that I belong. And I have faith To know your honour will respect mine gwHo Whenever you shall call me I will come.
366 DRAiyiAS [act in.
Ready I am. Sublime thy spirit is,
Oh Caesar. And be proud, for thou art crown'd
By genius. (She kisses his foi-ehead.)
Adieu ! \^She raises the tapestry and exit.
Scene 4. — Ruy Blas (alone).
[He is OS if absorbed in seraphic contemplation. Before mine ej^es 'Tis heav'n I see! In all my life, oh God, This hour stands first. Before me is a world, A world of light, as if the paradise We dream about had open'd wide and fill'd My being with new light and brilliancy! In me, around me, everywhere is joy, Intoxication, mystery, and delight, And pride, and that one thing that on the earth Approaches most divinity, love — love, In maj esty and power. The Queen loves me ! Oh heavens, it is true — me — me — myself ! Since the Queen loves me I am more than King! Oh, it is dazzling. Conqueror, happy, loved. Duke d'Olmedo am I — and at my feet Is Spain. I have her heart. That angel, whom Upon my knees I contemplate and name. Has by a word transfigured me and made Me more than man. But in my star-lit dream Do I move waking! Yes, I'm very sure 'Twas she herself who spoke — quite sure 'twas she, A little diadem of silver lace She wore; and I observed the while she spoke — I think I see it still — an eagle 'graved Upon her golden bracelet. She confides In me, has told me so. — Poor Angel ! Oh, If it be true that God in granting love Does by a miracle within us blend
sc. v.] RUY BLAS 367
That which can make man great with that which can His nature soften, I who nothing fear Since I am loved by her, I, who have power. Thanks to her choice supreme, I, wliose full heart Might well the envy be of kings, declare — Before my God who hears me — without fear, And with loud voice, that Madam you may trust In me, — unto my arm as Queen, unto My heart as woman, — for devotion, pure And loyal, dwells i' the depth of my great love. Ah, fear thou nothing!
[During this speech a man had entered, hy a door at the bach, wrapped in a large cloak and with a hat gal- looned in silver. He advances slowly towards Ruy Blas without being seen, and at the moment when Ruy Blas, intoxicated with ecstasy and happiness, raises his eyes to heaven, this man slaps him on the shoulder. Ruy Blas turns, startled as if awakening from a dream. The man lets fall his cloak, and Ruy Blas recognises Don Salluste. Don Sal- LUSTE is dressed in a pinkish- grey livery, gallooned with silver, like that of the page of Ruy Blas.
Scene 5. — Ruy Blas, Don Salluste.
Don Salluste {placing his hand on the shoidder of
Ruy Blas).
Ah, good day.
Ruy Blas {aside).
Great God! Pm lost! It Is the Marquis that is here!
Don Salluste. I wager now you did not think of me.
368 DRAMAS [act hi.
RuY Blas.
Indeed your lordship did surprise me.
(Aside.) Oh, ;VIy misery is resumed. When turned towards .\.n angel, 'twas a demon came!
IHe hurries to the tapestry which conceals the little hid- ing place, and bolts the door inside. Then he re- turns trembling to Don Salluste.
Don Salluste.
Well now,
How are you?
RuY Blas {his eyes -fixed on Don Salluste, who is imper- turbable and as if himself incapable of gathering together his ideas).
Why this livery ?
Don Salluste {still smiling).
I desired To find an entrance to the palace. This Admits me everywhere. I have assumed Your livery, and find it suits me well.
\He puts on his hat. Ruy Blas remains bareheaded.
RuY Blas. But I'm alarmed for you.
Don Salluste.
Alarmed! What was
That word so ludicrous?
Ruy Blas.
Exiled you were!
Don Salluste. You think so? Possibly.
Ruy Blas.
If it should be
sc. v.] RUY BLAS 369
That in the palace you were recognised In the broad daylight?
Don Salluste.
Nonsense! Happy folks Who are about the Court, would waste their time. The time that flies so fast, remembering A face that's in disgrace. Besides, who looks Upon a lackey's profile?
{He seats himself in the arm-chair. Ruy Blas remaim
standing. )
By the bye, And if you please, what's this that in Madrid They say? Is't true, that, burning with a zeal Extravagant, and only for the sake Of public funds, you've exiled a grandee, That dear Priego? You've forgotten quite That you're relations, for his mother was A Sandoval — yours also. What the deuce! A Sandoval doth bear on field of " or " A bend of " sable." Look to your blazonry, Don Cassar, it is very clear. Sucii things, My dear, between relations should not be. The wolves that fight with other wolves, make they Good leaders? Open wide your eyes for self, But shut them for the others. For himself Each one.
Ruy Blas (recovering himself a little).
However, Sir — permit me, pray.
The Marquis de Priego, of the State
A noble, does great wrong in swelling now
Th' expenses of the kingdom. Soon we shall
Have need to put an army in the field ;
We have not money, yet it must be done,
Bavaria's Prince is at the point of death;
And yesterday the Count d'Harcourt, when well
You know said to me in the Emperor's 24
370 DRAMAS [act m.
His master's name, that if the Archduke should Assert his claim, war would break out
Don Salluste.
The air Seems rather chill — will you be good enough To close the casement?
[RuY Blas, pale with shame and despair, hesitates a mo- ment; then hy an effort he goes slotcly to the window, and shuts it. He returns to Don Salluste, who is still seated in the arm-chair, watching him in an in- different manner. RuY Blas {continuing his endeavour to convince Don
Salluste).
Deign, I beg, to see How very difficult a war will prove; What without money can we do? Listen, My Lord. Spain's safety in her honour lies. For me — I've to the Emperor .said, as if Our arms were ready, I'd oppose him
Don Salluste (interrupting him, and pointing to his handkerchief, which he had let fall on entering).
Stay, Pick up my handkerchief.
[RuY Blas, as if tortured, again hesitates; then stoops and takes up the handkerchief, giving it to Don Salluste.
Don Salluste {putting the handkerchief in his pocket)^
You did observe ?
RuY Blas {with an effort). Yes, Spain is at our feet ; her safety now And public interest demand that each Forgets himself. The nation blesses those Who would release her. I>ct us dare be great And strike and save tlie people. Let us now
i
sc. v.] RUY BLAS 371
Remove the mask from knaves, and let in light Upon intrigue.
Don Salluste (with indifference). First let me say all this Is wearying, — it of the pedant smacks. His petty way of making monstrous noise Concerning everything. What signifies A wretched million, more or less, devoured, That all these dismal cries are raised about? My boy, great Lords are not the pedant class, Freely they live • — I speak without bombast. The mien of them Avho would redress abuse Is pride inflated and with anger red ! Pshaw ! now you want to be a famous spark Adored by traitors and by citizens. 'Tis very droll. Have newer fancies, pray. The public good! First think now of your own. Spain's safety is a hollow phrase; the rest Can shout, my boy, as well as you can do. And popularity? a rattling noise Thought glory. Oh, what charming work to prowl Like barking dog about the taxes ! But I know conditions better. Probity? And faith? and virtue? faded tinsel, used Already from the time of Charles the Fifth. You are no fool. Must you be cured of all Tliis sentiment? You were a sucking child When we did gaily and without remorse By pin-pricks, or a kick, burst all at once Your fine balloon, and amidst roaring mirth Let out the wind from all these crotchets.
RuY Blas.
My Lord, however
But
Don Salluste (reith icy smile).
You're astonishing.
373 DRAMAS [act hi.
Let us be serious now.
{In an abrupt and imperious manner.)
To-morrow, all The morning you will Avait at home for me, Within the house I lent you. What I do Now nears the end. Only retain the mutes To wait upon us. In the garden have. But hidden by the trees, a carriage, well Appointed, horses, all prepared for use. I will arrange relays. Do all I wish. — You will want money, I will send it you. —
RuY Blas. I will obey you. Sir. I will do all. But first, oh, swear to me that with this work The Queen has nought to do.
Don Salluste {playing with an ivory knife on the table.
turns half round).
With what are you Now meddling?
RuY Blas (trembling and looJcing at him with terror). Oh, you are a fearful man !
My knees beneath me tremble. Towards a gulf
Invisible you drag me. Oh, I feel
That in a hand most terrible I am !
You have some monstrous scheme. Something I see
That's horrible. Have mercy upon me !
Oh, I must tell, — judge alas! yourself You knew it not. I love that woman!
Don Salluste.
I knew it.
RuY Blas.
Knew it !
Yes.
sc. v.] RUY BLAS 373
Don Sali^uste.
What, by heaven, can
That signify?
Rt^y Blas (leaning for support against the wall, and as if speaking to himself). Then for mere sport he has, The coward ! this torture practised upon me ! Ah, this affair will be most horrible!
[He raises his eyes to heaven Oh, God, all-powerful ! who tries me now, Spare me, oh God !
