The cup; and The falcon

SCENE.—_Interior of the Temple of Artemis._

Small gold gates on platform in front of the veil before the colossal statue of the Goddess, and in the centre of the Temple a tripod altar, on which is a lighted lamp. Lamps (lighted) suspended between each pillar. Tripods, vases, garlands of flowers, etc., about stage. Altar at back close to Goddess, with two cups. Solemn music. Priestesses decorating the Temple.

_Enter a PRIESTESS._

Priestess. Phœbe, that man from Synorix, who has been So oft to see the Priestess, waits once more Before the Temple.

Phœbe. We will let her know.

[_Signs to one of the Priestesses, who goes out._

Since Camma fled from Synorix to our Temple, And for her beauty, stateliness, and power, Was chosen Priestess here, have you not mark’d Her eyes were ever on the marble floor? To-day they are fixt and bright—they look straight out. Hath she made up her mind to marry him?

Priestess. To marry him who stabb’d her Sinnatus. You will not easily make me credit that.

Phœbe. Ask her.

_Enter CAMMA as Priestess (in front of the curtains)._

Priestess. You will not marry Synorix?

Camma. My girl, I am the bride of Death, and only Marry the dead.

Priestess. Not Synorix then?

Camma. My girl, At times this oracle of great Artemis Has no more power than other oracles To speak directly.

Phœbe. Will you speak to him, The messenger from Synorix who waits Before the Temple?

Camma. Why not? Let him enter.

[_Comes forward on to step by tripod._

_Enter a MESSENGER._

MESSENGER (_kneels_).

Greeting and health from Synorix! More than once You have refused his hand. When last I saw you, You all but yielded. He entreats you now For your last answer. When he struck at Sinnatus— As I have many a time declared to you— He knew not at the moment who had fasten’d About his throat—he begs you to forget it As scarce his act:—a random stroke: all else Was love for you: he prays you to believe him.

Camma. I pray him to believe—that I believe him.

Messenger. Why that is well. You mean to marry him?

Camma. I mean to marry him—if that be well.

Messenger. This very day the Romans crown him king For all his faithful services to Rome. He wills you then this day to marry him, And so be throned together in the sight Of all the people, that the world may know You twain are reconciled, and no more feuds Disturb our peaceful vassalage to Rome.

Camma. To-day? Too sudden. I will brood upon it. When do they crown him?

Messenger. Even now.

Camma. And where?

Messenger. Here by your temple.

Camma. Come once more to me Before the crowning,—I will answer you.

[_Exit Messenger._

Phœbe. Great Artemis! O Camma, can it be well, Or good, or wise, that you should clasp a hand Red with the sacred blood of Sinnatus?

Camma. Good! mine own dagger driven by Synorix found All good in the true heart of Sinnatus, And quench’d it there for ever. Wise! Life yields to death and wisdom bows to Fate, Is wisest, doing so. Did not this man Speak well? We cannot fight imperial Rome, But he and I are both Galatian-born, And tributary sovereigns, he and I Might teach this Rome—from knowledge of our people— Where to lay on her tribute—heavily here And lightly there. Might I not live for that, And drown all poor self-passion in the sense Of public good?

Phœbe. I am sure you will not marry him.

Camma. Are you so sure? I pray you wait and see.

[_Shouts (from the distance)_, “Synorix! Synorix!”

Camma. Synorix, Synorix! So they cried Sinnatus Not so long since—they sicken me. The One Who shifts his policy suffers something, must Accuse himself, excuse himself; the Many Will feel no shame to give themselves the lie.

Phœbe. Most like it was the Roman soldier shouted.

Camma. Their shield-borne patriot of the morning star Hang’d at mid-day, their traitor of the dawn The clamour’d darling of their afternoon! And that same head they would have play’d at ball with, And kick’d it featureless—they now would crown.

[_Flourish of trumpets._

_Enter a GALATIAN NOBLEMAN with crown on a cushion._

NOBLE (_kneels_).

Greeting and health from Synorix. He sends you This diadem of the first Galatian Queen, That you may feed your fancy on the glory of it, And join your life this day with his, and wear it Beside him on his throne. He waits your answer.

Camma. Tell him there is one shadow among the shadows, One ghost of all the ghosts—as yet so new, So strange among them—such an alien there, So much of husband in it still—that if The shout of Synorix and Camma sitting Upon one throne, should reach it, _it_ would rise HE!... HE, with that red star between the ribs, And my knife there—and blast the king and me, And blanch the crowd with horror. I dare not, sir! Throne him—and then the marriage—ay and tell him That I accept the diadem of Galatia—

[_All are amazed._

Yea, that ye saw me crown myself withal.

[_Puts on the crown._

I wait him his crown’d queen.

NOBLE.

So will I tell him.

[_Exit._

Music. Two Priestesses go up the steps before the shrine, draw the curtains on either side (discovering the Goddess), then open the gates and remain on steps, one on either side, and kneel. A Priestess goes off and returns with a veil of marriage, then assists Phœbe to veil Camma. At the same time Priestesses enter and stand on either side of the Temple. Camma and all the Priestesses kneel, raise their hands to the Goddess, and bow down.

[_Shouts_, “Synorix! Synorix!” _All rise._

Camma. Fling wide the doors, and let the new-made children Of our imperial mother see the show.

[_Sunlight pours through the doors._

I have no heart to do it. (_To Phœbe_). Look for me!

[_Crouches. PHŒBE looks out._

[_Shouts_, “Synorix! Synorix!”

Phœbe. He climbs the throne. Hot blood, ambition, pride So bloat and redden his face—O would it were His third last apoplexy! O bestial! O how unlike our goodly Sinnatus.

CAMMA (_on the ground_).

