THE CUP

AND

THE FALCON

[Illustration]




                                 THE CUP

                                   AND

                                THE FALCON

                                    BY
                                  ALFRED
                              LORD TENNYSON
                              POET LAUREATE

                                  London
                             MACMILLAN AND CO.
                                   1884




THE CUP

_A TRAGEDY_


“THE CUP” WAS PRODUCED AT THE LYCEUM THEATRE, UNDER THE MANAGEMENT OF MR.
HENRY IRVING, JANUARY 3, 1881, WITH THE FOLLOWING CAST:—

GALATIANS.

    SYNORIX, _an ex-Tetrarch_                  MR. HENRY IRVING.
    SINNATUS, _a Tetrarch_                     MR. TERRIS.
    _Attendant_                                MR. HARWOOD.
    _Boy_                                      MISS BROWN.
    _Maid_                                     MISS HARWOOD.
    PHŒBE                                      MISS PAUNCEFORT.
    CAMMA, _wife of Sinnatus, afterwards
      Priestess in the Temple of Artemis_      MISS ELLEN TERRY.

ROMANS.

    ANTONIUS, _a Roman General_                MR. TYARS.
    PUBLIUS                                    MR. HUDSON.
    _Nobleman_                                 MR. MATHESON.
    _Messenger_                                MR. ARCHER.

ACT I.

    SCENE I.—_Distant View of a City of Galatia. (Afternoon.)_
      ”  II.—_A Room in the Tetrarch’s House. (Evening.)_
      ” III.—_Same as Scene I. (Dawn.)_

ACT II.

    SCENE—_Interior of the Temple of Artemis._




ACT I.


SCENE I.—_Distant View of a City of Galatia._

    As the curtain rises, Priestesses are heard singing in the
    Temple. Boy discovered on a pathway among Rocks, picking
    grapes. A party of Roman Soldiers, guarding a prisoner in
    chains, come down the pathway and exeunt.

            _Enter SYNORIX (looking round). Singing ceases._

SYNORIX.

    Pine, beech and plane, oak, walnut, apricot,
    Vine, cypress, poplar, myrtle, bowering-in
    The city where she dwells. She past me here
    Three years ago when I was flying from
    My Tetrarchy to Rome. I almost touch’d her—
    A maiden slowly moving on to music
    Among her maidens to this Temple—O Gods!
    She is my fate—else wherefore has my fate
    Brought me again to her own city?—married
    Since—married Sinnatus, the Tetrarch here—
    But if he be conspirator, Rome will chain,
    Or slay him. I may trust to gain her then
    When I shall have my tetrarchy restored
    By Rome, our mistress, grateful that I show’d her
    The weakness and the dissonance of our clans,
    And how to crush them easily. Wretched race!
    And once I wish’d to scourge them to the bones.
    But in this narrow breathing-time of life
    Is vengeance for its own sake worth the while,
    If once our ends are gain’d? and now this cup—
    I never felt such passion for a woman.

                                                  [_Brings out a cup and
                                                  scroll from under his
                                                  cloak._

    What have I written to her?

                                                  [_Reading the scroll._

    “To the admired Camma, wife of Sinnatus, the Tetrarch, one who
    years ago, himself an adorer of our great goddess, Artemis,
    beheld you afar off worshipping in her Temple, and loved you
    for it, sends you this cup rescued from the burning of one of
    her shrines in a city thro’ which he past with the Roman army:
    it is the cup we use in our marriages. Receive it from one who
    cannot at present write himself other than

                  “A GALATIAN SERVING BY FORCE IN THE ROMAN LEGION.”

                                                  [_Turns and looks up to
                                                  Boy._

    Boy, dost thou know the house of Sinnatus?

BOY.

    These grapes are for the house of Sinnatus—
    Close to the Temple.

SYNORIX.

                        Yonder?

BOY.

                                Yes.

SYNORIX (_aside_).

                                      That I
    With all my range of women should yet shun
    To meet her face to face at once! My boy,

                                                  [_Boy comes down rocks
                                                  to him._

    Take thou this letter and this cup to Camma,
    The wife of Sinnatus.