Don Salluste. There, that's enough — you dream ! Truly you think in earnest that you are A personage, but 'tis buffoonery. I to an end move on which I alone Should know, an end that happier is for you Than you can guess. But keep you still. Obey. I have already said, and I repeat I wish your good. Proceed, tlie thing is done. And after all, what are the woes of love.'' We all go through them — troubles of a day. Know you, an Empire destiny's concerned.'' What's yours beside it ? Willingly I'd tell You all ; but have the sense to comprehend. Your station keep. I'm very good and kind. A lackey though, of coarse clay or of fine, Is but an instrument to serve my whims. With your sort, what one wishes one can do. Your master did disguise you as his plan Required, and can unmask you at his will. I made you a great Lord — fantastic part — But for the instant — and you have complete The outfit. But forget not that you are My servant. You pay court unto the Queen —
374 DRAMAS [act iil
An incident — like stepping up behind My carriage. Therefore reasonable be.
RuY Blas (who has listened distracted, as if he could not believe his ears). Oh God — oh God ! the just ! the merciful ! Oh, of what crime is this the punishment.'^ What have I done? Oh, Thou our Father art. And wouldst not that a man despair. Behold, Then, where I am ! — And willingly, my Lord, And without wrong in me — only to see A victim agonised, in what abyss You've plunged me ! torturing thus a heart replete With love and faith, to serve alone as means For vengeance of your own !
{As if speaking to himself.)
For vengeance 'tis! The thing Is certain. I divine too well It is against the Queen! What can I do? Go tell her all? Great Heaven! become to her An object of disgust and horror! Knave With double face ! A Crispin ! Scoundrel base And impudent, such as tl^ey bastinade And drive away! Never! — I grow insane, My reason totters !
{A pause. He ponders.)
God ! behold what things Are done! To build an engine silently, To arm it hideously with frightful wheels Unnumber'd, then to see it work, upon The stone to throw a livcry'd one, a thing, A serving man, and set in motion all — And suddenly to watch come out, beneath The wheels, some muddy blood-stained rags, a head All broken, and a warm and steaming heart, And not to shudder then to find, despite The name they call him, that the livery was
sc. v.] RUY BLAS 375
But outward covering of a man.
{Turning towards Don Salluste.)
But oh, There still is time! Truly, my Lord, as yet Th' horrible wheel is not in motion.
(Throzcs himself at his feet.)
Oh, Have pity on me ! Mercy I Pity her ! You know that I a faithful servant am, You often said it. See how I submit! Oh, grace !
Don Sali^uste. The man will never understand. This w'earies me !
RuY BiiAS (trailing at his feet). Oh, mercy !
Don Salluste.
Let us now Have done.
(He turns towards the window.) You badly closed the window there, I'm sure. A draught comes thence.
(He goes to the casement and shuts it.)
Buy Blas (rising).
It is too much ! At present I'm Duke d'Olmedo, and still Til' all-powerful minister! I raise my head From 'neath the foot which crushes me.
Don Salluste.
What's that You say ? Repeat the phrase. Is Ruy Bias Indeed Duke d'Olmedo? Your eyes are bound. 'Twas only on Bazan that thou w^ast raised To be Olmedo
i76
DRAMAS
[act. Ill,
To be arrested.
But
RuY Blas.
I will order you
Don Salluste. I'll say who you are.
RuY Blas {excitedly).
Don Salluste. You'll accuse me? I've risked both our heads. That was foreseen. Too soon do you assume The air of triumph.
RuY Blas.
I'll deny it all.
Don Salluste. Pshaw ! you're a child.
RuY Blas.
^ You have no proof!
Don Salluste.
And you No memory. I'll do just what I say, And you had best believe me. But the glove Are you, I am the hand.
{Lowering his voice and approaching Ruy Blas.)
If thou obey'st ,Me not, if thou to-morrow do not stay ■At home preparing what I wish, if thou Should' st speak a single word of all which now Is passing, if by look or gesture thou Betray — first she, for whom thou fearcst, shall, By this thy folly, in a hundred spots Be publicly defamed, and ruined quite, And afterwards she shall receive — in this There's nought obscure — a paper under seal Which in a place secure I keep ; 'twas writ
sc. v.] RUY BLAS 377
Tiiou wilt remember by what hand? and signed
Thou knowest how? Tliese are the words her eyes
Will read : " I, Ruy Bias, the serving-man
Of the most noble Lord the Marquis of
Finlas, engage to serve him faithfully
On all occasions as a servant true
In public or in secrecy."
Ruy Blas {crushed, and in husky voiced)
Enough. I will, my Lord, do what you please.
[The door at the hack opens. One sees the members of the Privy Council re-entering. Don Salluste has- tens to wrap his cloak round him.
Don Salluste {in a low voice.) They come. {Aloud, and bowing low to Ruy Blas.) I am your humble servant, my Lord Duke. [Exit
ACT FOURTH: DON C^SAR
A small, gloomy, hut sumptuous room. Old-fashioned wains- cot and furniture, with old gilding. The walls covered with old hangings of crimson velvet 'pressed down in places, and at the back of the arm-chairs, and gathered hy shining gold galloon into vertical hands. At the hack folding doors. At the left angle of the wall, a large corner chimney zcith sculpture of the time of Philip the Second, and an escutcheon of wrought iron inside. At the opposite angle a little door leading to a dark closet. A single window at the left, placed very high, has hars across it, and an inside splay like the windows of prisons. On the walls are some old portraits smoke-he grimed and half defaced. A chest for clothes and a Venetian looking-glass. Large arm-chairs in the fashion Philip the Third's time. A highly ornamented cupboard against the wall. A square table with writing 7naterials on it. A little round table with gilt feet in a corner. It is morning.
When the curtain rises Ruy Blas, dressed in black without his mantle and without the Fleece, is seen walking about the room greatly agitated. At the hack stands his Page motionless, as if awaiting orders.
Scene 1. — Ruy Blas. The Page.
Ruy Blas {aside, as if speaking to himself). What is it can be done ? She must be saved ! Before all else ! Nothing but her to be Considered ! Should my brains from on a wall Spurt out, or should the gibbet claim, or should
378
sc. I.] RUY BLAS 379
Hell seize me, rescued she must be! But how?
To give my blood, my heart, my sovil, all that
Were nothing — it were easy. But to break
This web ! To guess, for guess one must, what schemes
This man constructing has combined ! Sudden
He comes from out the shadow, and therein
Replunges. Lone in darkness what does he?
When I remember that at first to him
For self I pleaded ! Oh, 'twas cowardice !
Moreover it was stupid ! This is why —
He is a wretch. — The thing has olden date,
No doubt. — How could I think, that when he held
His prey but half devoured, the demon would.
In pity for his lackey, leave the Queen !
Can we subdue wild beasts? Oh misery!
I yet must save her! I, the cause of this!
At any price it must be done. All — all
Is ended. Now behold my fall ! From height
So sreat so low ! Have I tlien dream'd ? — Yet oh !
She must escape ! But he ! By what door will
He come — and by what trap, oh God, will he,
The traitor black, proceed ? As of this house,
So of my life, he is the lord. He can
The gilding all strip off. He has the keys
Of all tlie locks. Enter and leave he can,
Approaching in the dark to tread upon
My heart as on this floor. Yes, this my dream!
Such fate confuses thought i' the rapid tide
Of things so quickly done. I am distraught.
No one thought have I clear. My mind — of which
I was so vain — oh God ! is now in such
A hurricane of rage and fear 'tis like
A reed storm-twisted! — Oh what can I do?
Let me reflect. At first to hinder her
From stirring from the palace. Yes, 'tis that
Undoubtedly that is the snare. Around
Myself the whirlpool is, and darkness dense.
S80 DRAMAS [act iv.
I feel the mesh but see it not. Oh, how I suffer ! — 'Tis decided. To forewarn — Prevent her going from the palace — this At once to do. But how? No one I have!
[He reflects earnestly. Suddenly, as if struck with an idea, and having a ray of hope, he raises his head. Don Guritan ! Ah, yes, he loves her well, And he is loyal!
(He signs to the Page to approach, then speaks low.)
Page, this instant go Unto Don Guritan. Make him from me Apologies; and beg him then without Delay to seek the Queen, and pray her in My name, and in his own, that whatso'er May happen or be said, on no account To leave the palace for three days. To stir Not out. Now run. {Recalling the Page).
Ah! (He takes a leaf and a pencil from his note case.)
Let him give these words Unto the Queen, — and watch !
{He writes (• his knee rapidly.)
" Believe what says Don Guritan, as he advises do."
\^He folds the paper and gives it to the Page. As for the duel, tell him I wa.s wrong. That I am at his feet, that I have now A trouble, beg of him to pity me. And take my supplication to the Queen On th' instant. Tell him that I will to him. In public, make apologies. And say There is for her a danger imminent. She must not venture out for quite three days
Whate'er occurs. Exactly do all this;
Go, be discreet, and nothing let appear.
sc. I.] RUY BLAS 381
V Page.
I am to you devoted — for you are A master good.
RuY Blas,
Run fast, my little Page, Hast thou well understood?
Page.
Oh yes, my lord. Be satisfied. [Exit Page.
RuY Blas (alone, falling into an arm-chair). My thoughts grow calmer now. Yet I forget, and feel things all confused As were I mad. Ah yes, the means are sure.
Don Guritan. But I myself? Is there
The need to wait Don Sallustc here? Wherefore? Oh no, I will not wait, and that percliance Will paralyse him for a day. Within A church I want to pray. I'll go — I've need Of help, and God will me inspire !