You wrong him surely; far as the face goes A goodlier-looking man than Sinnatus.

PHŒBE (_aside_).

How dare she say it? I could hate her for it But that she is distracted.

[_A flourish of trumpets._

Camma. Is he crown’d?

Phœbe. Ay, there they crown him.

[_Crowd without shout_, “Synorix! Synorix!”

CAMMA (_rises_).

[_A Priestess brings a box of spices to CAMMA, who throws them on the altar flame._

Rouse the dead altar-flame, fling in the spices, Nard, cinnamon, amomum, benzoin. Let all the air reel into a mist of odour, As in the midmost heart of Paradise. Lay down the Lydian carpets for the king. The king should pace on purple to his bride, And music there to greet my lord the king.

[_Music._

(_To Phœbe._) Dost thou remember when I wedded Sinnatus? Ay, thou wast there—whether from maiden fears Or reverential love for him I loved, Or some strange second-sight, the marriage-cup Wherefrom we make libation to the Goddess So shook within my hand, that the red wine Ran down the marble and lookt like blood, like blood.

Phœbe. I do remember your first-marriage fears.

Camma. I have no fears at this my second marriage. See here—I stretch my hand out—hold it there. How steady it is!

Phœbe. Steady enough to stab him!

Camma. O hush! O peace! This violence ill becomes The silence of our Temple. Gentleness, Low words best chime with this solemnity.

_Enter a procession of Priestesses and Children bearing garlands and golden goblets, and strewing flowers._

_Enter SYNORIX (as King, with gold laurel-wreath crown and purple robes), followed by ANTONIUS, PUBLIUS, Noblemen, Guards, and the Populace._

Camma. Hail, King!

Synorix. Hail, Queen! The wheel of Fate has roll’d me to the top. I would that happiness were gold, that I Might cast my largess of it to the crowd! I would that every man made feast to-day Beneath the shadow of our pines and planes! For all my truer life begins to-day. The past is like a travell’d land now sunk Below the horizon—like a barren shore That grew salt weeds, but now all drown’d in love And glittering at full tide—the bounteous bays And havens filling with a blissful sea. Nor speak I now too mightily, being King And happy! happiest, Lady, in my power To make you happy.

Camma. Yes, sir.

Synorix. Our Antonius, Our faithful friend of Rome, tho’ Rome may set A free foot where she will, yet of his courtesy Entreats he may be present at our marriage.

Camma. Let him come—a legion with him, if he will. (_To ANTONIUS._) Welcome, my lord Antonius, to our Temple. (_To SYNORIX._) You on this side the altar. (_To ANTONIUS._) You on that. Call first upon the Goddess, Synorix.

[_All face the Goddess. Priestesses, Children, Populace, and Guards kneel—the others remain standing._

Synorix. O Thou, that dost inspire the germ with life, The child, a thread within the house of birth, And give him limbs, then air, and send him forth The glory of his father—Thou whose breath Is balmy wind to robe our hills with grass, And kindle all our vales with myrtle-blossom, And roll the golden oceans of our grain, And sway the long grape-bunches of our vines, And fill all hearts with fatness and the lust Of plenty—make me happy in my marriage!

CHORUS (_chanting_).

Artemis, Artemis, hear him, Ionian Artemis!

Camma. O Thou that slayest the babe within the womb Or in the being born, or after slayest him As boy or man, great Goddess, whose storm-voice Unsockets the strong oak, and rears his root Beyond his head, and strows our fruits, and lays Our golden grain, and runs to sea and makes it Foam over all the fleeted wealth of kings And peoples, hear. Whose arrow is the plague—whose quick flash splits The mid-sea mast, and rifts the tower to the rock, And hurls the victor’s column down with him That crowns it, hear. Who causest the safe earth to shudder and gape, And gulf and flatten in her closing chasm Domed cities, hear. Whose lava-torrents blast and blacken a province To a cinder, hear. Whose winter-cataracts find a realm and leave it A waste of rock and ruin, hear. I call thee To make my marriage prosper to my wish!

CHORUS.

Artemis, Artemis, hear her, Ephesian Artemis!

Camma. Artemis, Artemis, hear me, Galatian Artemis! I call on our own Goddess in our own Temple.

CHORUS.

Artemis, Artemis, hear her, Galatian Artemis!

[_Thunder. All rise._

SYNORIX (_aside_).

Thunder! Ay, ay, the storm was drawing hither Across the hills when I was being crown’d. I wonder if I look as pale as she?

Camma. Art thou—still bent—on marrying?

Synorix. Surely—yet These are strange words to speak to Artemis.

Camma. Words are not always what they seem, my King. I will be faithful to thee till thou die.

Synorix. I thank thee, Camma,—I thank thee.

CAMMA (_turning to ANTONIUS_).

Antonius, Much graced are we that our Queen Rome in you Deigns to look in upon our barbarisms.

[_Turns, goes up steps to altar before the Goddess. Takes a cup from off the altar. Holds it towards ANTONIUS. ANTONIUS goes up to the foot of the steps, opposite to SYNORIX._

You see this cup, my lord.

[_Gives it to him._

Antonius. Most curious! The many-breasted mother Artemis Emboss’d upon it.

Camma. It is old, I know not How many hundred years. Give it me again. It is the cup belonging our own Temple.

[_Puts it back on altar, and takes up the cup of Act I. Showing it to ANTONIUS._

Here is another sacred to the Goddess, The gift of Synorix; and the Goddess, being For this most grateful, wills, thro’ me her Priestess, In honour of his gift and of our marriage, That Synorix should drink from his own cup.

Synorix. I thank thee, Camma,—I thank thee.

Camma. For—my lord— It is our ancient custom in Galatia That ere two souls be knit for life and death, They two should drink together from one cup, In symbol of their married unity, Making libation to the Goddess. Bring me The costly wines we use in marriages.

