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_ ACT II - SCENE II
Chamber in the Palace of COUNT ALARCOS.
At the back of the Scene the Curtains of a large Jalousie withdrawn.
[Enter COUNT ALARCOS.]
ALAR.
'Tis circumstance makes conduct; life's a ship,
The sport of every wind. And yet men tack
Against the adverse blast. How shall I steer,
Who am the pilot of Necessity?
But whether it be fair or foul, I know not;
Sunny or terrible. Why let her wed him?
What care I if the pageant's weight may fall
On Hungary's ermined shoulders, if the spring
Of all her life be mine? The tiar'd brow
Alone makes not a King. Would that my wife
Confessed a worldlier mood! Her recluse fancy
Haunts still our castled bowers. Then civic air
Inflame her thoughts! Teach her to vie and revel,
Find sport in peerless robes, the pomp of feasts
And ambling of a genet--
[A serenade is heard.]
Hah! that voice
Should not be strange. A tribute to her charms.
'Tis music sweeter to a spouse's ear
Than gallants dream of. Ay, she'll find adorers.
Or Burgos is right changed.
[Enter the COUNTESS.]
Listen, child.
[Again the serenade is heard.]
COUN.
'Tis very sweet.
ALAR.
It is inspired by thee.
COUN.
Alarcos!
ALAR.
Why dost look so grave? Nay, now,
There's not a dame in Burgos would not give
Her jewels for such songs.
COUN.
Inspired by me!
ALAR.
And who so fit to fire a lover's breast?
He's clearly captive.
COUN.
O! thou knowest I love not
Such jests, Alarcos.
ALAR.
Jest! I do not jest.
I am right proud the partner of my state
Should count the chief of our Castillian knights
Among her train.
COUN.
I pray thee let me close
These blinds.
ALAR.
Poh, poh! what, baulk a serenade?
'Twould be an outrage to the courtesies
Of this great city. Faith! his voice is sweet.
COUN.
Would that he had not sung! It is a sport
In which I find no pastime.
ALAR.
Marry, come,
It gives me great delight. 'Tis well for thee,
On thy first entrance to our world, to find
So high a follower.
COUN.
Wherefore should I need
His following?
ALAR.
Nought's more excellent for woman,
Than to be fixed on as the cynosure
Of one whom all do gaze on. 'Tis a stamp
Whose currency, not wealth, rank, blood, can match;
These are raw ingots, till they are impressed
With fashion's picture.
COUN.
Would I were once more
Within our castle!
ALAR.
Nursery days! The world
Is now our home, and we must worldly be,
Like its bold stirrers. I sup with the King.
There is no feast, and yet to do me honour,
Some chiefs will meet. I stand right well at Court,
And with thine aid will stand e'en better.
COUN.
Mine!
I have no joy but in thy joy, no thought
But for thy honour, and yet, how to aid
Thee in these plans or hopes, indeed, Alarcos,
Indeed, I am perplexed.
ALAR.
Art not my wife?
Is not this Burgos? And this pile, the palace
Of my great fathers? They did raise these halls
To be the symbols of their high estate,
The fit and haught metropolis of all
Their force and faction. Fill them, fill them, wife,
With those who'll serve me well. Make this the centre
Of all that's great in Burgos. Let it be
The eye of the town, whereby we may perceive
What passes in his heart: the clustering point
Of all convergence. Here be troops of friends
And ready instruments. Wear that sweet smile,
That wins a partisan quicker than power;
Speak in that tone gives each a special share
In thy regard, and what is general
Let all deem private. O! thou'lt play it rarely.
COUN.
I would do all that may become thy wife.
ALAR.
I know it, I know it. Thou art a treasure, Florimonde,
And this same singer--thou hast not asked his name.
Didst guess it? Ah! upon thy gentle cheek
I see a smile.
COUN.
My lord--indeed--
ALAR.
Thou playest
Thy game less like a novice than I deemed.
Thou canst not say thou didst not catch the voice
Of the Sidonia?
COUN.
My good lord, indeed
His voice to me is as unknown as mine
Must be to him.
ALAR.
Whose should the voice but his,
Whose stricken sight left not thy face an instant,
But gazed as if some new-born star had risen
To light his way to paradise? I tell thee,
Among my strict confederates I would count
This same young noble. He is a paramount chief;
Perchance his vassals might outnumber mine,
Conjoined we're adamant. No monarch's breath
Makes me again an exile. Florimonde,
Smile on him; smiles cost nothing; should he judge
They mean more than they say, why smile again;
And what he deems affection, registered,
Is but chaste Mockery. I must to the citadel.
Sweet wife, good-night.
[Exit ALARCOS.]
COUN.
O! misery, misery, misery!
Must we do this? I fear there's need we must,
For he is wise in all things, and well learned
In this same world that to my simple sense
Seems very fearful. Why should men rejoice,
They can escape from the pure breath of heaven
And the sweet franchise of their natural will,
To such a prison-house? To be confined
In body and in soul; to breathe the air
Of dark close streets, and never use one's tongue
But for some measured phrase that hath its bent
Well gauged and chartered; to find ready smiles
When one is sorrowful, or looks demure
When one would laugh outright. Never to be
Exact but when dissembling. Is this life?
I dread this city. As I passed its gates
My litter stumbled, and the children shrieked
And clung unto my bosom. Pretty babes!
I'll go to them. O! there is innocence
Even in Burgos.
[Exit COUNTESS.] _
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