[He takes his hat from a side table, and shakes a little hell placed on the table. Tzco negroes dres.ied in pale green velvet brocaded with gold, jackets plaited into great lappets, appear at the door at the back.
I leave. But very soon a man will hither come — And by an entrance known to him. May be, When in the house, as if he were indeed The master, he will act. Let him so do.
And if some others come
(After hesitating a moment.)
My faith, why then You'll please to let them enter.
[By a gesture he dismisses the negroes who how in token of obedience and exeunt.
Now I go ! [Exit.
[At the moment the door closes on Ruy Blas there is
882 DRAMAS [act I?.
heard a great noise in the chimney, from which sud- denly falls a man wrapped in a tattered cloak. It is Don C^sar who throws himself into the room.
Scene 2. — Don C^sar.
Don Cesar (scared, out of breath, stupefied, disordered, with
an expression of mingled joy and anxiety). 'Tis I! So much the worse!
\^He rises, rubbing the leg on which he has fallen, and comes into the room hat in hand and bowing low.
Your pardon, pray ! But heed me not. I don't attend — go on With your discourse, continue I entreat, I enter rather rudely — Sirs, for that I'm sorry ! jj>" , (He stops in the middle of the room, perceiving he is alone.)
No one here? — When on the roof ^ cto^ Just now I perched, I thought I heard the sound Of voices. — No one, though !
(Seats himself in an arm-chair.)
That's very well. Let me now gather up my thoughts. And good Is solitude. Oh, what events ! — Marvels With which I'm charged, just as a wetted dog Who shakes off water. First those Alguazils Who seized me in their claws, and that absurd Embarkment; then the corsairs, and the town So big where I was beaten sorely. Then Temptations of that sallow woman ; next, Departure from the prison ; travels, too. And at the last return to Spain. And then — Oh, what a tale ! — The day that I arrived, Those self-same Alguazils the first I met. My desperate flight, and their enraged pursuit; I leaped a wall, and then I saw a house
sc. II.] RUY BLAS 383
Ilf'U-hidden bj the trees; I tlnther ran; None saw me, so I nimbly clinibcd from shed To roof; at last I introduced myself Into the bosom of a family l^y coming down a chimney, v.hcre I tore To rags my newest mantle, that now hangs About my heels. B3^ hcav'n, Cousin Salluste, You are a braggart rogue !
(Looki/ng at Jmnself in a little Venetian glass placed on the
sculptured chest.)
My doublet here Has kept to me through these disasters all. It struggles yet.
\_He takes off his mantle and admires in the glass his rose-colored doublet, now torn and patched; then |.[ he puts his hand sharply to his leg, with a look at the
__- chimney.
But in my fall my leg Has suff er'd horribly !
\^He opens the draxoers of the chest. In one of them he -finds a mantle of light- green velvet embroidered with gold. The mantle given by Don Salluste to Ruy Blas. He examines it and compares it with his own.
It seems to me This mantle is more decent than my own.
\^He puts on tlie green mantle, and leaves his own in the chest, after having carefully folded it up. He adds his hat, which he crushes under the mantle with a blow of his fist. Then he shuts the drawer, and struts about proudly draped in the fine mantle em- broidered with gold. 'Twill do. Behold me now rcturn'd. All is Proceeding well. Ah, cousin very dear. You wished to send me off to Africa, Where man is mouse unto the tiger ! Ah, I'll be revenged on you most savagely,
384 DRAMAS [act iv.
My cursed cousin, when I've breakfasted. In my right name I'll go to you, and drag With me a troup of rogues, such as can smell The gibbet a league off - — - and more, I will Deliver you alive, thus to appease The appetites of all my creditors, These followed by their little ones.
\^He perceives in the corner a pair of splendid boots trimmed with lace. He takes off his shoes in a lei- surely manner, and, without scruple, puts on the new boots.
But first Now let me see where all his perfidies Have led me.
{After looking all round the room.) A mysterious dwelling, fit For tragedies. Closed doors and shutteis barred, A dungeon quite. Into this charming place One enters from the top, just as there comes The wine into the bottles.
(With a sigh.)
Ah, good wine Is very good.
\^He notices the little door at the right, opens it, and hastily enters the closet with which it communicates, and then comes back with a gesture of astonishment. Oh wonders, wonders more ! Where ever3'thing is closed, a little room Without the means of egress !
\^He goes to the door at the back, half -opens it, and looks out; he lets it close and comes to the front.
Not a soul ! — Oh, where the deuce am I ? — At any rate, I've managed to escape the Alguazils. What matters all the resL? Need I be scared And take a gloomy view, because I ne'er
I
sc. II.] RUY BLAS 385
Before beheld a house hke this?
{He seats himself in the arm-chair, and yawns, but soon gets up again.)
Come, though, I feel the dullness here is horrible !
(Perceiving a little corner cupboard in the wall.) Let's see, this looks to me a little like A bookcase.
{He opens it, and finds it to be a well-furnished larder.) Ah! 'tis just the thing.- — A pie, A water-melon, and some wine. A cold Collation for emergency. By Jove ! I'd prejudices 'gainst this house.
(Examines the flagons one after the other.)
All good. — Come, now ! This place is worthy of great praise.
\^He goes to the corner, and brings thence to the front a little round table, on which he places the contents of the larder — bottles, dishes, etc. He adds a glass, plate, fork, etc. Then he takes up one of the bottles. Let's read this one the first.
(He fills the glass, and drinks off the wine.)
A work that is Most admirable. The production fine Of that so famous poet called the sun ! Xeres-des-Chevaliers can nothing show More ruby-like.
(He sits, and pours out another glass of wine.) What book's worth this.? Find me Something that is more spiritual !
(He drinks.)
All! This comforts ! Let us eat.
(He cuts the pie.)
I have outstripp'd Those dogs of Alguazils. They've lost the scent.
^He begins eating.)
386 DRAMAS [act iv.
The king of pies ! and as for him wlio is
The master here, should he drop in
{^He goes to the sideboard, and brings thence a glass
and a plate.)
Why, him I now invite, if that he does not come To drive me hence. Let me be very quick.
(He takes large mouthfuls.) My dinner done, I'll look about the house. Who can inhabit it.^* Maybe, he is A jolly fellow. This place can but hide Some feminine intrigue. PshaAv ! What's the harm That here I do? What is it, I beseech.? Nought but this worthy's hospitality After the ancient way,
(He half kneels, surrounding the table zvith his arms.)
Embracing thus The altar. (He drinks.)
Firstly though, this wine is not A bad man's wine. And then if anyone Should come, I'd certainly declare myself. How you would rage, my old accursed coz ! What, that low fellow, that Bohemian ! That beggarly black sheep Zafari.^^ Yes, Don Csesar de Bazan, the cousin he Of the Don Salluste ! What a fine surprise ! And what a hubbub in Madrid ! When was't That he return'd.'' This morning, or this night .f* What tumult everywhere at such a bomb, The great forgotten name that all at once Again is heard ! Don Caesar de Bazan ! Yes, if you please, good Sirs. Nobody thought — Nobody spoke of him, — then he's not dead ! He lives, my dames and gentlemen ! The men Will cry : The deuce ! The women they will say, Indeed ! Aye, aye ! Soft sound that mingles with The barking of three hundred creditors
*
^c. III.] RUY BLAS 387
As you go home ! Fine part to play ! Alas ! I am wanting money for it.
{A noise is heard at the door.)
Some one comes ! No doubt t' expel me like a vile buffoon. — No matter though. Ca?sar, do nought by halves !
[^He wraps himself in his cloak up to the eyes. The door at the back opens. A lackey in livery enters hearing a great courier's hag on his hack.
Scene 3. — Don C^sar. A Lackey.
Don C^sar {scanning the Lackey from head to foot.) Whom seek you here my friend.^ (Aside.)
I must assume Great confidence — the peril is extreme.
The Lackey. Don Csesar de Bazan.''
Don CiESAR (lowering his mantle from his face.)
Don Cffisar! That's Myself! (Aside.)
Here is the wonderful !
The Lackey.
You are, My Lord, Don Cassar de Bazan.?
Don Cesar.
By heav'n I have the honour so to be. Cjesar, The true and only Caesar ! Count of Gar
The Lackey (placing the hag on the arm-chair). Now deign to see if the amount be right
Don C^sar (dazed. — aside). Some money ! Oh, it is too wonderful !
I
388 DRAMAS [act iv,
{Aloud.)
My man
The Lackey. You'll condescend to count. It is jThe sum that I was told to bring you.
Don C^sar (gravely).
Ah! 'Tis well, I understand. (Aside.)
The devil now
I wish But there we must not disarrange
This admirable story. In the nick Of time it comes. (Aloud.)
Now want you a receipt.'^
The Lackey. Not so, my Lord.
Don C^sar (pointing at the table). Put there the money bag.
[^The Lackey obeys. Whom comes it from.^
The Lackey. My Lord knows very well.
Don C^sar. Undoubtedly, but still
The Lackey.
This money here — And this is what is needful that I add — Now comes for purpose that you know, fx'om him You Icnow.
Don CiESAR (satisfied with the explanation ). Ah!
The Lackey. Both of us must careful be — Hush I
sc. III.] RUY BLAS 389
Don C^sar.
