Your secret’s safe with me. I should be hurt
To think that there was any man on earth
Whom you could trust before me: and if my place
Here in the court can help you in your love,
I do, and hope some day
It may be in my good fortune to repay you
For such a favour.
F.Favour! what a word
To an old friend!
R.Nay, do not misconstrue me.
F. I own I am jealous, Richard, of the time
10We have lived apart. There was a touch of fear
Mixed with my joy, when you broke in upon me
This morning, that the ten years had not spared me.
You find me changed? Say, doth my countenance
Wear the smug livery of the world?
R.Nay, friend;
I see no trace of that.
F.Then I remember
While I have played you have been within the mill:
And should I beat your coat there must fly out
Clouds of that dusty, damned experience.
Is not that so, your grace?
R.Go on: provoke me,
20 As you were wont.
F.The best remembrance, Richard,
Drowns in the world: and how should college days
Live in your memory as they do in mine?
’Tis no such lustre to your brilliant life
That we were comrades in Utopia;
That commonwealth of study and idleness,
Where sport, adventure, poetry and music
Were sauced with virgin-juice, a dish for gods.
F.Ay, but the spirit!
Think you we should have spoken of favours then?
30 In those days, Richard, we were used to think
Our teachers never had tasted life like ours;
Their staid propriety not logically
Deducible from essences as fresh
As angels of the sunrise. Shall the boys
Now say the same of us? By heaven you fright me:
The heart of manhood not to outlive a dog!
Then my old grudge against you.
F. Your rank, which first drew us apart: but now
To meet again and have you in my debt
40 Is favour, by your leave, above repayment.
R. Still as proud as a peacock.
F.Could I do you a service.
But can I? See, I am here the Countess’secretary:
To make believe that you are a stranger to me
Were breach of trust.
R.But love makes tricks of crimes.
F. And if she has often seen you, how suppose
She will not know you?
R.’Tis so long ago
That now in my disguise I have no fear.
You did not know me.
F.That was but your beard.
R. She hath not seen my beard: and ’tis impossible
50 She should suspect. She has treated me all along
With such disdain, that I, in love as I am,
Can scarce believe I venture; but—I am mad.
Nothing could keep me back. Hear all my story,
And then see how I am changed. ’Tis three years since
I saw her first at Rome. His Holiness
Gave a reception; I with some of the guests
Had strayed to view the galleries: suddenly
Out of a group before me—as if a Grace,
That lived in Rafael’s brain to mock his hand,
60 Had stepped alive amongst us to rebuke
Our admiration of the fresco-stuff—
She turned and faced me.
Quick as I tell, I read my fate: I knew
What I was born for. Love’s first ecstasy
Fooled me to a false security. That night
I wrote my passion; and by such presumption
Offended. My after patience met with scorn,
My importunity anger. I then desisted,
Trying if by absence I could work my cure.
70 Twelve months of trial bring me here to-day
With no hope left but this; that living near her
Her daily and familiar sight may blunt
My strained ideal passion; or if this
Quench not my fancy, it may serve to feed it
With something tangible and wholesomer
Than the day dreams of sick imagination.
F. I wish your cure; for, to say truth, the Countess
Is somewhat odd; as you will see yourself.
R. ’Tis for my cure I come.—Your servant there,
Might he not hear us?
80F. (to T.).Tristram, just look round
If you can see the Countess.
What is there here now that I may not know?
That I am sent off? Who can this stranger be
So suddenly familiar with my master?
And comes here for his cure! Here to this haunt
Of women and lunatics! I’ll find him out.
[Exit singing to himself.
F. My man is trusty and dull; devoted to me.
R. Excuse my caution: if we were overheard,—
If any guessed I were the Duke of Milan,
90 The venture which I make would be my ruin:
All that I ask is secrecy. In this letter
I have written the Countess from myself, as Duke,
Recommendation of myself, the bearer,
As one Ricardo, begging for the same
Protection in her court for some few days.
Present me as a stranger: had I been such
You could not have refused.
F.Trust me to serve you:
But give your letter to the major-domo:
He attends her in the grounds; when they come by
100 I’ll point him out. Better know nought of me.
What think you of the gardens?
R.All this hour
I have seemed in Paradise: and the fair prospect
Hath quieted my spirit: I think I sail
Into the windless haven of my life
To-day with happy omens: as the stir
And sleep-forbidding rattle of the journey
Was like my life till now. Here all is peace:
The still fresh air of this October morning,
With its resigning odours; the rich hues
110 Wherein the gay leaves revel to their fall;
The deep blue sky; the misty distances,
And splashing fountains; and I thought I heard
A magic service of meandering music
Threading the glades and stealing on the lawns.