BOY.

                          Going or gone to-day
    To hunt with Sinnatus.

SYNORIX.

                          That matters not.
    Take thou this cup and leave it at her doors.

                                                  [_Gives the cup and
                                                  scroll to the Boy._

BOY.

    I will, my lord.

                                                  [_Takes his basket of
                                                  grapes and exit._

                            _Enter ANTONIUS._

ANTONIUS (_meeting the Boy as he goes out_).

                    Why, whither runs the boy?
    Is that the cup you rescued from the fire?

SYNORIX.

    I send it to the wife of Sinnatus,
    One half besotted in religious rites.
    You come here with your soldiers to enforce
    The long-withholden tribute: you suspect
    This Sinnatus of playing patriotism,
    Which in your sense is treason. You have yet
    No proof against him: now this pious cup
    Is passport to their house, and open arms
    To him who gave it; and once there I warrant
    I worm thro’ all their windings.

ANTONIUS.

                                    If you prosper,
    Our Senate, wearied of their tetrarchies,
    Their quarrels with themselves, their spites at Rome,
    Is like enough to cancel them, and throne
    One king above them all, who shall be true
    To the Roman: and from what I heard in Rome,
    This tributary crown may fall to you.

SYNORIX.

    The king, the crown! their talk in Rome? is it so?

                                                   [_ANTONIUS nods._

    Well—I shall serve Galatia taking it,
    And save her from herself, and be to Rome
    More faithful than a Roman.

                                                  [_Turns and sees CAMMA
                                                  coming._

                                Stand aside,
    Stand aside; here she comes!

                                                  [_Watching CAMMA as she
                                                  enters with her Maid._

CAMMA (_to Maid_).

    Where is he, girl?

MAID.

                        You know the waterfall
    That in the summer keeps the mountain side,
    But after rain o’erleaps a jutting rock
    And shoots three hundred feet.

CAMMA.

                                  The stag is there?

MAID.

    Seen in the thicket at the bottom there
    But yester-even.

CAMMA.

                    Good then, we will climb
    The mountain opposite and watch the chase.

                                                  [_They descend the
                                                  rocks and exeunt._

SYNORIX (_watching her_).

    (_Aside._) The bust of Juno and the brows and eyes
    Of Venus; face and form unmatchable!

ANTONIUS.

    Why do you look at her so lingeringly?

SYNORIX.

    To see if years have changed her.

ANTONIUS (_sarcastically_).

                                      Love her, do you?

SYNORIX.

    I envied Sinnatus when he married her.

ANTONIUS.

    She knows it? Ha!

SYNORIX.

                      She—no, nor ev’n my face.

ANTONIUS.

    Nor Sinnatus either?

SYNORIX.

                        No, nor Sinnatus.

ANTONIUS.

    Hot-blooded! I have heard them say in Rome,
    That your own people cast you from their bounds,
    For some unprincely violence to a woman,
    As Rome did Tarquin.

SYNORIX.

                        Well, if this were so,
    I here return like Tarquin—for a crown.

ANTONIUS.

    And may be foil’d like Tarquin, if you follow
    Not the dry light of Rome’s straight-going policy,
    But the fool-fire of love or lust, which well
    May make you lose yourself, may even drown you
    In the good regard of Rome.

SYNORIX.

                                Tut—fear me not;
    I ever had my victories among women.
    I am most true to Rome.

ANTONIUS (_aside_).

                            I hate that man!
    What filthy tools our Senate works with! Still
    I must obey them. (_Aloud._) Fare you well.

                                                  [_Going._

SYNORIX.

                                                Farewell!

ANTONIUS (_stopping_).

    A moment! If you track this Sinnatus
    In any treason, I give you here an order

                                                  [_Produces a paper._

    To seize upon him. Let me sign it. (_Signs it._) There
    “Antonius leader of the Roman Legion.”