Hush ! — This money comes The phrase Is most
Magnificent ! Repeat it once again.
The Lackey. This money
Don CiESAB,. All explains itself. It comes From him I know
The Lackey. For purpose that you know. We must
Don Cesar, The pair of us!
The Lackey.
Be guarded now.
Don C^sar. It is quite clear.
The Lackey. I do not understand, I but obey,
Don C^sar. Pshaw — Pshaw !
The Lackey.
But you, I know. Do comprehend.
Don C^sar. The deuce !
The Lackey.
Sufficient 'tis,
Don CiESAR. I take it and I understand, my boy, Receiving money always easy is.
390 DRAMAS [act iv.
The Lackey Hush!
Don Caesar. Hush ! Deuce take it — ah, we must not now Imprudent be!
The Lackey. Count it, my Lord !
Don C^sab,.
For what. Pray, do you take me?
[^Admiring the rotundity of the bag on the table.
Oh ! the fine paunch !
«
The Lackey {insistmg).
But
Don C^sae. I do confide in thee.
The Lackey. The gold is in Broad quadruples, that weigh their full seven drachms And six and thirty grains, or good doubloons. The silver in cross-maries.
[Don C^sar opens the great bag and takes from it sev- eral small bags full of gold and silver, which he opens and empties on to the table admiringly; then he digs his hand into the bags of gold and draws out handfuls, filling his pockets with quadruples and doubloons.
Don C^sar (^pausing, with majesty. Aside.)
Now behold My fine romance, — the crown of fairy-dreams Is dying for love of a fat million.
[He continues filing his pockets. Oh joy! I take in like a galleon!
[One pocket filled, he passes to another. He seeks every-
sc. III.] RUY BLAS 391
•where for pockets and seems to have forgotten the Lackey,
The Lackey {who looks at him calmly). And now I wait your orders.
Don C^sar {turning round).
What to do?
The Lackey. To promptly execute without delay A something which you know, but I do not,
A thing of great importance
Don C^sar {interrupting him as if understanding).
Public 'tis And private
The Lackey. Which this instant should be done. I say what I was told to say.
Don C^sar {slapping him on the shoulder).
And I Applaud thee for it — faithful servant thou !
The Lackey. That nothing be delayed my master sends Myself to help you.
Don CiESAR. Acting in accord. Let us do what he wishes. {Aside.) Hang me now If I know what to tell him. {Aloud.) Galleon, Come here, and first {He fills the other glass with wine).
Drink this !
The Lackey.
Indeed, my Lord
Don C^sar. Drink this.
392 DRAMAS [act iv.
[^The Lackey drinks, and Don C^-sar again fills the
glass. 'Tis wine of Oropesa ! {He makes the Lackey sit down, and plies him with wvne).
Now Let's chat.
(Aside.) His eyes already sparkle.
(Aloud, and stretching himself on his chair.)
Man Is nought, dear friend, but black smoke that proceed* From out the passions' fire. Pshaw ! I declare (Pours wine for him to drink.) 'Tis rubbish this I'm telling thee. At first The smoke, unto blue heav'n recalled, comports Itself in manner different from when 'Tis in a chimney. It mounts gaily, while We tumble down.
(He ruhs his leg.) Only vile lead is man. (He fills the two glasses.) Let's drink. All thy doubloons are of less worth Than is a passing drunkard's song.
(Approaching nearer to him ki a mysterious manner.)
But see, Be prudent. The o'erloaded axle breaks ; The wall without foundation suddenly Gives way. — My mantle's collar please to hook.
The Lackey (haughtily). My Lord, I'm not a valet.
(Before Don Caesar can prevent him, he rings the little
bell on the table.)
Don Cesar (aside — terrified). Oh, he rings ! The master, perhaps, will come himself. I'm caught!
l^Enter one of the Negroes. Don Caesar, a prey to the
I
sc. III.] RUY BLAS 893
greatest anxiety, turns towards the opposite side, as if not knowing what to do.
The Lackey {to the Negro). Fasten my Lord's clasp.
IThe Negro gravely approaches Don C^sar, who looks at him as if stupefied. Then he fastens the mantle, hows, and goes out, leaving Don Caesar petrified.
Don C^sar {rising from the table — aside). On my word of honour ! Beelzebub's abode this is !
{He comes to the front, and strides about.)
My faith! Now let things drift, and take what comes. At least, I'll stir the crowns ; a coffer full of them. The money I have got ! What shall I do With it?
{Turning towards the Lackey, who is still at the table, drinking, and who begins to reel in his chair). Your pardon — stop.
{Musing — aside. )
Now, let me see, — If I should pay my creditors ? — for shame ! ■ — At least, to calm their minds that are so prompt At turning sour, — if I should water them With something on account? What good is it To water flowers so villainous? How now The devil did I think of such a thing? Nothing there is like money to corrupt A man, and fill him up unto the throat With all mean sentiments ! E'en if he were From Hannibal himself descended, him Who conquered Rome ! To see me paying debts I owe ! what would they say ? Ah, ah !
The Lackey {emptying his glass).
What now Do you command of me?
394 DRAMAS [act iv.
Don C^sar. Let be — I am Reflecting. Drink, while waiting.
[^The Lackey begins drinking again. Don C^sar con- tinues to muse; then suddenly strikes his forehead, as if he had found an idea.
Yes! (To the Lackey.)
Get up Immediately. See now, what must be done. Thy pockets fill with gold.
[^The Lackey rises, stumbling, and fills the pockets of his coat, Don C^sar helping him as he continues.
Go thou unto The lane which leads from out the Mayor Square, Enter at Number Nine. A narrow house ; A pleasant dwelling, if it did not hap The glass panes at the right were paper patched.
/ / A one-eyed house.'' ^
The Lackey.
Don CiESAR.
Oh no, it only jCLuints.* One might be crippled mounting up the stairs. So take you care.
The Lackey. A ladder is't.?
Don Cesar.
Almost, But steeper. Up above, a beauty dwells, Easy to know — beneath a threepenny cap Thickish disordered hair. She's rather short And red — a charming woman, though. My boy, You'll be respectful, she my dear love is,
i Mai^on borgne — French slang for a disreputable house; and louche, for a suspicious one. — Trans.
sc. III.] RUY BLAS 395
Lucinda fair, with eyes like indigo,
Once she ; who danced fandango for the Pope
At eve to see. Count out and give to her
A hundred of the ducats, in my name.
Then, in a hovel near, you'll see a stout
And red-nosed devil, with an old felt hat
Dragged down upon his eyebrows, and a plume,
A feather brush, that tragically hangs
Astonished from it; rapier at his side.
And rags upon his back. Give next, from me,
Unto this creature six piastres. — Then
Go further, thou wilt find a hole, black like
An oven, 'tis a tavern at cross roads ;
There smokes and drinks i' the porch, a frequenter,
A gentle-manner'd man who leads a life
That's elegant, a gentleman from whom
An oath ne'er dropp'd, my heart's friend he ; his name
Is Goulatromba. Give him thirty crowns !
And tell him for thanksgiving he alone
Musi drink them quick, and he shall have some more.
Give to these rascals in the biggest coins.
And do not wonder at the eyes they'll ope.
The Lackey. And afterwards.''
Don Cesar. Why, keep the rest. And then At last
The Lackey. What would my Lord.''
Don C^sar.
Then surfeit thou Thyself, thou soamp. Break many pots, and make Much noise, and not until to-morrow, in The night, go home.
396 DRAMAS [act iv.
The Lackey. •■>vA/jrod?d ^ Enough, my Prince.
b,oy^Ad, (, ^He moves toward the door in a zigzag way.
Don C^sab {aside — observing his walk).
He is Abominably drunk !
{Recalling the other, who turns back.) Ah, now — when out Thou goest, idle folks will follow thee. Do honour to the drink thou's't had. Try thou To bear thyself in noble fashion. If By chance some crowns from out thy stocking drop, Then let them fall, — and if assayers, clerks, Some scholars, or the beggars that one sees Pass by, should pick them up, let them do so. Don't be a mortal fierce, that they would dread T' approach. — And e'en if from thy pocket some They take — be thou indulgent. They are men As we. And, as you see, it is a law C" For us, in this world full of misery, \ To give sometimes a little joy to all ^ Who live.
(With melancholy.) Perchance they will be hang'd some day! Show, then, the kindness to them which is due ! Go, now.
[^The Lackey goes out. Left alone, Don Caesar sits down again, and leans his elbow on the table, ap- pearing to be plugged in deep thought. It is the duty of the sage And Christian having money that he use It well. For eight days at the very least I have enough. These will I live. And should A little money still remain, I will Employ it piously. But I must not Be over confident. Undoubtedly
sc. IV.] RUY BLAS 397
'Tis all a blunder, and from me it will Be taken, ah, the thing will all become Misunderstood. A fine scrape this of mine. . . .
[^The door at the back opens. Enter an old, grey-
haired Duenna in black dress and mantle, and with
a fan.
Scene 4. — Don C^sak. A Duenna.
The Duenna (at the threshold of the door). Don Caesar de Bazan?
[Don C^sar, absorbed in his meditations, turns his head
suddenly.
Don C^sar.
Now then, what is it? (Aside), A woman ! Oh !