Was I mistaken?
Re-enter Tristram unperceived; he stands by listening
at back, as if waiting to be observed.
F.Nay, nay: there was music.
But why the jocund morn so dissolutely
Forestalls the faint and lulling charms of eve
I must explain. The Countess, whom you court,
Hath an unwholesome temper; what its nature
You, when you have seen it, will be as like to guess
121 As any other. She hath a restless spirit
And eager; and, what seems a sign of note,
Suffers from jealousy without a cause.
She is full of fancies; and hath, like a school-girl,
Drawn up a code of her peculiar notions,
Whereby, in place of commonsense and manners,
She rules her petty court with tyrannies
Of fine and forfeit. Then, although she lives
Pampered with luxury, and hath a sense
130 O’ergreedy of all that’s offered, yet she takes
Her pleasure feverously, and pines in plenty.
’Tis a derangement:—the music which you heard
Was a diversion of my own contrivance
To pass the hour: the evil spirit within her
Yields most to music.
R.What you say is strange.
T. (coming forward). And so you’d say,
Knew you the cause.
R. (aside). Now damn this fellow.
(To T.) Perhaps you know it, sir?
T.I know it, yes:
But may not speak.
F.I bid you speak and show
My friend your wisdom.
140T.To your secrets then
Add this. The Countess is in love.
T. Stay. I will say with whom.
’Tis one to whom she dare not make avowal.
F.The fool!
We wish not for your jests. Where is the Countess?
T. She is coming by the lake, sir.
T. (aside, going). The fish bite very well:
I hooked them both at first cast of my fly.
F. ’Twould make us brothers, Richard.
F. Having your secret, I must give you mine.
I also love a lady in the court,
Secretly too, as you, though with success;
And she is foster-sister to your lady.
The prudery with which the Countess rules
Drave us to hide our liking at the first;
And as that grew, deception still kept pace,
Enhancing the romance of our delight
With stolen intercourse. But these last days
160A cloud hath risen: for the lady’s father,
(That’s the old major-domo, whom I spoke of,)
Hath been befooled to give his daughter away
To a wreathed ass, a cousin of the Countess,
Who hath herself approved the match. You find me
In this dilemma, whether to confess
My love for Laura,—that’s the lady’s name—
Braving the Countess’anger, or carry her off,
And after sue for favour. (Music heard.)
Hark! here they come.
I’ll tell you more hereafter.
170 Forget not me. (Aside.) By Jove, he has capped my story.—
Diana’s sister too: and I entrapped
To aid in her elopement.
Enter Diana, Laura, Gregory, and St. Nicholas; with
attendant musicians and singers, who go out when
the music is done.
Fire of heaven, whose starry arrow
Pierces the veil of timeless night:
Molten spheres, whose tempests narrow
Their floods to a beam of gentle light,
To charm with a moonray quenched from fire
The land of delight, the land of desire.
179F. (to R.). That is the major-domo Gregory
With the white locks. Take him aside, he is deaf.
(During next verse R. makes his way to G., and they
are seen talking aside during the other dialogue.)
Music continued—
Smile of love—a flower planted,
Sprung in the garden of joy that art:
Eyes that shine with a glow enchanted,
Whose spreading fires encircle my heart,
And warm with a noonray drenched in fire
My land of delight, my land of desire!
I envy much the melancholy spirit
Who wove that strain. The verses too were fetched
Out of a deeper well than common passion
Hath skill to draw from. Frederick, who is the poet
That I must love for this?
191F.Love for my art
Hath made your ladyship too generous
Towards a most humble workman. ’Tis my own.
D. Ah me! what must it be to be a poet,
And in the abandoned humour that men take with,
To give forth! O ’tis godlike! but the music,—
’Tis that you excel in: it hath a melancholy
Which springs of love.
F.The whole world sprang of love;
And art is but the praise the creature makes
To the Creator.
200D.True: and the best praise
Is but love’s echo. I mean you love some lady.
She is very happy. Would I knew her name.
F. When I shall love a lady, and have means
To court her, you shall hear gay music.
D.Means!
Is she so mercenary?
F.Your ladyship
Must take this lady of your own creation
With all her faults. Love is a luxury
You may suspect in me when I have money
To spend in presents.