                                                  [_Hands the paper
                                                  to SYNORIX. Goes up
                                                  pathway and exit._

SYNORIX.

    Woman again!—but I am wiser now.
    No rushing on the game—the net,—the net.
    [_Shouts of_ “Sinnatus! Sinnatus!” _Then horn._
    _Looking off stage._] He comes, a rough, bluff, simple-looking fellow.
    If we may judge the kernel by the husk,
    Not one to keep a woman’s fealty when
    Assailed by Craft and Love. I’ll join with him:
    I may reap something from him—come upon _her_
    Again, perhaps, to-day—_her_. Who are with him?
    I see no face that knows me. Shall I risk it?
    I am a Roman now, they dare not touch me.
    I will.

                 _Enter SINNATUS, HUNTSMEN and hounds._

            Fair Sir, a happy day to you!
    You reck but little of the Roman here,
    While you can take your pastime in the woods.

SINNATUS.

    Ay, ay, why not? What would you with me, man?

SYNORIX.

    I am a life-long lover of the chase,
    And tho’ a stranger fain would be allow’d
    To join the hunt.

SINNATUS.

                      Your name?

SYNORIX.

                                Strato, my name.

SINNATUS.

    No Roman name?

SYNORIX.

                  A Greek, my lord; you know
    That we Galatians are both Greek and Gaul.

                                                  [_Shouts and horns in
                                                  the distance._

SINNATUS.

    Hillo, the stag! (_To SYNORIX._) What, you are all unfurnish’d?
    Give him a bow and arrows—follow—follow.

                                                   [_Exit, followed by
                                                  Huntsmen._

SYNORIX.

    Slowly but surely—till I see my way.
    It is the one step in the dark beyond
    Our expectation, that amazes us.

                                                  [_Distant shouts and
                                                  horns._

    Hillo! Hillo!

                                                  [_Exit SYNORIX. Shouts
                                                  and horns._


SCENE II.—_A Room in the Tetrarch’s House._

    Frescoed figures on the walls. Evening. Moonlight outside. A
    couch with cushions on it. A small table with flagon of wine,
    cups, plate of grapes, etc., also the cup of Scene I. A chair
    with drapery on it.

              _CAMMA enters, and opens curtains of window._

CAMMA.

    No Sinnatus yet—and there the rising moon.

                                                  [_Takes up a cithern
                                                  and sits on couch.
                                                  Plays and sings._

    “Moon on the field and the foam,
      Moon on the waste and the wold,
    Moon bring him home, bring him home
      Safe from the dark and the cold,
    Home, sweet moon, bring him home,
      Home with the flock to the fold—
    Safe from the wolf”——

    (_Listening._) Is he coming? I thought I heard
    A footstep. No not yet. They say that Rome
    Sprang from a wolf. I fear my dear lord mixt
    With some conspiracy against the wolf.
    This mountain shepherd never dream’d of Rome.
    (_Sings._) “Safe from the wolf to the fold”——
    And that great break of precipice that runs
    Thro’ all the wood, where twenty years ago
    Huntsman, and hound, and deer were all neck-broken!
    Nay, here he comes.

                  _Enter SINNATUS followed by SYNORIX._

SINNATUS (_angrily_).

                        I tell thee, my good fellow,
    _My_ arrow struck the stag.

SYNORIX

                                But was it so?
    Nay, you were further off: besides the wind
    Went with _my_ arrow.

SINNATUS.

                          I am sure _I_ struck him.

SYNORIX.

    And I am just as sure, my lord, _I_ struck him.
    (_Aside._) And I may strike your game when you are gone.

CAMMA.

    Come, come, we will not quarrel about the stag.
    I have had a weary day in watching you.
    Yours must have been a wearier. Sit and eat,
    And take a hunter’s vengeance on the meats.

SINNATUS.

    No, no—we have eaten—we are heated. Wine!

CAMMA.

    Who is our guest?

SINNATUS.

                      Strato he calls himself.

                                                  [_CAMMA offers wine to
                                                  SYNORIX, while SINNATUS
                                                  helps himself._

SINNATUS.