[^Whilst the Duenna makes a low respectful curtsey at the back he comes to the front wonder-struck. The devil or Salluste Must be mixed up in this ! Next I expect To see my cousin here. Duenna, oh!
(Aloud). 'Tis I, Don Caesar, tell your business, pray.
(Aside). Most commonly it is a woman old That ushers in a young one.
The Duenna (bowing and making sign of the Cross),
I, my Lord, Salute you, on this fast day, in the name Of Him o'er whom there's nothing can prevail.
Don CiESAR (aside). A galant ending that begins devoutly.
(Aloud). Amen. Grood day.
398 DRAMAS [act iv.
The Duenna. May God maintain you, e'er In happiness, (Mysteriously/).
Know you of some one who Has sent me now, with whom you've plann'd to-night A secret meeting?
Don C^sar. Oh, I'm capable Of such a thing.
The Duenna (tvho takes from her farthingale a folded letter which she shows to him, but without allowing him
to take it.) Then you indeed it is, Galant discreet, who've just addressed to one Who loves you, for to-night a message, — one Whom you know well?
Don C^sar.
It must be I.
The Duenna.
Good — good.
The lady married to some dotard old Is forced no doubt, to careful be. I was Desired to hither come. Her I know not, But you know her — it was her waiting maid Who told me about things. That was enough. Without the names.
Don C^sar. Excepting mine.
The Duenna.
'Tis plain, Th' appointment for the lady has been made By her soul's friend, — but fearing there may be Some snare, and knowing too much caution ne'er Spoiled aught, she sends me here from your own mouth To have the confirmation
^ y-,j
sc. IV.] RUY BLAS 399
Don CiESAR. Oh the old And surly thing ! What fuss about a sweet Love letter ! Yes, 'tis I myself, I tell You so.
The Duenna (placing on the table the folded letter, which Don C^sar looks at with curiositt/). In that case then, if you it be, The one word, Come, upon tlie letter 3^ou Will write — but not by your own hand — that so There may be nothing compromised.
Don C^sar.
Indeed ! From mine own hand! {Aside).
A message well conveyed ! \_He puts out his hand to take the letter; but it has been resealed and the Duenna will not let him touch it.
The Duenna. You must not open. You will recognise The fold.
Don C^sar. By Heaven ! {Aside).
I who burn to see !
But let me play my part !
[^He rings the little bell. One of the negroes enters. Know'st thou to write? [The Negro nods an affirmative sign. Astonishment of Don C^sar. {Aside.) A sign! {Aloud). Art thou then dumb, thou rascal?
[Again the Negro makes the sign of affirmation. Fresh stupefaction of Don Cesar. {Aside.)
Well ! Continue ! Mutes appear the latest thing !
[To the Mute, showing him the letter which the old woman holds down on the table.
400 DRAMAS [act iv.
Write there: Come.
[The Mute writes. Don C^sab signs to the Duenna to take hack the letter, and to the Mute to go. Exit the Mute.
Ah! he is obedient!
The Duenna (with an air of mystery again placing the let- ter in her farthingale, and appi'oaching nearer to Don C^sar).
To-night you'll see her. Is she very fair.'*
Don C^sar. Oh, charming!
The Duenna.
'Twas the cunning waiting-maid Who managed it. At sermon-time aside She took me. Oh, how beautiful was she ! With angel's profile and a demon's eye. Knowing in love affairs she seemed to be.
Don CiESAR (aside). I'd be contented with the maid I
The Duenna.
We judge — For always beauty makes the plain afraid, — So with Sultana and her slave, and with The master and his man. Most certainly Your love is very beautiful.
Don CiESAR.
I'm proud, Indeed, to think so !
The Duenna (making a curtsey and about to withdraw).
Sir, I kiss your hand.
Don CiESAR (giving her a handful of doubloons). I'll grease thy palm. Old woman, stop.
/
sc. IV.] BUY BLAS 401
The Duenna (pocJceting them).
Ah, youth Is gay to-day !
Don Cesar (dismissing her). Now go.
The Duenna {curtseys).
If you have need
I'm named Dame Oliva. Saint Isidro,
The Convent,
\^She goes out. Afterwards the door re-opens and her \ head appears.
J Always at the right I sit
Of the third pillar entering the church.
[Don C^sab turns round with impatience. The door closes; again it half opens and the old woman re- appears. To-night you'll see her! In your prayers, my Lord, Remember me.
Don C^sar (driving her away angrily). Ah! [The Duenna disappears and the door closes.
Don CiESAR (alone). Now I'm resolved, my faith, At nothing more to be at all surprised. I'm in the moon. Behold a love affair Now comes ; I am about to satisfy
My heart, after long hunger. (Musing.) Oh all this To me just now seems mighty good. But ah! Beware the end !
[The door at the back opens. Don Guritan appears
with two long naked swords under his arm. 26
i)
402 DRAMAS [act iv.
Scene 5. — Don C^sab — Don Guritan.
Don Guritan {at the back). Don Csesar de Bazan?
Don CiESAR (turning and perceiving Don Guritan with the
two swords). And now ! Well, well ! Events were fine enough, But better still they are. A dinner good. Then money ; and an assignation — now A duel ! Csesar in his natural state Again am I !
[^He greets Don Guritan gaily, with demonstrative salutations; Don Guritan looks at him impa- tiently, and advances to the front with a firm step. Here is he, my dear Lord And will you please to enter — take a chair. (He places an arm-chair — Don Guritan remains standing.) Be seated, pray ; — without formality. As if at home. I'm charm'd to see you. Sir ; There, let us chat a moment. Tell me now What's doing in Madrid ? A charming place ! I nothing know ; but I suppose that still They wonder at the Matalobos, and The Lindamere! As for myself, I'd fear The stealer of our hearts as peril more Than stealer of our money bags. Oh, Sir, The women ! Sex possessed ! My brain is crack'd Where they're concern'd, they so enslave me. Speak, And tell me what is doing now-a-days; I am but half alive — an ox — a thing Absurd — with nought that's human left in him, A dead man risen, an hidalgo true Of old Castile. They've robbed me of my plume, And I my gloves have lost. I come from lands Most wonderful.
^
sc. v.] RUY BLAS 403
Don Guritan.
You come, dear Sir? Ah well, I've just arrived from farther off than you!
Don C^sar (brightening up). From what distinguished shore?
Don Guritan.
Down yonder, in The north.
Don C^sar. And I from farther in the south.
Don Guritan. I'm furious!
Don C^sar. Is it so? I am enraged!
Don Guritan. Twelve hundred leagues I've travelled!
Don C^sar.
I have done Two thousand! Women fair, black, yellow, brown I've seen. To places bless'd by heaven I've been. Algiers the happy town, and fair Tunis Where one may see — such pleasant ways have Turks — People impaled hooked up above the doors.
Don Guritan. I have been played a trick.
Don C^sar.
Almost exiled I was.
And I've been sold. Don Guritan.
Don C^sar. I almost hang'd!
404 DRAMAS [act iv.
Don Guritan. To Ncubourg cunningly they sent me off, To bear these fcAv words written in a box: " Keep this old fool as long as possible."
Don C^sae (bursting out laughing). And who did this?
Don Guritan.
But I will wring the neck Of Csesar de Bazan.
Don C^sar (gravely).
Ah!
Don Guritan.
And to crown His insolence, he just now sent to me A lackey to excuse himself, he said, A serving man, but I refused to see The varlet, and I made them lock him up. Now to the master, Caesar de Bazan, I come ! This most audacious traitor knave ! See now, I'll kill him ! Where is he ?
Don C^sar (^still gravely).
I'm he, Don Guritan. You! — You are joking. Sir?
Don CiESAB.
I am Don Caesar.
Don Guritan.
What! This again!
Don C^sar. Undoubtedly again!
Don Guritan. Leave off this play, you greatly weary me, E'en if you think that you are droll.
sc. v.] RUY BLAS 405
Don CiESAR.
And you
Amuse me much. You have to me the air Of jealousy. Exceedingly, dear Sir, I pity you. The ills that come to us From our own vices are more hard to bear Than those which hap to us from others' sins. I'd rather be — and so I've often said — Quite poor than miserly, and be deceived Rather than jealous. You are both. And now, Upon my soul, I do to-night expect Your wife.
Don Gueitan. My wife!
Don CiESAR.
Oh yes, your wife !
Don Guritan.
I am not married.
Don C^sar. Yet you have stirr'd up This riot ! And you're not a married man ! For the last quarter of an hour you have Assumed the husband's roar, or else the air Of weeping tiger, so efficiently That in simplicity I've given you A heap of precious counsel seeming fit! But if not married, why, by Hercules, Have you thus made yourself ridiculous?
Don Guritan. Do you know, Sir, that you exasperate me?
Don CiESAR. Pooh!
Come now!
406 DRAMAS [act iv.
Don Gueitan. This is too much !
Don C^sar. Truly?
Don Guritan.
Oh, but you Shall pay for this !
Don C^sar (looking in a jeering manner at Don Guritan's feet, which are covered hy waves of ribbon, according to
the new fashion).
In days gone by it was That on the head were ribbons worn. I mark That now — and 'tis an honest mode — they're placed Upon the boot, and feet are thus adorned. A charming thing!