D.Whom you love I know not:
210 But whether it be a queen or peasant girl,
’Tis all one. Love exalteth above rank
Or wealth; yet in Love’s ritual ’twere well wished
To express your homage fully. Ho, Sir Gregory!
Sir Gregory!
D.Give Frederick
A hundred ducats at my household charge.
G. (to F.). What said my lady?
F. (aside). An open insult.
T. (to G.).Thou’rt to give my master
A hundred ducats for a wherewithal
To make his lady presents.
F. (to T.).Silence, idiot.
T. He heard not: you may lose the money.
G.My lady,
A gentleman from Milan. (Presenting R.)
221 D. (
half aside1). Milan, say you?
I thought we had done with Milan.
R.Queen of Belflor,
This letter from the Duke explains my coming.
D. Welcome, sir, whencesoe’er: but if from Milan,
Bringst thou this letter, or did it bring thee?
R. I bring the letter, madam: and ’tis writ
But in my favour.
D.Good: on that assurance
I’ll read. (Opens letter.)
(F. has passed across to make way for G. and R., coming near Laura, front, side.)
L. When I drop the other,
229 Exchange them secretly.
D. (reading to audience). The bearer, my servant
Ricardo, having hurt his challenger in a duel, I beg for
him a few days’protection in your court, till some consequent
rancour be appeased. Let my long silence and
absence win for me this little grace.
With reason and good courtesy asked. Ricardo,
Make your asylum here. Sir Gregory
Will tell you that such residence implies
Certain restraints, in which we look to find
Compliance.
(Laura drops a glove, which F. snatches up, and is seen
by the audience to exchange for another.)
NICHOLAS (stepping forward between F. and L.).
I pray thee, sir; nay sir, I pray.
My duty.
F. How so? When heaven doth rain, it rains for all.
Thou shouldst have picked it up.
N.I ran to do so,
But thou anticipatedest me. I pray
Give’t me, that I restore it to my lady.
F. Claim not her gloves, sir, till her gloves are thine.
Now thou anticipatest.
N.Sir Gregory!
A question.
D.What is this, St. Nicholas?
N. I beg Sir Gregory judge ’twixt me and Frederick.
My lady Laura, having dropped her glove,
250 He picks it up, and would return it to her;
Which I forbid, claiming the privilege
D.A mighty question.
Who can determine it?
T.That can I. The lady
Should drop the other, and let each have one.
D. St. Nicholas would claim both, Sir Solomon.
(To F.). Give me the glove. I thank you much; and now
I offer better matter for discussion:
The chairs were set on purpose. Let all be seated.
259 Laura, take back thy glove; and sit thou there.
You, Frederick, on my right. (To R.) ’Tis what I call
The Muses’matinée. These morning hours,
Which others waste, we may devote to wisdom,
And solve some learned question, as was done
In ancient Athens; where, as Plato shows,
Nothing was more admired than dialogues
In science and philosophy. I will hold
Such an assembly: we will each in turn
Make answer to the question I propose.
And that shall be of love. I’ll question why
Love is called bitter-sweet.
| DIANA |
| TRISTRAM Stands | | LAURA |
| FREDERICK | | NICHOLAS |
| GREGORY | | RICHARD |
270N.Now, by my heart,
A pretty question. May I speak the first?
D. In turn, in turn. Hark, if I put it thus,
What is love’s chiefest pain? How think you, Frederick?
The speech lies with Ricardo, as our guest.
D.Ay, sir: you must tell
What, in your judgment, is love’s chiefest pain.
R. ’Tis well, my lady, I am not one of those,
Who, when they would speak wisely, go about
To weigh their pros and cons; in doing which
They but confess their common thoughts are folly,
281 Which they must mask. I have a steady mind,
Which thinking cannot mend: and well I know
The greatest pain in love is when a man
Hath loved a lady most deservedly,
And been most undeservedly refused;
Yet, spite of her contempt, is silly-true,
And wastes his days. This is the pain of love;
Or if another can be shewn to match,
289 I forfeit claim to wisdom in such matters.
D. Very well said, sir, if your speech be taken
To include the parallel, the equal pain
Of any woman who thus loves a man.
F.Ricardo is in fault,
For love being not returned is but half love;
In which imperfect state love’s pain or bliss
Cannot be known: to love and be beloved
Is the required condition. But when two hearts,
Encountering in this mortal maze, have knit
Their preordained espousals, and together
300 In moonlight meeting and sweet conference,
Signed the surrendering treaties of their love;
If fate, or circumstance, or other’s will
Should then oppose them, and thrust in to sever
The new-spun cords with which they are bound; I say
This is the hardest pain that love can shew.