    I pledge you, Strato.

                                                  [_Drinks._

SYNORIX.

                          And I you, my lord.

                                                  [_Drinks._

SINNATUS (_seeing the cup sent to CAMMA_).

    What’s here?

CAMMA.

                  A strange gift sent to me to-day.
    A sacred cup saved from a blazing shrine
    Of our great Goddess, in some city where
    Antonius past. I had believed that Rome
    Made war upon the peoples not the Gods.

SYNORIX.

    Most like the city rose against Antonius,
    Whereon he fired it, and the sacred shrine
    By chance was burnt along with it.

SINNATUS.

                                        Had you then
    No message with the cup?

CAMMA.

                              Why, yes, see here.

                                                  [_Gives him the scroll._

SINNATUS (_reads_).

    “To the admired Camma,—beheld you afar off—loved you—sends you
    this cup—the cup we use in our marriages—cannot at present
    write himself other than

                  “A GALATIAN SERVING BY FORCE IN THE ROMAN LEGION.”

    Serving by force! Were there no boughs to hang on,
    Rivers to drown in? Serve by force? No force
    Could make me serve by force.

SYNORIX.

                                  How then, my lord?
    The Roman is encampt without your city—
    The force of Rome a thousand-fold our own.
    Must all Galatia hang or drown himself?
    And you a Prince and Tetrarch in this province——

SINNATUS.

    Province!

SYNORIX.

              Well, well, they call it so in Rome.

SINNATUS (_angrily_).

    Province!

SYNORIX.

    A noble anger! but Antonius
    To-morrow will demand your tribute—you,
    Can you make war? Have you alliances?
    Bithynia, Pontus, Paphlagonia?
    We have had our leagues of old with Eastern kings.
    There is my hand—if such a league there be.
    What will you do?

SINNATUS.

                      Not set myself abroach
    And run my mind out to a random guest
    Who join’d me in the hunt. You saw my hounds
    True to the scent; and we have two-legg’d dogs
    Among us who can smell a true occasion,
    And when to bark and how.

SYNORIX.

                              My good Lord Sinnatus,
    I once was at the hunting of a lion.
    Roused by the clamour of the chase he woke,
    Came to the front of the wood—his monarch mane
    Bristled about his quick ears—he stood there
    Staring upon the hunter. A score of dogs
    Gnaw’d at his ankles: at the last he felt
    The trouble of his feet, put forth one paw,
    Slew four, and knew it not, and so remain’d
    Staring upon the hunter: and this Rome
    Will crush you if you wrestle with her; then
    Save for some slight report in her own Senate
    Scarce know what she has done.
    (_Aside._)                     Would I could move him,
    Provoke him any way! (_Aloud._) The Lady Camma,
    Wise I am sure as she is beautiful,
    Will close with me that to submit at once
    Is better than a wholly-hopeless war,
    Our gallant citizens murder’d all in vain,
    Son, husband, brother gash’d to death in vain,
    And the small state more cruelly trampled on
    Than had she never moved.

CAMMA.

                              Sir, I had once
    A boy who died a babe; but were he living
    And grown to man and Sinnatus will’d it, I
    Would set him in the front rank of the fight
    With scarce a pang. (_Rises._) Sir, if a state submit
    At once, she may be blotted out at once
    And swallow’d in the conqueror’s chronicle.
    Whereas in wars of freedom and defence
    The glory and grief of battle won or lost
    Solders a race together—yea—tho’ they fail,
    The names of those who fought and fell are like
    A bank’d-up fire that flashes out again
    From century to century, and at last
    May lead them on to victory—I hope so—
    Like phantoms of the Gods.

SINNATUS.

                              Well spoken, wife.

SYNORIX (_bowing_).

    Madam, so well I yield.

SINNATUS.

                            I should not wonder
    If Synorix, who has dwelt three years in Rome
    And wrought his worst against his native land,
    Returns with this Antonius.

SYNORIX.

                                What is Synorix?

SINNATUS.