[_They bring in a large jar of wine. CAMMA pours wine into cup._

(_To SYNORIX._) See here, I fill it. (_To ANTONIUS._) Will you drink, my lord?

Antonius. I? Why should I? I am not to be married.

Camma. But that might bring a Roman blessing on us.

ANTONIUS (_refusing cup_).

Thy pardon, Priestess!

Camma. Thou art in the right. This blessing is for Synorix and for me. See first I make libation to the Goddess,

[_Makes libation._

And now I drink.

[_Drinks and fills the cup again._

Thy turn, Galatian King. Drink and drink deep—our marriage will be fruitful. Drink and drink deep, and thou wilt make me happy.

[_SYNORIX goes up to her. She hands him the cup. He drinks._

Synorix. There, Camma! I have almost drain’d the cup— A few drops left.

Camma. Libation to the Goddess.

[_He throws the remaining drops on the altar and gives CAMMA the cup._

CAMMA (_placing the cup on the altar_).

Why then the Goddess hears.

[_Comes down and forward to tripod. ANTONIUS follows._

Antonius, Where wast thou on that morning when I came To plead to thee for Sinnatus’s life, Beside this temple half a year ago?

Antonius. I never heard of this request of thine.

SYNORIX (_coming forward hastily to foot of tripod steps_).

I sought him and I could not find him. Pray you, Go on with the marriage rites.

Camma. Antonius—— “Camma!” who spake?

Antonius. Not I.

Phœbe. Nor any here.

Camma. I am all but sure that some one spake. Antonius, If you had found him plotting against Rome, Would you have tortured Sinnatus to death?

Antonius. No thought was mine of torture or of death, But had I found him plotting, I had counsell’d him To rest from vain resistance. Rome is fated To rule the world. Then, if he had not listen’d, I might have sent him prisoner to Rome.

Synorix. Why do you palter with the ceremony? Go on with the marriage rites.

Camma. They are finish’d.

Synorix. How!

Camma. Thou hast drunk deep enough to make me happy. Dost thou not feel the love I bear to thee Glow thro’ thy veins?

Synorix. The love I bear to thee Glows thro’ my veins since first I look’d on thee. But wherefore slur the perfect ceremony? The sovereign of Galatia weds his Queen. Let all be done to the fullest in the sight Of all the Gods. (_Starts._) This pain—what is it?—again? I had a touch of this last year—in—Rome. Yes, yes. (_To ANTONIUS._) Your arm—a moment—It will pass. I reel beneath the weight of utter joy— This all too happy day, crown—queen at once.

[_Staggers._

O all ye Gods—Jupiter!—Jupiter!

[_Falls backward._

Camma. Dost thou cry out upon the Gods of Rome? Thou art Galatian-born. Our Artemis Has vanquish’d their Diana.

SYNORIX (_on the ground_).

I am poison’d. She—close the Temple doors. Let her not fly.

CAMMA (_leaning on tripod_).

Have I not drunk of the same cup with thee?

Synorix. Ay, by the Gods of Rome and all the world, She too—she too—the bride! the Queen! and I— Monstrous! I that loved her.

Camma. I loved _him_.

Synorix. O murderous mad-woman! I pray you lift me And make me walk awhile. I have heard these poisons May be walk’d down.

[_ANTONIUS and PUBLIUS raise him up._

My feet are tons of lead, They will break in the earth—I am sinking—hold me— Let me alone.

[_They leave him; he sinks down on ground._

Too late—thought myself wise— A woman’s dupe. Antonius, tell the Senate I have been most true to Rome—would have been true To _her_—if—if——

[_Falls as if dead._

CAMMA (_coming and leaning over him_).

So falls the throne of an hour.

SYNORIX (_half rising_).

Throne? is it thou? the Fates are throned, not we— Not guilty of ourselves—thy doom and mine— Thou—coming my way too—Camma—good-night.

[_Dies._

CAMMA (_upheld by weeping Priestesses_).

Thy way? poor worm, crawl down thine own black hole To the lowest Hell. Antonius, is _he_ there? I meant thee to have follow’d—better thus. Nay, if my people must be thralls of Rome, He is gentle, tho’ a Roman.

[_Sinks back into the arms of the Priestesses._

Antonius. Thou art one With thine own people, and tho’ a Roman I Forgive thee, Camma.

CAMMA (_raising herself_).

“CAMMA!”—why there again I am most sure that some one call’d. O women, Ye will have Roman masters. I am glad I shall not see it. Did not some old Greek Say death was the chief good? He had my fate for it, Poison’d. (_Sinks back again_). Have I the crown on? I will go To meet him, crown’d! crown’d victor of my will— On my last voyage—but the wind has fail’d— Growing dark too—but light enough to row. Row to the blessed Isles! the blessed Isles!— Sinnatus! Why comes he not to meet me? It is the crown Offends him—and my hands are too sleepy To lift it off.

[_PHŒBE takes the crown off._

Who touch’d me then? I thank you.

[_Rises, with outspread arms._

There—league on league of ever-shining shore Beneath an ever-rising sun—I see him— “Camma, Camma!” Sinnatus, Sinnatus!

[_Dies._

THE END.

The Falcon. “THE FALCON” WAS PRODUCED AT THE ST. JAMES’S THEATRE, UNDER THE MANAGEMENT OF MESSRS. HARE AND KENDAL, IN DECEMBER 1879, WITH THE FOLLOWING CAST:—

THE COUNT FEDERIGO DEGLI ALBERIGHI MR. KENDAL. FILIPPO, _Count’s foster-brother_ MR. DENNY. THE LADY GIOVANNA MRS. KENDAL. ELISABETTA, _the Count’s nurse_ MRS. GASTON MURRAY.