Don Guritan.
I see that Ave must fight!
Don C-esar (with indifference). You think so.''
Don Guritan. You're not Cnesar, that concerns Myself; but I'll commence with you.
Don CiESAR.
Good, good! Take care with me to finish.
Don Guritan (presenting one of the swords to him).
Fop ! At once.
Don C^sar (taking the sword). Immediately. When I've a chance to fight I do not lose it !
Don Guritan. Where?
sc. VI.] RUY BLAS 407
Don C^sar.
Behind the wall. This street's deserted.
Don Guritan {trying the point of his sword on the floor).
As for Caesar, ah ! I'll kill him afterwards.
Don C^sar. Indeed .''
Don Guritan.
Most surely!
Don CjESar (also making his sword bend). Pshaw ! One of us dead, you I then defy To kill Don Ca;sar.
Don Guritan. Let us out ! [They go out. The sound of their retreating steps is heard. A little concealed door opens in the right wal\ and Don Salluste enters by it.
Scene 6.
Don Salluste {dressed in a dark green coat, almost black. He appears anxious and pre-occupied. He looks about, and listens uneasily).
There's nought Prepared! {Noticing the table covered with dishes.) What means all this.? {Hearing the noise of Cesar's and Guritan's steps.)
What noise is that.^ {He walks about in reverie.) This morning Gudiel saw the Page go out And followed him. — Unto Don Guritan
He went. — I see not Ruy Bias. This Page •
Oh Satan ! 'Tis some countermine ! some word
408 DRAMAS [act iv.
Of faithful counsel, with the which he charged Don Guritan for her! — And from the mutes One can learn nothing ! It is that ! I had Not counted on Don Guritan at all.
[^Enter Don Caesar. In his hand he carries the bare sword, which, on entering, he throws upon an arm- chair.
Scene 7. — Don Salluste — Don Caesar.
Don C^sab (from the threshold of the door). Ah, I was very sure! I see you then. Old fiend !
Don Salluste (turning round petrified). Don Caesar!
Don CiESAR (crossing his arms and bursting out laughing),
You are weaving now Some frightful scheme! But have I not disturb'd It all just now, by sprawling heavily Into the midst of it?
Don Salluste (aside). Oh, all is lost!
Don Cjesar (laughing). Through all this morning have I come across Your spider webs. Not one of all your plans Is now unspoilt. I flung myself on them At hazard; and the whole demoHshed I. This is delightful !
Don Salluste (aside).
Demon! What can he Have done?
Don C^sar (laughing louder and louder). The man you sent with money-bag For purpose that you know, to whom you know.
sc. VII.] RUY BLAS 409
(^He laughs.)
What a good joke!
Don Salluste. What then?
Don C^sae.
Don Salluste. About the money that he had?
I made him drunk.
Don C^sar.
With it I presents made to divers persons. Well, We all have friends.
Don Sall-uste. You wrongly me suspect
Don C^sar (rattling the money in his pockets), I first my pockets filled, you will believe.
(Laughs again.) You understand ? the lady !
Don Salluste. Oh!
Don C^sar {remarking his anxiety).
You know, — [Don Salluste listens with redoubled anxiety. Don C^SAR proceeds, laughing. She sent an old duenna — fearful wretch. With sprouting beard and drunkard's ruddy nose
Don Salluste. What for?
Don CiESAR. To quietly inquire if it Were true — from prudence — that Don Caesar here Expected her to-night
410 DRAMAS [act iv.
Don Salluste (aside).
Good Heavens! (Aloud.)
And what Didst thou reply?
Don Cj:sar. My master, I said yes ! That I awaited her.
Don Salluste (aside). It may be all Is not yet lost!
Don C^sar. And last your swordsman fine, Your Captain, on the field he gave his name — 'Twas Guritan. (Don Salluste starts.)
This morning prudently He would not see the lackey that was sent With message from Don Csesar, and he came To me demanding satisfaction
Don Salluste.
Well, And what didst thou?
Don C^sar.
I killed the goose-cap.
Don Salluste.
Ah! Indeed?
Don C^sar. Yea, 'neath the wall he's dying now,
Don Salluste. Art sure he'll die?
Don C^sar. I fear so.
Don Sallfste (aside).
Oh, again
sc. VII.] RUY BLAS 411
I breathe ! By Grace of heaven ! nothing he Has yet disturbed ! Quite otherwise. But let me Be rid of him, this rough assistant, now ! The money — as for that, 'tis nought. {Aloud.)
Your tale Is very strange. And have you seen none else?
Don CiESAR, No soul. But soon I shall. I shall go on. My name will cause sensation through the town. I'll make a frightful scandal, you may rest Assured.
Don Salluste (aside). The devil ! (Eagerly, and approaching Don C^sau.) Money you may keep. But leave this house.
Don CiESAR. Ah, yes, one knows your ways* You'd have me followed ! Then I should return — Delightful destiny — to contemplate Thy blue, oh sea Mediterranean! Not I.
Don Salluste. Believe me.
Don C^sar.
No. Besides, within This palace-prison some one is, I feel, A prey to your dark treachery. All plots Of Courts have double ladders. On one side Arms tied, and gloom, and troubled looks. By one Ascends the suff'rer, by the other mounts The executioner. — Now you must be The headsman of necessity.
Don Salluste.
Oh! oh!
412 DRAMAS [act iv.
Don CiESAR. For me ! I pull the ladder, and crack — down It goes I
Don Sal,i.uste. I swear
Don CiESAR.
I will to spoil it all Stay through th' adventure. Oh, I know you sharp Enough, my subtle cousin, puppets two Or three to hang up by one cord. Hold, now, I'm one ! and I will here remain !
Don SalliUste.
Hark, now
Don Cesar. To rhetoric! Ah, me you sold away To Af ric's pirates ! Here you fabricate Some Caesar false! And thus you compromise My name !
Don Salluste. Mere chance it was.
Don C^sar.
Mere chance ! Excuse That dish that rogues prepare for fools to gulp ; No chance was it. The worse for you if plans Break through. But I intend to succour those Whom you'd destroy. I shall cry out my name From the house-tops.
{He clvmbs on the window supports and looks out.)
Now wait ! Here is good luck ! The Alguazils are 'neath the window now.
{He passes his arm through the bars and shakes them^
crying out) Halloa !
sc. VIII.] RUY BLAS 413
UoN Salluste (aside, and terrified, at the front of the
stage). All's lost if he be recognized ! [The Alguazils enter, preceded hy an Alcaid. Don Salluste appears in great perplexity. Don C^sar goes towards the Alcaid with an air of triumph.
Scene 8. — The Same, an Alcaid, and the Alguazils.
Don CiESAR {to the Alcaid). You, in your warrant, will take down
Don Salluste (pointing to Don Caesar).
That this Man is the famous robber Matalobos !
Don C^sab (amazed). How!
— ^ Don Salluste (aside).
X All I gain, if I but gain a day.
^ "^"^ ■ — {To the Alcaid. )
This man in shining daylight dares to come Into our houses. — Seize the thief.
[^The Alguazils seize Don CiESAR by the collar.
Don C^sar (furious, to Don Salluste).
Pardon ! You lie outrageously !
The Alcaid.
Who was it, then, That called us.?
Don Salluste. It was I.
That's bold!
Don CiESAR.
By heaven, now!
414 DRAMAS
The Alcaid. Be still! I think he's right.
Don CiESAR. I am Don Csesar de Bazan himself!
[act IV.
But list.
Don Salluste. Don Csesar! If you please, examine now His mantle — you will find that Salluste's writ Beneath the collar. 'Tis a mantle which Just now he stole from me.
IThe Alguazils snatch off the mantle, and the Alcaid
examines it.
The Alcaid.
Quite right — 'tis so.
Don Salluste. The doublet that he wears
Don C^sar (aside).
Accursed Salluste!
Don Salluste (continuing). Belongs to the Count d'Albe; it was from him He stole it,
(showing an escutcheon embroidered on the facing of the
left sleeve) And whose 'scutcheon you behold !
Don C^sar (aside). Bewitched he must be !
The Alcaid (examining the blazon). Ah, yes — yes ; here are The castles two, in gold
Don Salluste.
Also you'll see Two cauldrons, Henriquez and Guzman.
[/w strugglvng, Don CjEsar has let fall some doubloons
sc. VIII.] RUY BLAS 415
from his pockets. Don Salluste points out to the Alcaid the manner in which they were filled.
There !
Is that the way that money's borne about
By honest men?
The Alcvid {shaking his head). Ahem !
Don CiESAR (aside). I'm cai
The Alcaid
I'm caught.
Here are
Some papers.
Don C^sar (aside).
Ah, they've found ! Oh, oh, the poor Love-letters saved through all my scrapes !
The Alcaid (examining the papers).
Letters
What's this? — in different hands are they
Don Salluste (making him observe the directions).
But all Directed to the Count.
The Alcaid.
Yes.
Don C^sar.
But
The Alcaid (tying his hands).
Caught now! What luck!
An Alguazil (entering to the Alcaid). Outside, my Lord, a man has just Been killed.
416 DRAMAS [act iv.
The Alcaid. Who is the murderer?