    Galatian, and not know? This Synorix
    Was Tetrarch here, and tyrant also—did
    Dishonour to our wives.

SYNORIX.

                            Perhaps you judge him
    With feeble charity: being as you tell me
    Tetrarch, there might be willing wives enough
    To feel dishonour, honour.

CAMMA.

                              Do not say so.
    I know of no such wives in all Galatia.
    There may be courtesans for aught I know
    Whose life is one dishonour.

                           _Enter ATTENDANT._

ATTENDANT (_aside_).

                                My lord, the men!

SINNATUS (_aside_).

    Our anti-Roman faction?

ATTENDANT (_aside_).

                            Ay, my lord.

SYNORIX (_overhearing_).

    (_Aside._) I have enough—their anti-Roman faction.

SINNATUS (_aloud_).

    Some friends of mine would speak with me without.
    You, Strato, make good cheer till I return.

                                                  [_Exit._

SYNORIX.

    I have much to say, no time to say it in.
    First, lady, know myself am that Galatian
    Who sent the cup.

CAMMA.

                      I thank you from my heart.

SYNORIX.

    Then that I serve with Rome to serve Galatia.
    That is my secret: keep it, or you sell me
    To torment and to death.

                                                  [_Coming closer._

                            For your ear only—
    I love you—for your love to the great Goddess.
    The Romans sent me here a spy upon you,
    To draw you and your husband to your doom.
    I’d sooner die than do it.

                                                  [_Takes out paper given
                                                  him by Antonius._

                              This paper sign’d
    Antonius—will you take it, read it? there!

CAMMA.

    (_Reads_) “You are to seize on Sinnatus,—if——”

SYNORIX.

    (_Snatches paper._)                               No more.
    What follows is for no wife’s eyes. O Camma,
    Rome has a glimpse of this conspiracy;
    Rome never yet hath spar’d conspirator.
    Horrible! flaying, scourging, crucifying——

CAMMA.

    I am tender enough. Why do you practise on me?

SYNORIX.

    Why should I practise on you? How you wrong me!
    I am sure of being every way malign’d.
    And if you should betray me to your husband——

CAMMA.

    Will _you_ betray him by this order?

SYNORIX.

                                        See,
    I tear it all to pieces, never dream’d
    Of acting on it.

                                                  [_Tears the paper._

CAMMA.

                    I owe you thanks for ever.

SYNORIX.

    Hath Sinnatus never told you of this plot?

CAMMA.

    What plot?

SYNORIX.

              A child’s sand-castle on the beach
    For the next wave—all seen,—all calculated,
    All known by Rome. No chance for Sinnatus.

CAMMA.

    Why, said you not as much to my brave Sinnatus?

SYNORIX.

    Brave—ay—too brave, too over-confident,
    Too like to ruin himself, and you, and me!
    Who else, with this black thunderbolt of Rome
    Above him, would have chased the stag to-day
    In the full face of all the Roman camp?
    A miracle that they let him home again,
    Not caught, maim’d, blinded him.

                                                  [_CAMMA shudders._

    (_Aside._)                       I have made her tremble.
    (_Aloud._) I know they mean to torture him to death.
    I dare not tell him how I came to know it;
    I durst not trust him with—my serving Rome
    To serve Galatia: you heard him on the letter.
    Not say as much? I all but said as much.
    I am sure I told him that his plot was folly.
    I say it to you—you are wiser—Rome knows all,
    But you know not the savagery of Rome.

CAMMA.

    O—have you power with Rome? use it for him!

SYNORIX.

    Alas! I have no such power with Rome. All that
    Lies with Antonius.

                                                  [_As if struck by a
                                                  sudden thought. Comes
                                                  over to her._

                        He will pass to-morrow
    In the gray dawn before the Temple doors.
    You have beauty,—O great beauty,—and Antonius,
    So gracious toward women, never yet
    Flung back a woman’s prayer. Plead to him,
    I am sure you will prevail.

CAMMA.

                                Still—I should tell
    My husband.