The Falcon. SCENE.—_An Italian Cottage. Castle and Mountains seen through Window._

ELISABETTA discovered seated on stool in window darning. The COUNT with Falcon on his hand comes down through the door at back. A withered wreath on the wall.

Elisabetta. So, my lord, the Lady Giovanna, who hath been away so long, came back last night with her son to the castle.

Count. Hear that, my bird! Art thou not jealous of her? My princess of the cloud, my plumed purveyor, My far-eyed queen of the winds—thou that canst soar Beyond the morning lark, and howsoe’er Thy quarry wind and wheel, swoop down upon him Eagle-like, lightning-like—strike, make his feathers Glance in mid heaven.

[_Crosses to chair._

I would thou hadst a mate! Thy breed will die with thee, and mine with me: I am as lone and loveless as thyself.

[_Sits in chair._

Giovanna here! Ay, ruffle thyself—_be_ jealous! Thou should’st be jealous of her. Tho’ I bred thee The full-train’d marvel of all falconry, And love thee and thou me, yet if Giovanna Be here again—No, no! Buss me, my bird! The stately widow has no heart for me. Thou art the last friend left me upon earth— No, no again to that.

[_Rises and turns._

My good old nurse, I had forgotten thou wast sitting there.

Elisabetta. Ay, and forgotten thy foster-brother too.

Count. Bird-babble for my falcon! Let it pass. What art thou doing there?

Elisabetta. Darning, your lordship. We cannot flaunt it in new feathers now: Nay, if we _will_ buy diamond necklaces To please our lady, we must darn, my lord. This old thing here (_points to necklace round her neck_), they are but blue beads—my Piero, God rest his honest soul, he bought ’em for me, Ay, but he knew I meant to marry him. How couldst thou do it, my son? How couldst thou do it?

Count. She saw it at a dance, upon a neck Less lovely than her own, and long’d for it.

Elisabetta. She told thee as much?

Count. No, no—a friend of hers.

Elisabetta. Shame on her that she took it at thy hands, She rich enough to have bought it for herself!

Count. She would have robb’d me then of a great pleasure.

Elisabetta. But hath she yet return’d thy love?

Count. Not yet!

Elisabetta. She should return thy necklace then.

Count. Ay, if She knew the giver; but I bound the seller To silence, and I left it privily At Florence, in her palace.

Elisabetta. And sold thine own To buy it for her. She not know? She knows There’s none such other——

Count. Madman anywhere. Speak freely, tho’ to call a madman mad Will hardly help to make him sane again.

_Enter FILIPPO._

Filippo. Ah, the women, the women! Ah, Monna Giovanna, you here again! you that have the face of an angel and the heart of a—that’s too positive! You that have a score of lovers and have not a heart for any of them—that’s positive-negative: you that have _not_ the head of a toad, and _not_ a heart like the jewel in it—that’s too negative; you that have a cheek like a peach and a heart like the stone in it—that’s positive again—that’s better!

Elisabetta. Sh—sh—Filippo!

FILIPPO (_turns half round_).

Here has our master been a-glorifying and a-velveting and a-silking himself, and a-peacocking and a-spreading to catch her eye for a dozen year, till he hasn’t an eye left in his own tail to flourish among the peahens, and all along o’ you, Monna Giovanna, all along o’ you!

Elisabetta. Sh—sh—Filippo! Can’t you hear that you are saying behind his back what you see you are saying afore his face?

Count. Let him—he never spares me to my face!

Filippo. No, my lord, I never spare your lordship to your lordship’s face, nor behind your lordship’s back, nor to right, nor to left, nor to round about and back to your lordship’s face again, for I’m honest, your lordship.

Count. Come, come, Filippo, what is there in the larder?

[_ELISABETTA crosses to fireplace and puts on wood._

Filippo. Shelves and hooks, shelves and hooks, and when I see the shelves I am like to hang myself on the hooks.

Count. No bread?

Filippo. Half a breakfast for a rat!

Count. Milk?

Filippo. Three laps for a cat!

Count. Cheese?

Filippo. A supper for twelve mites.

Count. Eggs?

Filippo. One, but addled.

Count. No bird?

Filippo. Half a tit and a hern’s bill.

Count. Let be thy jokes and thy jerks, man! Anything or nothing?

Filippo. Well, my lord, if all-but-nothing be anything, and one plate of dried prunes be all-but-nothing, then there is anything in your lordship’s larder at your lordship’s service, if your lordship care to call for it.

Count. Good mother, happy was the prodigal son, For he return’d to the rich father; I But add my poverty to thine. And all Thro’ following of my fancy. Pray thee make Thy slender meal out of those scraps and shreds Filippo spoke of. As for him and me, There sprouts a salad in the garden still. (_To the Falcon._) Why didst thou miss thy quarry yester-even? To-day, my beauty, thou must dash us down Our dinner from the skies. Away, Filippo!

[_Exit, followed by FILIPPO._

Elisabetta. I knew it would come to this. She has beggared him. I always knew it would come to this! (_Goes up to table as if to resume darning, and looks out of window._) Why, as I live, there is Monna Giovanna coming down the hill from the castle. Stops and stares at our cottage. Ay, ay! stare at it: it’s all you have left us. Shame upon you! _She_ beautiful! sleek as a miller’s mouse! Meal enough, meat enough, well fed; but beautiful—bah! Nay, see, why she turns down the path through our little vineyard, and I sneezed three times this morning. Coming to visit my lord, for the first time in her life too! Why, bless the saints! I’ll be bound to confess her love to him at last. I forgive her, I forgive her! I knew it would come to this—I always knew it must come to this! (_Going up to door during latter part of speech and opens it._) Come in, Madonna, come in. (_Retires to front of table and curtseys as the LADY GIOVANNA enters, then moves chair towards the hearth._) Nay, let me place this chair for your ladyship.