Don Salluste (pointing to Don C^sar),
'Tis he.
Don C^sar (aside). The duel ! Oh, that senseless freak !
Don Salluste.
ii Ah, when
He entered, in his hand he had a sword. And there it is.
The Alcaid (examining the sword). And blood upon it ! Ah ! (To Don Caesar.) There — go with them.
Don Salluste (to Don Cesar, whom the Alguazils are taking away). To Matalobos now Good evening.
• Don C^sar. (making a step towards him and looking at
him fixedly). Earth's vilest scoundrel you !
ACT FIPTH: THE TIGER AND THE LION
The same room. It is night. A lamp is on the table. At the rising of the curtain Ruy Blas is alone. He is dressed in a long black robe, which conceals his other vestments.
Scene 1.
Ruy Blas (alone).
'Tis ended now. The dream — the vision — all
Has passed away. All day till eve I've walked
Haphazard through the streets. Just now I've hope.
I'm calm. At night the head is less disturb'd
By noise, and one reflects the better then.
Nought too alarming in these darkened walls
I see ; the furniture is 'ranged ; the keys
Are in the locks ; the mutes sleep overhead ;
The house is truly very still. Oh yes,
There is no reason for alarm. All things
Proceed quite well. My page all faithful is.
Don Guritan is sure to stir himself
For her. Oh, God ! May I not thank Thee now.
Just God, for sufF'ring that advice to reach
Her ears. Thou, gracious God, hast aided me,
'Tis Thou hast helped me to protect and save
This angel, and defeat Don Salluste. Oh
May she have nought to fear, and nought, alas,
To suffer ; and may she be ever saved !
And oh, that I may die !
\^He draws from his bosom a little vial which he places
on the table.
Yes, perish now,
Despised ! and sink into the grave ! Yes, die 27
418 DRAMAS [act v.
As one should die, who seeks to expiate
A crime ! Die in this dwelhng, wretched, vile,
And alone !
l^He throws open the black robe, under which is seen the livery which he wore in the prst act. Die with thy livery beneath Thy winding-sheet! Oh, if the demon comes To see his victim dead,
[He pushes a piece of furniture to barricade the secret
door. he shall at least Not enter by this horrid door ! [He comes bach to the table.
'Tis sure The Page has spoken to Don Guritan. It was not eight o'clock this morn. [He gazes on the vial.
For me I have condemned myself, and now prepare My execution, — on my head I shall Myself let fall the tomb's so heavy lid. At least I have the comfort certainly To know there is no help. My fall must be.
[Sinking into the arm-chair. And yet she loved me ! Oh God, help me now ! I've not the courage ! [He weeps.
Oh ! he might in peace Have left us! [He hides his face in his hands and sobs.
Oh, my God! [Raising his head, as if distraught, and looking at the
vial.
The man who sold Me this asked me what day o' the month it was. I could not tell. My head's confused. Oh, men Are cruel. You may die, and none will care. I suffer. — Me she loved ! — To know things past Can never be restored ! And to bcliold Her nevermore! Her hand that I have press'd! Her lips that touch'd my brow Angel adored !
sc. II.] RUY BLAS 419
Poor angel! There Is need to die, and die
Despairing ! Oh, her dress, the folds of which
Each one had grace, her footstep that had power
To stir my soul when it pass'd by, her eyes
That did intoxicate mine own still all
Irresolute, her smile, her voice and I
Shall see her, hear her never more. Is this
Then possible? Oh, never!
[/w anguish he stretches out his hand to the vial; at the moment when he seizes it convulsively tjie door at the back opens. The Queen appears dressed in white, with a dark mantle, the hood of which having fallen back on her shoulders, shows her pale face. She carries in her hand a dark lantern which she places on the floor and walks rapidly towards Ruy
BliASc
Scene 2. — Ruy Blas — The Queen.
The Queen (^entering).
Don Caesar! Ruy Blas {turning round with a frightened gesture, and
closing hurriedly the robe which had hidden his livery). Oh God ! 'tis she ! In a most horrid snare She's taken. (Aloud.) Madam!
The Queen. Of fright--
Caesar! What a cry
Ruy Blas.
Who was it told you to come here?
The Queen. Thyself.
Ruy Blas.
Oh, how?
420 DRAMAS [act. v.
The Queen. I have received from you
RuY Blas (breathless).
Speak, quick !
The Queen.
A note.
RuY Blas.
From me!
The Queen.
By your own hand
Indited.
RuY Blas.
This is but to dash one's brow Against the wall ! But oh, I have not writ — Of that I'm very sure!
The Queen (drawing from her bosom a letter, which she
gives him).
Read — read it then. [RuY Blas takes the letter eagerly, and bends towards the lamp to read it).
RuY Blas (reading). *' A danger terrible environs me ;
My Queen alone can stay the tempest's force
IHe looks at the letter as if in a stupor and unable to read further.
The Queen (continuing, and pointing with her finger to the
lines as she reads). " By coming to my house this night. If not, I'm lost."
RuY Blas (in a stifled voice). What treason ! Oh, that letter !
The Queen (continuing to read).
" Come
I
sc. II.] RUY BLAS 421
To the door that's at the end of th' Avenue ; At night you'll not be recognized. And one Who is devoted will be there to ope The door."
RuY Blas (aside). This note I had forgotten.
\^To the Queen, in a terrible voice. Go Away!
The Queen. I'll go, Don Caesar. You are cruel! My Grod! What have I done.?
RuY Blas.
Good heavens! What? You ruin and destroy yourself!
The Queen.
But how.''
RuY Blas.
Explain I cannot. Fly — fly quick.
The Queen.
This mom I for your safety did precaution take, And a duenna sent
RuY Blas.
Oh, God! but now As from a heart that bleeds, I feel your life In streams is running out. — Go — go !
The Queen (as if struck by a sudden idea).
Inspired I am by that devotion which my love Suggests. Oh, you approach some dreadful hour. And would remove me from the danger now! But I remain !
122 DRAMAS [act v,
RuY Blas.
Oh, what subhmity! What thoughtf ulness ! — Oh God ! to thus remain At such an hour in such a place !
The Queen.
From you The letter really came. And thus
RuY Blas {raising his arms to heaven in despair)
Oh Power
Divine !
The Queen. You wish me gone.
RuY Blas {taking her hands).
Oh, understand!
The Queen. I do. Upon the moment's spur you wrote,
And after
RuY Blas.
Unto thee I have not writ. I am a demon. Fly! Ah it is thou. Poor child, who lead'st thyself into the snare! Ah, it is true, and hell on every side Besieges thee! Then nothing can I find That will persuade thee ? Listen — understand ; I love thee well, thou know'st. To save thy mind From what is imaged, I would pluck my heart From out my body. Go thou!
The Queen.
Don Caesar— »==
RuY Blas. Go — go. But I remember, some one must Have opened to you?
The Queen. Ye§.
sc. III.] RUY BLAS 423
RuY Blas.
Oh Satan! Who?
The Queen. One in a mask — and hidden by the wall.
RuY Blas.
What said the man ? what was his figure — say ? Oh, was he tall.'' Who was he? Speak, I wait!
l_A man in black, and masked, appears at the door at the back.
The Masked Man. 'Twas I.
\^He takes off his mask. It is Don Salluste. The Queen and Ruy Blas recognize him with terror.
Scene 3. — The Same, Don Salluste.
Ruy Blas.
Great God ! Fly, Madam, fly !
Don Salluste.
There is No longer time. Madam de Neubourg now I Has ceased to be the Queen of Spain.
The Queen (horrified).
Don Salluste!
Don Salluste (pointing to Ruy Blas). That man's companion you henceforth must be.
The Queen. Great God ! ah yes, it is indeed a snare ! Don Caesar
Ruy Blas (despairingly). Madam, what alas, is it
You've done?
1
424 DRAMAS [act v.
Don Salluste {moving slowly towards the Queen )c I hold you here. — But I will speak Without offence unto your Majesty, For without wrath am I. — I find you here — Now listen, do not let us make a stir — At midnight, in Don Cesar's room alone. This fact, if public — for a queen — would be Enough at Rome the marriage to annul. And promptly would the Holy Father be Informed of it. — But by consent the thing Could be concealed.
[^He draws from his pocket a parchment, which he un- rolls and presents to the Queen.
Sign me this letter then Unto His Majesty our King. I will Send it by hand of the grand equerry To the chief notary, and afterwards — A carriage, where I've placed a heap of gold
{Pointing outside.) Is there — set out the two of you at once. I help you. Be not anxious, you can go Toledo way by Alcantare • — so Reach Portugal. Go where you will — to us It is the same. We'll shut our eyes. — Obey. I swear that I alone as yet am 'ware Of the adventure ; but if you refuse, Madrid to-morrow shall know everything. Let us be calm. I hold you in my hand.
'[Pointing to the table on which is an ink-stand. Madam, for writing, what you need is there.
The Queen {overwhelmed, falling into an arm-chair), I'm in his power.
Don Salluste. From you I only ask This acquiescence signed, for me to send To the king.
sc. III.] RUY BLAS 425
[^Whispering to Ruy Blas, who listens motionless and
thunderstruck. Let me alone, it is for thee I work. (To the Queen.) Sign now.
The Queen {aside, trembling).