SYNORIX.

                Will he let you plead for him
    To a Roman?

CAMMA.

                I fear not.

SYNORIX.

                            Then do not tell him.
    Or tell him, if you will, when you return,
    When you have charm’d our general into mercy,
    And all is safe again. O dearest lady,

                                                  [_Murmurs of_ “Synorix!
                                                  Synorix!” _heard
                                                  outside._

    Think,—torture,—death,—and come.

CAMMA.

                                        I will, I will.
    And I will not betray you.

SYNORIX (_aside_).

    (_As SINNATUS enters._) Stand apart.

                     _Enter SINNATUS and ATTENDANT._

SINNATUS.

    Thou art that Synorix! One whom thou hast wrong’d
    Without there, knew thee with Antonius.
    They howl for thee, to rend thee head from limb.

SYNORIX.

    I am much malign’d. I thought to serve Galatia.

SINNATUS.

    Serve thyself first, villain! They shall not harm
    My guest within my house. There! (_points to door_) there! this door
    Opens upon the forest! Out, begone!
    Henceforth I am thy mortal enemy.

SYNORIX.

    However I thank thee (_draws his sword_); thou hast saved my life.

                                                  [_Exit._

SINNATUS.

    (_To Attendant._) Return and tell them Synorix is not here.

                                                  [_Exit Attendant._

    What did that villain Synorix say to you?

CAMMA.

    Is _he—that_—Synorix?

SINNATUS.

                            Wherefore should you doubt it?
    One of the men there knew him.

CAMMA.

                                    Only one,
    And he perhaps mistaken in the face.

SINNATUS.

    Come, come, could he deny it? What did he say?

CAMMA.

    What _should_ he say?

SINNATUS.

                          What _should_ he say, my wife!
    He should say this, that being Tetrarch once
    His own true people cast him from their doors
    Like a base coin.

CAMMA.

                      Not kindly to them?

SINNATUS.

                                          Kindly?
    O the most kindly Prince in all the world!
    Would clap his honest citizens on the back,
    Bandy their own rude jests with them, be curious
    About the welfare of their babes, their wives,
    O ay—their wives—their wives. What should he say?
    He should say nothing to my wife if I
    Were by to throttle him! He steep’d himself
    In all the lust of Rome. How should _you_ guess
    What manner of beast it is?

CAMMA.

                                Yet he seem’d kindly,
    And said he loathed the cruelties that Rome
    Wrought on her vassals.

SINNATUS.

                            Did he, _honest_ man?

CAMMA.

    And you, that seldom brook the stranger here,
    Have let him hunt the stag with you to-day.

SINNATUS.

    I warrant you now, he said _he_ struck the stag.

CAMMA.

    Why no, he never touch’d upon the stag.

SINNATUS.

    Why so I said, _my_ arrow. Well, to sleep.

                                                   [_Goes to close door._

CAMMA.

    Nay, close not yet the door upon a night
    That looks half day.

SINNATUS.

                          True; and my friends may spy him
    And slay him as he runs.

CAMMA.

                              He is gone already.
    Oh look,—yon grove upon the mountain,—white
    In the sweet moon as with a lovelier snow!
    But what a blotch of blackness underneath!
    Sinnatus, you remember—yea, you must,
    That there three years ago—the vast vine-bowers
    Ran to the summit of the trees, and dropt
    Their streamers earthward, which a breeze of May
    Took ever and anon, and open’d out
    The purple zone of hill and heaven; there
    You told your love; and like the swaying vines—
    Yea,—with our eyes,—our hearts, our prophet hopes
    Let in the happy distance, and that all
    But cloudless heaven which we have found together
    In our three married years! You kiss’d me there
    For the first time. Sinnatus, kiss me now.

SINNATUS.

    First kiss. (_Kisses her._) There then. You talk almost as if it
    Might be the last.

CAMMA.

                        Will you not eat a little?

SINNATUS.

    No, no, we found a goat-herd’s hut and shared
    His fruits and milk. Liar! You will believe
    Now that he never struck the stag—a brave one
    Which you shall see to-morrow.