[_LADY GIOVANNA moves slowly down stage, then crosses to chair, looking about her, bows as she sees the Madonna over fireplace, then sits in chair._

Lady Giovanna. Can I speak with the Count?

Elisabetta. Ay, my lady, but won’t you speak with the old woman first, and tell her all about it and make her happy? for I’ve been on my knees every day for these half-dozen years in hope that the saints would send us this blessed morning; and he always took you so kindly, he always took the world so kindly. When he was a little one, and I put the bitters on my breast to wean him, he made a wry mouth at it, but he took it so kindly, and your ladyship has given him bitters enough in this world, and he never made a wry mouth at you, he always took you so kindly—which is more than I did, my lady, more than I did—and he so handsome—and bless your sweet face, you look as beautiful this morning as the very Madonna her own self—and better late than never—but come when they will—then or now—it’s all for the best, come when they will—they are made by the blessed saints—these marriages.

[_Raises her hands._

Lady Giovanna. Marriages? I shall never marry again!

ELISABETTA (_rises and turns_).

Shame on her then!

Lady Giovanna. Where is the Count?

Elisabetta. Just gone To fly his falcon.

Lady Giovanna. Call him back and say I come to breakfast with him.

Elisabetta. Holy mother! To breakfast! Oh sweet saints! one plate of prunes! Well, Madam, I will give your message to him.

[_Exit._

Lady Giovanna. His falcon, and I come to ask for his falcon, The pleasure of his eyes—boast of his hand— Pride of his heart—the solace of his hours— His one companion here—nay, I have heard That, thro’ his late magnificence of living And this last costly gift to mine own self,

[_Shows diamond necklace._

He hath become so beggar’d, that his falcon Ev’n wins his dinner for him in the field. That must be talk, not truth, but truth or talk, How can I ask for his falcon?

[_Rises and moves as she speaks._

O my sick boy! My daily fading Florio, it is thou Hath set me this hard task, for when I say What can I do—what can I get for thee? He answers, “Get the Count to give me his falcon, And that will make me well.” Yet if I ask, He loves me, and he knows I know he loves me! Will he not pray me to return his love— To marry him?—(_pause_)—I can never marry him. His grandsire struck my grandsire in a brawl At Florence, and my grandsire stabb’d him there. The feud between our houses is the bar I cannot cross; I dare not brave my brother, Break with my kin. My brother hates him, scorns The noblest-natured man alive, and I— Who have that reverence for him that I scarce Dare beg him to receive his diamonds back— How can I, dare I, ask him for his falcon?

[_Puts diamonds in her casket._

_Re-enter COUNT and FILIPPO. COUNT turns to FILIPPO._

Count. Do what I said; I cannot do it myself.

Filippo. Why then, my lord, we are pauper’d out and out.

Count. Do what I said!

[_Advances and bows low._

Welcome to this poor cottage, my dear lady.

Lady Giovanna. And welcome turns a cottage to a palace.

Count. ’Tis long since we have met!

Lady Giovanna. To make amends I come this day to break my fast with you.

Count. I am much honour’d—yes—

[_Turns to FILIPPO._

Do what I told thee. Must I do it myself?

Filippo. I will, I will. (_Sighs._) Poor fellow!

[_Exit._

Count. Lady, you bring your light into my cottage Who never deign’d to shine into my palace. My palace wanting you was but a cottage; My cottage, while you grace it, is a palace.

Lady Giovanna. In cottage or in palace, being still Beyond your fortunes, you are still the king Of courtesy and liberality.

Count. I trust I still maintain my courtesy; My liberality perforce is dead Thro’ lack of means of giving.

Lady Giovanna. Yet I come To ask a gift.

[_Moves toward him a little._

Count. It will be hard, I fear, To find one shock upon the field when all The harvest has been carried.

Lady Giovanna. But my boy— (_Aside._) No, no! not yet—I cannot!

Count. Ay, how is he, That bright inheritor of your eyes—your boy?

Lady Giovanna. Alas, my Lord Federigo, he hath fallen Into a sickness, and it troubles me.

Count. Sick! is it so? why, when he came last year To see me hawking, he was well enough: And then I taught him all our hawking-phrases.

Lady Giovanna. Oh yes, and once you let him fly your falcon.

Count. How charm’d he was! what wonder?—A gallant boy, A noble bird, each perfect of the breed.

LADY GIOVANNA (_sinks in chair_).

What do you rate her at?

Count. My bird? a hundred Gold pieces once were offer’d by the Duke. I had no heart to part with her for money.

Lady Giovanna. No, not for money.

[_COUNT turns away and sighs._

Wherefore do you sigh?

Count. I have lost a friend of late.

Lady Giovanna. I could sigh with you For fear of losing more than friend, a son; And if he leave me—all the rest of life— That wither’d wreath were of more worth to me.

[_Looking at wreath on wall._

Count. That wither’d wreath is of more worth to me Than all the blossom, all the leaf of this New-wakening year.

[_Goes and takes down wreath._

Lady Giovanna. And yet I never saw The land so rich in blossom as this year.

COUNT (_holding wreath toward her_).

Was not the year when this was gather’d richer?

Lady Giovanna. How long ago was that?

Count. Alas, ten summers! A lady that was beautiful as day Sat by me at a rustic festival With other beauties on a mountain meadow, And she was the most beautiful of all; Then but fifteen, and still as beautiful. The mountain flowers grew thickly round about. I made a wreath with some of these; I ask’d A ribbon from her hair to bind it with; I whisper’d, Let me crown you Queen of Beauty, And softly placed the chaplet on her head. A colour, which has colour’d all my life, Flush’d in her face; then I was call’d away; And presently all rose, and so departed. Ah! she had thrown my chaplet on the grass, And there I found it.

