Читать книгу The Saint's Tragedy - Charles Kingsley - Страница 7

Soph.  What! you will not?  You hear, Dame Isentrude,

She will not wear her coronet in the church,

Because, forsooth, the crucifix within

Is crowned with thorns.  You hear her.

Eliz.  Noble mother!

How could I flaunt this bauble in His face

Who hung there, naked, bleeding, all for me—

I felt it shamelessness to go so gay.

Soph.  Felt?  What then?  Every foolish wench has feelings

In these religious days, and thinks it carnal

To wash her dishes, and obey her parents—

No wonder they ape you, if you ape them—

Go to!  I hate this humble-minded pride,

Self-willed submission—to your own pert fancies;

This fog-bred mushroom-spawn of brain-sick wits,

Who make their oddities their test for grace,

And peer about to catch the general eye;

Ah!  I have watched you throw your playmates down

To have the pleasure of kneeling for their pardon.

Here’s sanctity—to shame your cousin and me—

Spurn rank and proper pride, and decency;—

If God has made you noble, use your rank,

If you but know how.  You Landgravine?  You mated

With gentle Lewis?  Why, belike you’ll cowl him,

As that stern prude, your aunt, cowled her poor spouse;

No—one Hedwiga at a time’s enough,—

My son shall die no monk.

Isen.  Beseech you, Madam,—

Weep not, my darling.

Soph.  Tut—I’ll speak my mind.

We’ll have no saints.  Thank heaven, my saintliness

Ne’er troubled my good man, by day or night.

We’ll have no saints, I say; far better for you,

And no doubt pleasanter—You know your place—

At least you know your place,—to take to cloisters,

And there sit carding wool, and mumbling Latin,

With sour old maids, and maundering Magdalens,

Proud of your frost-kibed feet, and dirty serge.

There’s nothing noble in you, but your blood;

And that one almost doubts.  Who art thou, child?

Isen.  The daughter, please your highness,

Of Andreas, King of Hungary, your better;

And your son’s spouse.

Soph.  I had forgotten, truly—

And you, Dame Isentrudis, are her servant,

And mine: come, Agnes, leave the gipsy ladies

To say their prayers, and set the Saints the fashion.

Eliz.  And when will that be?

No, she speaks truth!  I should have been a nun.

These are the wages of my cowardice,—

Too weak to face the world, too weak to leave it!

Guta.  I’ll take the veil with you.

Eliz.  ’Twere but a moment’s work,—

To slip into the convent there below,

And be at peace for ever.  And you, my nurse?

Isen.  I will go with thee, child, where’er thou goest.

But Lewis?

Eliz.  Ah! my brother!  No, I dare not—

I dare not turn for ever from this hope,

Though it be dwindled to a thread of mist.

Oh that we two could flee and leave this Babel!

Oh if he were but some poor chapel-priest,

In lonely mountain valleys far away;

And I his serving-maid, to work his vestments,

And dress his scrap of food, and see him stand

Before the altar like a rainbowed saint;

To take the blessed wafer from his hand,

Confess my heart to him, and all night long

Pray for him while he slept, or through the lattice

Watch while he read, and see the holy thoughts

Swell in his big deep eyes!—Alas! that dream

Is wilder than the one that’s fading even now!

Who’s here?  [A Page enters.]

Eliz.  With me?  What’s this new terror?

Tell him I wait him.

Isen [aside].  Ah! my old heart sinks—

God send us rescue!  Here the champion comes.

Wal.  Most learned, fair, and sanctimonious Princess—

Plague, what comes next?  I had something orthodox ready;

’Tis dropped out by the way.—Mass! here’s the pith on’t.—

Madam, I come a-wooing; and for one

Who is as only worthy of your love,

As you of his; he bids me claim the spousals

Made long ago between you,—and yet leaves

Your fancy free, to grant or pass that claim:

And being that Mercury is not my planet,

He hath advised himself to set herein,

With pen and ink, what seemed good to him,

As passport to this jewelled mirror, pledge

Unworthy of his worship.  [Gives a letter and jewel.]

Isen.  Nunc Domine dimittis servam tuam!

Why here’s my Christmas tree come after Lent—

Espousals? pledges? by our childish love?

Pretty words for folks to think of at the wars,—

And pretty presents come of them!  Look, Guta!

A crystal clear, and carven on the reverse

The blessed rood.  He told me once—one night,

When we did sit in the garden—What was I saying?

Wal.  My fairest Princess, as ambassador,

What shall I answer?

Eliz.  Tell him—tell him—God!

Have I grown mad, or a child, within the moment?

The earth has lost her gray sad hue, and blazes

With her old life-light; hark! yon wind’s a song—

Those clouds are angels’ robes.—That fiery west

Is paved with smiling faces.—I am a woman,

And all things bid me love! my dignity

Is thus to cast my virgin pride away;

And find my strength in weakness.—Busy brain!

Thou keep’st pace with my heart; old lore, old fancies,

Buried for years, leap from their tombs, and proffer

Their magic service to my new-born spirit.

I’ll go—I am not mistress of myself—

Send for him—bring him to me—he is mine!  [Exit.]

Isen.  Ah! blessed Saints! how changed upon the moment!

She is grown taller, trust me, and her eye

Flames like a fresh-caught hind’s.  She that was christened

A brown mouse for her stillness!  Good my Lord!

Now shall mine old bones see the grave in peace!