CAMMA.

                                    I rise to-morrow
    In the gray dawn, and take this holy cup
    To lodge it in the shrine of Artemis.

SINNATUS.

    Good!

CAMMA.

          If I be not back in half an hour,
    Come after me.

SINNATUS.

                    What! is there danger?

CAMMA.

                                          Nay,
    None that I know: ’tis but a step from here
    To the Temple.

SINNATUS.

                    All my brain is full of sleep.
    Wake me before you go, I’ll after you—
    After _me_ now!

                                                  [_Closes door and exit._

CAMMA (_drawing curtains_).

                    Your shadow. Synorix—
    His face was not malignant, and he said
    That men malign’d him. Shall I go? Shall I go?
    Death, torture—
    “He never yet flung back a woman’s prayer”—
    I go, but I will have my dagger with me.

                                                  [_Exit._


SCENE III.—_Same as Scene I. Dawn._

    Music and Singing in the Temple.

       _Enter SYNORIX watchfully, after him PUBLIUS and SOLDIERS._

SYNORIX.

    Publius!

PUBLIUS.

              Here!

SYNORIX.

                    Do you remember what
    I told you?

PUBLIUS.

                When you cry “Rome, Rome,” to seize
    On whomsoever may be talking with you,
    Or man, or woman, as traitors unto Rome.

SYNORIX.

    Right. Back again. How many of you are there?

PUBLIUS.

    Some half a score.

                                                  [_Exeunt Soldiers and
                                                  Publius._

SYNORIX.

                        I have my guard about me.
    I need not fear the crowd that hunted me
    Across the woods, last night. I hardly gain’d
    The camp at midnight. Will she come to me
    Now that she knows me Synorix? Not if Sinnatus
    Has told her all the truth about me. Well,
    I cannot help the mould that I was cast in.
    I fling all that upon my fate, my star.
    I know that I am genial, I would be
    Happy, and make all others happy so
    They did not thwart me. Nay, she will not come.
    Yet if she be a true and loving wife
    She may, perchance, to save this husband. Ay!
    See, see, my white bird stepping toward the snare.
    Why now I count it all but miracle,
    That this brave heart of mine should shake me so,
    As helplessly as some unbearded boy’s
    When first he meets his maiden in a bower.

                        _Enter CAMMA (with cup)._

SYNORIX.

    The lark first takes the sunlight on his wing,
    But you, twin sister of the morning star,
    Forelead the sun.

CAMMA.

                      Where is Antonius?

SYNORIX.

    Not here as yet. You are too early for him.

                                                  [_She crosses towards
                                                  Temple._

SYNORIX.

    Nay, whither go you now?

CAMMA.

                              To lodge this cup
    Within the holy shrine of Artemis,
    And so return.

SYNORIX.

                    To find Antonius here.

                                                  [_She goes into the
                                                  Temple, he looks after
                                                  her._

    The loveliest life that ever drew the light
    From heaven to brood upon her, and enrich
    Earth with her shadow! I trust she _will_ return.
    These Romans dare not violate the Temple.
    No, I must lure my game into the camp.
    A woman I could live and die for. What!
    Die for a woman, what new faith is this?
    I am not mad, not sick, not old enough
    To doat on one alone. Yes, mad for her,
    Camma the stately, Camma the great-hearted,
    So mad, I fear some strange and evil chance
    Coming upon me, for by the Gods I seem
    Strange to myself.

                            _Re-enter CAMMA._

CAMMA.

                        Where is Antonius?

SYNORIX.

    Where? As I said before, you are still too early.

CAMMA.

    Too early to be here alone with thee;
    For whether men malign thy name, or no,
    It bears an evil savour among women.
    Where is Antonius? (_Loud._)

SYNORIX.

                        Madam, as you know
    The camp is half a league without the city;
    If you will walk with me we needs must meet
    Antonius coming, or at least shall find him
    There in the camp.

CAMMA.