[_Lets his hands fall, holding wreath despondingly._

LADY GIOVANNA (_after pause_).

How long since do you say?

Count. That was the very year before you married.

Lady Giovanna. When I was married you were at the wars.

Count. Had she not thrown my chaplet on the grass, It may be I had never seen the wars.

[_Replaces wreath whence he had taken it._

Lady Giovanna. Ah, but, my lord, there ran a rumour then That you were kill’d in battle. I can tell you True tears that year were shed for you in Florence.

Count. It might have been as well for me. Unhappily I was but wounded by the enemy there And then imprison’d.

Lady Giovanna. Happily, however, I see you quite recover’d of your wound.

Count. No, no, not quite, Madonna, not yet, not yet.

_Re-enter FILIPPO._

Filippo. My lord, a word with you.

Count. Pray, pardon me!

[_LADY GIOVANNA crosses, and passes behind chair and takes down wreath; then goes to chair by table._

COUNT (_to FILIPPO_).

What is it, Filippo?

Filippo. Spoons, your lordship.

Count. Spoons!

Filippo. Yes, my lord, for wasn’t my lady born with a golden spoon in her ladyship’s mouth, and we haven’t never so much as a silver one for the golden lips of her ladyship.

Count. Have we not half a score of silver spoons?

Filippo. Half o’ one, my lord!

Count. How half of one?

Filippo. I trod upon him even now, my lord, in my hurry, and broke him.

Count. And the other nine?

Filippo. Sold! but shall I not mount with your lordship’s leave to her ladyship’s castle, in your lordship’s and her ladyship’s name, and confer with her ladyship’s seneschal, and so descend again with some of her ladyship’s own appurtenances?

Count. Why—no, man. Only see your cloth be clean.

[_Exit FILIPPO._

Lady Giovanna. Ay, ay, this faded ribbon was the mode In Florence ten years back. What’s here? a scroll Pinn’d to the wreath. My lord, you have said so much Of this poor wreath that I was bold enough To take it down, if but to guess what flowers Had made it; and I find a written scroll That seems to run in rhymings. Might I read?

Count. Ay, if you will.

Lady Giovanna. It should be if you can. (_Reads._) “Dead mountain.” Nay, for who could trace a hand So wild and staggering?

Count. This was penn’d, Madonna, Close to the grating on a winter morn In the perpetual twilight of a prison, When he that made it, having his right hand Lamed in the battle, wrote it with his left.

Lady Giovanna. Oh heavens! the very letters seem to shake With cold, with pain perhaps, poor prisoner! Well, Tell me the words—or better—for I see There goes a musical score along with them, Repeat them to their music.

Count. You can touch No chord in me that would not answer you In music.

Lady Giovanna. That is musically said.

[_COUNT takes guitar. LADY GIOVANNA sits listening with wreath in her hand, and quietly removes scroll and places it on table at the end of the song._

COUNT (_sings, playing guitar_).

“Dead mountain flowers, dead mountain-meadow flowers, Dearer than when you made your mountain gay, Sweeter than any violet of to-day, Richer than all the wide world-wealth of May, To me, tho’ all your bloom has died away, You bloom again, dead mountain-meadow flowers.”

_Enter ELISABETTA with cloth._

Elisabetta. A word with you, my lord!

COUNT (_singing_).

“O mountain flowers!”

Elisabetta. A word, my lord! (_Louder_).

COUNT (_sings_).

“Dead flowers!”

Elisabetta. A word, my lord! (_Louder_).

Count. I pray you pardon me again!

[_LADY GIOVANNA, looking at wreath._

COUNT (_to ELISABETTA._)

What is it?

Elisabetta. My lord, we have but one piece of earthenware to serve the salad in to my lady, and that cracked!

Count. Why then, that flower’d bowl my ancestor Fetch’d from the farthest east—we never use it For fear of breakage—but this day has brought A great occasion. You can take it, nurse!

Elisabetta. I did take it, my lord, but what with my lady’s coming that had so flurried me, and what with the fear of breaking it, I did break it, my lord: it is broken!

Count. My one thing left of value in the world! No matter! see your cloth be white as snow!

ELISABETTA (_pointing thro’ window_).

White? I warrant thee, my son, as the snow yonder on the very tip-top o’ the mountain.

Count. And yet to speak white truth, my good old mother, I have seen it like the snow on the moraine.

Elisabetta. How can your lordship say so? There, my lord!

[_Lays cloth._

O my dear son, be not unkind to me. And one word more.

[_Going—returns._

COUNT (_touching guitar_).

Good! let it be but one.

Elisabetta. Hath she return’d thy love?

Count. Not yet!

Elisabetta. And will she?

COUNT (_looking at LADY GIOVANNA_).

I scarce believe it!

Elisabetta. Shame upon her then!

[_Exit._

COUNT (_sings_).

“Dead mountain flowers”—— Ah well, my nurse has broken The thread of my dead flowers, as she has broken My china bowl. My memory is as dead.

[_Goes and replaces guitar._

Strange that the words at home with me so long Should fly like bosom friends when needed most. So by your leave if you would hear the rest, The writing.

LADY GIOVANNA (_holding wreath toward him_).

There! my lord, you are a poet, And can you not imagine that the wreath, Set, as you say, so lightly on her head, Fell with her motion as she rose, and she, A girl, a child, then but fifteen, however Flutter’d or flatter’d by your notice of her, Was yet too bashful to return for it?

Count. Was it so indeed? was it so? was it so?