What can I do?
Don Salluste {leaning over her, whispering in her ear, and
presenting a pen).
There now ! What is a crown? You happiness will gain, Though you may lose a throne. My people all Remain outside. They nothing know of this, All passes here between us three.
[Tricing to put the pen between the Queen's fingers, she neither taking nor rejecting it.
Well now, [The Queen, distraught and undecided, looks at him
with anguish. If you sign not you strike the blow yourself — The scandal and the cloister !
The Queen (overwhelmed).
Oh, my God!
Don Salluste (pointing to Ruy Blas). Don Caesar loves you. He is worthy you ; Upon my honour he is nobly born ; Almost a prince. Lord of a donjon keep With walls embattled, holding fee of lands, He is the Duke d'Olmedo — Count Bazan,
Grandee of Spain
[He pushes to the parchment the hand of the Queen, •who, trembling and dismayed, seems ready to sign.
Ruy Blas (as if suddenly awakening). My name is Ruy Bias, And I a lackey am!
426 DRAMAS [act v.
\_Snatching the pen from the hmid of the Queen, and the parchment, which he tears. Madam, sign not ! — At last ! — I suffocate !
The Queen.
Oh, what says he? Don Ceesar !
RuY Blas {letting his robe fall, and showing himself in livery
without a sword). Yes, my name is Ruy Blas. I am the servant of that man ! ( Turning to Don Salluste. )
I say There's been enough of treason, and that I Refuse my happiness ! — Oh thanks ! — You thought That you did well to whisper in my ear! I say that it is time, that I at last Should waken, though I'm strangled in your web Of hideous plots — and I no further step Will go. I say we two together make. My Lord, a pair that's infamous. I have The clothing of a lackey — you the soul !
Don Salluste {to the Queen coldly). This man indeed my servant is.
{To Ruy Blas, with authority.)
Not one Word more.
The Queen {letting a cry of despair escape her, and wrvng-
vng her hands). Just heav'n !
Don Salluste {continuing).
Only he spoke too soon. \^He crosses his arms, and holds himself up, speaking with a voice of thunder. Well — yes ! now 'tis for me to tell it all.
sc. III.] RUY BLAS 427
It niallcrs not, my vengeance in its way Is all complete,
(To the Queen.) What tliink yon? On my word, Madrid will laugh ! Yon ruined me ! and you I have dethroned. You banished me, and now I boast of driving you away. Ha, ha ! You offered me for wife your waiting-maid!
(Bursting into laughter.) My lackey I for lover give to you. You can espouse him certainly. The King Sinks fast ! — A lover's heart will be your wealth.
(He laughs.) You will have made him Duke, that you might be His Duchess !
(Grinding his teeth.) Ah, you blighted, ruined me, And trampled me beneath 3'our feet, and yet — And yet you slept in peace ! Fool that you were !
[^Whilst he has been speaking, Ruy Blas has gone to the door at the back and fastened it; then he has approached him by soft steps from behind, without having been perceived. At the moment when Don SaLiLuste finishes, fixing his eyes full of hatred and triumph on the annihilated Queen, Ruy Blas seizes the sword of the Marquis by the hilt, and draws it out swiftly.
Ruy Blas (with the sword of Don Salluste in his hand). I say you have insulted now your Queen !
[Don Salluste rushes towards the door. Ruy Blas
bars the way.
— Oh, go not there ! 'tis not worth while ; long since I fastened it. Marquis, until to-day,
Satan protected thee ; but if he will
From my hands pluck thee, let him show himself.
— 'Tis my turn now ! — When we a serpent meet,
428 DRAMAS [act v.
It must be crush'd. No one can enter here. No, not thy people, and not hell. Beneath Mine iron heel I hold thee foaming now !
— This man spoke insolently to you. Madam! I will explain. He has no human soul.
A monster he. With jibings yesterday He suffocated me. He crush'd my heart, For his mere pleasure. Oh, he bade me close A window, and he martyrized me then ! I prayed — I wept — I cannot tell you all.
(To the Marquis.) In these last moments you have counted o'er Your wrongs. I shall not answer your complaints. Besides, I comprehend them not. But you, Oh wretch ! you dare your Queen to outrage now
— Woman adorable — whilst I am by ! Hold ! for a clever man, in truth you much Astonish me ! And you imagine, too,
That I shall see you do it, and say nought ! But listen, — whatsoe'er his sphere, my Lord, When a vile, trait'rous, tortuous scoundrel strange And monstrous acts commits, noble or churl. All men have right, in coming on his path, To splutter out liis sentence to his face.
And take a sword, a knife, a hatchet Oh,
By Heav'n ! to be a lackey ! When J. should The headsman be!
The Queen. You do not mean to kill This man.'*
RuY Blas.
Madam, I am ashamed, indeed, That I my duty must accomplish here; But this affair must all be stifled now.
{He pushes Don Salluste towards the closet.) 'Tis settled. Go you there, my Lord, and pray.
sc. III.] RUY BLAS 42&
Don Salluste. It is assassination.
RuY Blas.
Think you so?
Don Salluste {unarmed, and looking around him with
rage). Nothing upon these walls ! No arms !
{To RuY Blas.)
A sword, At least!
RuY Blas. Marquis, you jest! What! Master! is 't That I'm a gentleman ? a duel ! fie ! One of thy servants am I, in galloon And red, a knave to be chastised and whipp'd.
And one who kills ! Yes, I shall kill you. Sir
Believe you it? — as villain infamous! As craven ! as a dog !
The Queen,
Have mercy on him!
RuY Blas {to the Queen, and seizing the Marquis). Madam, each one takes vengeance for himself. The demon cannot any longer be Saved by an Angel !
The Queen {kneeling): Mercy !
Don Salluste {calling for help).
Murder! help!
RuY Blas {raising the sword). How soon will you have done?
Don Salluste {throwing himself on Ruy Blas).
Demon ! I die By murder!
430 DRAMAS [act v.
RuY Blas {'pushing him into the closet). No, in rightful punishment ! \They disappear in the cabinet, the door of which closes
on them.
The Queen {alone, and falling half dead into the arm-chair) o Oh heavens !
\^A moment of silence. Ruy Blas re-enters, pale, and
without the sword.
Scene 4. — The Queen — Ruy Blas.
Ruy Blas totters a few steps towards the Queen, who remains motionless and as if frozen. Then he falls on both knees, his eyes fixed on the ground, as if he dared not raise them to her.
Ruy Blas (in a grave low voice). Now, Madam, must I speak to you. But I will not come near. I frankly speak. I'm not as guilty as you think I am. I know my treason, as to you it seems. Must horrible appear. Oh, to explain It is not easy. Yet not base my soul, — At heart I'm honest. 'Tis this love which has Destroyed me. Not that I defend myself. For well I know I should have found some means T' escape. The sin is consummated now ! But all the same, I've loved you truly well.
The Queen. Sir
Ruy Blas {still on his knees'). Fear not. I will not approach. Yet would I to your Majesty from step to step The whole declare. Believe I am not vile! To-day — all day I paced about the town
sc. IV.] RUY BLAS 431
Like one possessed. Often tlie people looked
At me. And near the 'spltal that by you
Was founded, vaguel3' did I feel, athwart
My brain delirious, that silently
A woman of the crowd did wipe away
The sweat from off my brow. Have mercy, God!
My heart is broken !
The Queen.
What is't that you wish?
RuY Blas {joining his hands). That, Madam, you would pardon me !
The Queen.
Never. RuY Blas. Never! [He rises, and tcalks slowly towards the table.
Very sure.''
The Queen.
No, never — never ! RuY Blas {he takes the vial that was placed on the table,
carries it to his lips, and empties it at one draught). Sad flame, extinguished be I
The Queen {rising and rushing to him).
What have you done.''
RuY Blas {showing the vial). Nothing. My woes are ended. Nothing. You Curse me — and I bless you. There — that is all.
The Queen {overcome). Don Caesar!
RuY Blas. When I think, poor angel, that You loved me!
The Queen. Oh, what was that philtre strange?
432
DRAMAS
[act v.
«
What liave you done ? Speak — answer — tell to me. I do forgive and love thee, Caesar. I BeKeve in thee.
RuY Blas. My naiMe is Ruy Bias.
The Queen {throwing her arms around him). I do forgive thee, Ruy Bias. But speak, Say what it is you've done ? 'Tis my command ! That frightful draught — it was not poison ? Say ?
Ruy Blas.
Yes ; it was poison. But my heart is glad.
[^Holding the Queen in his arms and raising his eyes to
heaven. Permit, oh God, — the Sovereign Justice Thou — That the poor lackey pours out blessings on This Queen, who did console his tortured heart By — in his life — her love, and pity gives In death.
— 'tis I If I had
The Queen. Poison ! Oh God ! 'tis I - Have killed thee ! Ah, I love thee ! But pardoned !
Ruy Blas (sinking). I had done the same. \^His voice fails. The Queen supports him.
I could No longer live! Adieu! {Pointing to the door.)
Fly hence, and all WiU secret be. I die. {He falls.)
The Queen {throwing herself on his body).
Ruy Blas !
Ruy Blas {at the point of death, rousing himself at his name pronounced by the Queen).
I thank thee!
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