D. Ha! you speak logic; that love’s perfect pain
Cannot exist but in love’s perfect state.
Laura, ’tis thou to speak.
D. Give thy opinion; or, in want of matter,
310 Be critical. A gloss may hit the mark
Where the text fails.
L.If Frederick has said well,
That love’s pain is a pain of love returned,
The pain of love must come from being loved.
D. O, most adorable simplicity!
Before thy lover, too! St. Nicholas,
N.Beshrew my science now,
If Lady Laura have not hit the mark.
’Tis vulgar error that would make distinction
’Twixt pain and joy; which are, as life and death,
320 Inseparables. The shadowed images
Cast on the wall of this memorial cave,
This earth, wherein we dwell, are things of nought,
But serving to mislead our darkling sense:
Nay health and strength are but the habitude
Of this delusion. Ask your ruddy clown
Of love; will he not tell you ’tis a pleasure
Which moves the plain heart of the natural man?
But to the poet, what is love to him?
’Tis like heaven’s rainbow scarf, woven of all hues
330 Of pain and joy; an eagle and a snake
Struggling in the void and crystalline abysm
Of life and death. And love’s pain, what is that?
I have compared it to a sunbeamed tear,
Whose single pearl broiders the marble lids
Of some tall Sphinx, that with impassive smile
Dreams o’er the desert; whence ’twas gathered up
Of earthly dew and the pale sparkle of stars,
To fall in silent lightning on the sands;
Which, at the touch magnifical, bloom forth
340 In irresistible fecundity.
Such is love’s pain, as it hath lit on me;
And tinctured by it I would dream my day,
Nor count the sailing hour, but when night falls
Be closèd up, like a belated bee
In the pale lily of death.
R. (aside). Heavens! a belated bee!
D.Thy lover, Laura;
What say’st thou?
D.Sir Gregory!
Sir Gregory!
D.’Tis now thy turn to speak.
350G. Pardon, your ladyship; but at the outset
I missed the question, and for lack of it
Have followed ill.
D.The question we discuss
Is this, What is the chiefest pain of love?
D. ’Tis now thy turn to speak.
G.Oh, is’t my turn?
The chiefest pain of love; I am asked to say
What that is?
G.Your ladyship knows well
You ask of one who has lived to study truth
From nature’s only teacher;—without which
I would not speak. But since you have often heard
361 Your sainted mother tell from what sad cause
She made my Laura your adopted sister,
Saving my orphan in the only loss
That can befall a babe, its mother’s care,
You know how by that loss there came to me
The chiefest pain of love; which can, I think,
But hap to wedded spirits, who have joyed
In mutual life: wherein, may heaven forgive me
If the remembrance of my joy awake
370 Sorrow with thankfulness, the balance being
So far on the good side, spite of the pain:
Yet if I speak of it now without more tears
Than ye can see, ’tis that the founts are dried:
Time hath not helped me otherwise. I pray
God, who is merciful, to shield all here
From like calamity.
F.I say Amen
To good Sir Gregory.
My lady, the merchant’s come.
Fl.The Venetian with the silks
Your ladyship bespoke.
380D. (rising).Do you hear, Laura?
Your stuffs at last. Our matinée, my friends,
Is interrupted, an important matter
Unfortunately calls me away. Come, Laura:
There’ll scarce be time to get the silks made up
Before your wedding. Come and choose them with me.
St. Nicholas, we shall need thee too; ’tis nothing
Unless thine eye is pleased.
N.I dote on silks.
I love their fine prismatic cadences.
Yet these Venetian colours to my taste
390 Are over-saturate: I’d have them cast
With the Doge’s ring in the sea. A good year’s soaking
Would bring them down into that faded softness,
Which is a banquet to the cultured eye.
D. Ricardo, do you attend Sir Gregory,
And see your lodging. Come, St. Nicholas;
Come, Laura! [Exit with Laura and St. Nicholas. Flora following.
G. (to R.). I wait upon you, if it please you
To visit your apartments. Tell me pray
What men you bring. [Exit with R. making signs.
F. (taking out the glove with the letter). Thank heaven, now I may read.
(Aside.) What saith my love? what hope?
T. (aside).Another letter!
Whence got he this?
F. (reading, away from T.). Dearest; all is lost.
They mistake my hesitation for consent. My father has
fixed the marriage for three days hence. I dared not
say the truth. I know not what I said. My senses
left me....