[_Leans forward to take wreath, and touches LADY GIOVANNA’S hand, which she withdraws hastily; he places wreath on corner of chair._

LADY GIOVANNA (_with dignity_).

I did not say, my lord, that it was so; I said you might imagine it was so.

_Enter FILIPPO with bowl of salad, which he places on table._

Filippo. Here’s a fine salad for my lady, for tho’ we have been a soldier, and ridden by his lordship’s side, and seen the red of the battle-field, yet are we now drill-sergeant to his lordship’s lettuces, and profess to be great in green things and in garden-stuff.

Lady Giovanna. I thank you, good Filippo.

[_Exit FILIPPO._

_Enter ELISABETTA with bird on a dish which she places on table._

ELISABETTA (_close to table_).

Here’s a fine fowl for my lady; I had scant time to do him in. I hope he be not underdone, for we be undone in the doing of him.

Lady Giovanna. I thank you, my good nurse.

FILIPPO (_re-entering with plate of prunes_).

And here are fine fruits for my lady—prunes, my lady, from the tree that my lord himself planted here in the blossom of his boyhood—and so I, Filippo, being, with your ladyship’s pardon, and as your ladyship knows, his lordship’s own foster-brother, would commend them to your ladyship’s most peculiar appreciation.

[_Puts plate on table._

Elisabetta. Filippo!

LADY GIOVANNA (_COUNT leads her to table_).

Will you not eat with me, my lord?

Count. I cannot, Not a morsel, not one morsel. I have broken My fast already. I will pledge you. Wine! Filippo, wine!

[_Sits near table; FILIPPO brings flask, fills the COUNT’S goblet, then LADY GIOVANNA’S; ELISABETTA stands at the back of LADY GIOVANNA’S chair._

Count. It is but thin and cold, Not like the vintage blowing round your castle. We lie too deep down in the shadow here. Your ladyship lives higher in the sun.

[_They pledge each other and drink._

Lady Giovanna. If I might send you down a flask or two Of that same vintage? There is iron in it. It has been much commended as a medicine. I give it my sick son, and if you be Not quite recover’d of your wound, the wine Might help you. None has ever told me yet The story of your battle and your wound.

FILIPPO (_coming forward_).

I can tell you, my lady, I can tell you.

Elisabetta. Filippo! will you take the word out of your master’s own mouth?

Filippo. Was it there to take? Put it there, my lord.

Count. Giovanna, my dear lady, in this same battle We had been beaten—they were ten to one. The trumpets of the fight had echo’d down, I and Filippo here had done our best, And, having passed unwounded from the field, Were seated sadly at a fountain side, Our horses grazing by us, when a troop, Laden with booty and with a flag of ours Ta’en in the fight——

Filippo. Ay, but we fought for it back, And kill’d——

Elisabetta. Filippo!

Count. A troop of horse——

Filippo. Five hundred!

Count. Say fifty!

Filippo. And we kill’d ’em by the score!

Elisabetta. Filippo!

Filippo. Well, well, well! I bite my tongue.

Count. We may have left their fifty less by five. However, staying not to count how many, But anger’d at their flaunting of our flag, We mounted, and we dashed into the heart of ’em. I wore the lady’s chaplet round my neck; It served me for a blessed rosary. I am sure that more than one brave fellow owed His death to the charm in it.

Elisabetta. Hear that, my lady!

Count. I cannot tell how long we strove before Our horses fell beneath us; down we went Crush’d, hack’d at, trampled underfoot. The night, As some cold-manner’d friend may strangely do us The truest service, had a touch of frost That help’d to check the flowing of the blood. My last sight ere I swoon’d was one sweet face Crown’d with the wreath. _That_ seem’d to come and go. They left us there for dead!

Elisabetta. Hear that, my lady!

Filippo. Ay, and I left two fingers there for dead. See, my lady! (_Showing his hand_).

Lady Giovanna. I see, Filippo!

Filippo. And I have small hope of the gentleman gout in my great toe.

Lady Giovanna. And why, Filippo?

[_Smiling absently._

Filippo. I left him there for dead too!

Elisabetta. She smiles at him—how hard the woman is! My lady, if your ladyship were not Too proud to look upon the garland, you Would find it stain’d——

COUNT (_rising_).

Silence, Elisabetta!

Elisabetta. Stain’d with the blood of the best heart that ever Beat for one woman.

[_Points to wreath on chair._

LADY GIOVANNA (_rising slowly_).

I can eat no more!

Count. You have but trifled with our homely salad, But dallied with a single lettuce-leaf; Not eaten anything.

Lady Giovanna. Nay, nay, I cannot. You know, my lord, I told you I was troubled. My one child Florio lying still so sick, I bound myself, and by a solemn vow, That I would touch no flesh till he were well Here, or else well in Heaven, where all is well.

[_ELISABETTA clears table of bird and salad: FILIPPO snatches up the plate of prunes and holds them to LADY GIOVANNA._

Filippo. But the prunes, my lady, from the tree that his lordship——

Lady Giovanna. Not now, Filippo. My lord Federigo, Can I not speak with you once more alone?

Count. You hear, Filippo? My good fellow, go!

Filippo. But the prunes that your lordship——

Elisabetta. Filippo!

Count. Ay, prune our company of thine own and go!

Elisabetta. Filippo!

FILIPPO (_turning_).

Well, well! the women!

[_Exit._

Count. And thou too leave us, my dear nurse, alone.

ELISABETTA (_folding up cloth and going_).

And me too! Ay, the dear nurse will leave you alone; but, for all that, she that has eaten the yolk is scarce like to swallow the shell.