                        No, not one step with thee.
    Where is Antonius? (_Louder._)

SYNORIX (_advancing towards her_).

                        Then for your own sake,
    Lady, I say it with all gentleness,
    And for the sake of Sinnatus your husband,
    I must compel you.

CAMMA (_drawing her dagger_).

                        Stay!—too near is death.

SYNORIX (_disarming her_).

    Is it not easy to disarm a woman?

        _Enter SINNATUS (seizes him from behind by the throat)._

SYNORIX (_throttled and scarce audible_).

    Rome! Rome!

SINNATUS.

                Adulterous dog!

SYNORIX (_stabbing him with CAMMA’S dagger_).

                                What! will you have it?

                                                  [_CAMMA utters a cry
                                                  and runs to SINNATUS._

SINNATUS (_falls backward_).

    I have it in my heart—to the Temple—fly—
    For _my_ sake—or they seize on thee. Remember!
    Away—farewell!

                                                  [_Dies._

CAMMA (_runs up the steps into the Temple, looking back_).

                    Farewell!

SYNORIX (_seeing her escape_).

    The women of the Temple drag her in.
    Publius! Publius! No,
    Antonius would not suffer me to break
    Into the sanctuary. She hath escaped.

                                                  [_Looking down at
                                                  SINNATUS._

    “Adulterous dog!” that red-faced rage at me!
    Then with one quick short stab—eternal peace.
    So end all passions. Then what use in passions?
    To warm the cold bounds of our dying life
    And, lest we freeze in mortal apathy,
    Employ us, heat us, quicken us, help us, keep us
    From seeing all too near that urn, those ashes
    Which all must be. Well used, they serve us well.
    I heard a saying in Egypt, that ambition
    Is like the sea wave, which the more you drink,
    The more you thirst—yea—drink too much, as men
    Have done on rafts of wreck—it drives you mad.
    I will be no such wreck, am no such gamester
    As, having won the stake, would dare the chance
    Of double, or losing all. The Roman Senate,
    For I have always play’d into their hands,
    Means me the crown. And Camma for my bride—
    The people love her—if I win her love,
    They too will cleave to me, as one with her.
    There then I rest, Rome’s tributary king.

                                                  [_Looking down on
                                                  SINNATUS._

    Why did I strike him?—having proof enough
    Against the man, I surely should have left
    That stroke to Rome. He saved my life too. Did he?
    It seem’d so. I have play’d the sudden fool.
    And that sets her against me—for the moment.
    Camma—well, well, I never found the woman
    I could not force or wheedle to my will.
    She will be glad at last to wear my crown.
    And I will make Galatia prosperous too,
    And we will chirp among our vines, and smile
    At bygone things till that (_pointing to SINNATUS_) eternal peace.
    Rome! Rome!

                      _Enter PUBLIUS and SOLDIERS._

    Twice I cried Rome. Why came ye not before?

PUBLIUS.

    Why come we now? Whom shall we seize upon?

SYNORIX (_pointing to the body of SINNATUS_).

    The body of that dead traitor Sinnatus.
    Bear him away.

                     _Music and Singing in Temple._


END OF ACT I.




ACT II.


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._

       *       *       *       *       *

_Crown 8vo. Price 7s. 6d._

THE WORKS OF LORD TENNYSON

POET LAUREATE.

_A NEW COLLECTED EDITION._

CORRECTED THROUGHOUT BY THE AUTHOR.

_With a New Portrait._

       *       *       *       *       *

LORD TENNYSON’S WORKS.

_THE ORIGINAL EDITIONS._

_Fcap. 8vo._

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    MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS            3  6
    THE PRINCESS                     3  6
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    ENOCH ARDEN, ETC.                3  6
    THE HOLY GRAIL, AND OTHER POEMS  4  6
    IN MEMORIAM                      4  0
    BALLADS, AND OTHER POEMS         5  0
    HAROLD: A DRAMA                  6  0
    QUEEN MARY: A DRAMA              6  0
    THE LOVER’S TALE                 3  6

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