[_Turns and curtseys stiffly to LADY GIOVANNA, then exit. LADY GIOVANNA takes out diamond necklace from casket._

Lady Giovanna. I have anger’d your good nurse; these old-world servants Are all but flesh and blood with those they serve. My lord, I have a present to return you, And afterwards a boon to crave of you.

Count. No, my most honour’d and long-worshipt lady, Poor Federigo degli Alberighi Takes nothing in return from you except Return of his affection—can deny Nothing to you that you require of him.

Lady Giovanna. Then I require you to take back your diamonds—

[_Offering necklace._

I doubt not they are yours. No other heart Of such magnificence in courtesy Beats—out of heaven. They seem’d too rich a prize To trust with any messenger. I came In person to return them.

[_Count draws back._

If the phrase “Return” displease you, we will say—exchange them For your—for your——

COUNT (_takes a step toward her and then back_).

For mine—and what of mine?

Lady Giovanna. Well, shall we say this wreath and your sweet rhymes?

Count. But have you ever worn my diamonds?

Lady Giovanna. No! For that would seem accepting of your love, I cannot brave my brother—but be sure That I shall never marry again, my lord!

Count. Sure?

Lady Giovanna. Yes!

Count. Is this your brother’s order?

Lady Giovanna. No! For he would marry me to the richest man In Florence; but I think you know the saying— “Better a man without riches, than riches without a man.”

Count. A noble saying—and acted on would yield A nobler breed of men and women. Lady, I find you a shrewd bargainer. The wreath That once you wore outvalues twentyfold The diamonds that you never deign’d to wear. But lay them there for a moment!

[_Points to table. LADY GIOVANNA places necklace on table._

And be you Gracious enough to let me know the boon By granting which, if aught be mine to grant, I should be made more happy than I hoped Ever to be again.

Lady Giovanna. Then keep your wreath, But you will find me a shrewd bargainer still. I cannot keep your diamonds, for the gift I ask for, to _my_ mind and at this present Outvalues all the jewels upon earth.

Count. It should be love that thus outvalues all. You speak like love, and yet you love me not. I have nothing in this world but love for you.

Lady Giovanna. Love? it _is_ love, love for my dying boy, Moves me to ask it of you.

Count. What? my time? Is it my time? Well, I can give my time To him that is a part of you, your son. Shall I return to the castle with you? Shall I Sit by him, read to him, tell him my tales, Sing him my songs? You know that I can touch The ghittern to some purpose.

Lady Giovanna. No, not that! I thank you heartily for that—and you, I doubt not from your nobleness of nature, Will pardon me for asking what I ask.

Count. Giovanna, dear Giovanna, I that once The wildest of the random youth of Florence Before I saw you—all my nobleness Of nature, as you deign to call it, draws From you, and from my constancy to you. No more, but speak.

Lady Giovanna. I will. You know sick people, More specially sick children, have strange fancies, Strange longings; and to thwart them in their mood May work them grievous harm at times, may even Hasten their end. I would you had a son! It might be easier then for you to make Allowance for a mother—her—who comes To rob you of your one delight on earth. How often has my sick boy yearn’d for this! I have put him off as often; but to-day I dared not—so much weaker, so much worse For last day’s journey. I was weeping for him; He gave me his hand: “I should be well again If the good Count would give me——”

Count. Give me.

Lady Giovanna. His falcon.

COUNT (_starts back_).

My falcon!

Lady Giovanna. Yes, your falcon, Federigo!

Count. Alas, I cannot!

Lady Giovanna. Cannot? Even so! I fear’d as much. O this unhappy world! How shall I break it to him? how shall I tell him? The boy may die: more blessed were the rags Of some pale beggar-woman seeking alms For her sick son, if he were like to live, Than all my childless wealth, if mine must die. I was to blame—the love you said you bore me— My lord, we thank you for your entertainment,

[_With a stately curtsey._

And so return—Heaven help him!—to our son.

[_Turns._

COUNT (_rushes forward_).

Stay, stay, I am most unlucky, most unhappy. You never had look’d in on me before, And when you came and dipt your sovereign head Thro’ these low doors, you ask’d to eat with me. I had but emptiness to set before you, No not a draught of milk, no not an egg, Nothing but my brave bird, my noble falcon, My comrade of the house, and of the field. She had to die for it—she died for you. Perhaps I thought with those of old, the nobler The victim was, the more acceptable Might be the sacrifice. I fear you scarce Will thank me for your entertainment now.

LADY GIOVANNA (_returning_).

I bear with him no longer.

Count. No, Madonna! And he will have to bear with it as he may.

Lady Giovanna. I break with him for ever!

Count. Yes, Giovanna, But he will keep his love to you for ever!

Lady Giovanna. You? you? not you! My brother! my hard brother! O Federigo, Federigo, I love you! Spite of ten thousand brothers, Federigo.

[_Falls at his feet._

COUNT (_impetuously_).

Why then the dying of my noble bird Hath served me better than her living—then

[_Takes diamonds from table._

These diamonds are both yours and mine—have won Their value again—beyond all markets—there I lay them for the first time round your neck.

[_Lays necklace round her neck._

And then this chaplet—No more feuds, but peace, Peace and conciliation! I will make Your brother love me. See, I tear away The leaves were darken’d by the battle——

[_Pulls leaves off and throws them down._

—crown you Again with the same crown my Queen of Beauty.

[_Places wreath on her head._

Rise—I could almost think that the dead garland Will break once more into the living blossom. Nay, nay, I pray you rise.

[_Raises her with both hands._

We two together Will help to heal your son—your son and mine— We shall do it—we shall do it.

[_Embraces her._

The purpose of my being is accomplish’d, And I am happy!

Lady Giovanna. And I too, Federigo.

THE END.

_Printed by R. & R. CLARK, Edinburgh._

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THE WORKS OF LORD TENNYSON

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