BROWNING'S ITALY (13 page)

Vic. [To D'O.] Apprise Del Borgo, Spava, and the rest, Our son attends them; then return.

D'O. One word!

Cha. [Aride.] A moment's pause and they would drive me hence, I do believe!

D'O. [Aride.] Let but the boy be finn!

Vic. You disobey?

Cha. [To D'O.] You do not disobey

Me, at least. Did you promise that or no ?

D'O. Sir, I am yours: what would you? Yours am I!

Cha. When I have said what I shall say, 'tis like Your face will ne'er again disgust me. Go! Through you, as through a breast of glass, I see. And for your conduct, from my youth tili now, Take my contempt! You might have spared me much, Secured me somewhat, nor so harmed yourself: That's over now. Go, ne'er to come again!

D'O. As son, the father — father, as the son! My wits! My wits! [Goes.

Vic. [Seated.] And you, what meant you, pray, Speaking thus to D'Ormea ?

Cha. Let us not

Waste words upon D'Ormea! Those I spent Have half unsettled what I came to say. His presence vexes to my very soul.

Vic. One called to manage a kingdom, Charles, needs heart To bear up under worse annoyances Than seems D'Ormea — to me, at least.

Cha. [Aside.] Ah, good!

He keeps me to the point! Then be it so. [Aloud.] Last night, sir, brought me certain papers —

these — To be reported on, — your way of late. Is it last night's result that you demand ?

Vic. For God's sake, what has night brought forth? Pronounce The . . . what's your word ? — result!

Cha. Sir, that had proved

Quite worthy of your sneer, no doubt: — a few Lame thoughts, regard for you alone could wring, Lame as they are, from brains like mine, believe! As 'tis, sir, I am spared both toil and sneer. These are the papers.

Vic. Well, sir? I suppose

You hardly burned them. Now for your result!

Cha. I never should have done great things, of course, But ... oh my father, had you loved me more!

Vic. Loved ? [Aside.] Has D'Ormea played me false, I wonder ? [Aloud.] Why, Charles, a king's love is diffused — yourself May overlook, perchance, your part in it. Our monarchy is absolutest now In Europe, or my trouble's thrown away. I love, my mode, that subjects each and all May have the power of loving, all and each, Their mode: I doubt not, many have their sons To trifle with, talk soft to, all day long: I have that crown, this chair, D'Ormea, Charles!

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Cha. Tis well I am a subject then, not you.

Vic. [Aride.] D'Onnea has told him everything. [Aloud.] Aha! I apprehend you: when all's said, you take Your private Station to be prized beyond My own, f or instance ?

Cha. — Do and ever did

So take it: 'tis the method you pursue That grieves . . .

Vic. These words! Let me express, my friend, Your thoughts. You penetrate what I supposed Secret. D'Onnea plies his trade betimes! I purpose to resign my crown to you.

Cha. Tome?

Vic. Now, — in that Chamber.

Cha. You resign

The crown to me ?

Vic. And time enough, Charles, sure?

Confess with me, at four- and-sixty years A crown's a load. I covet quiet once Before I die, and summoned you for that.

Cha. Tis I will speak: you ever hated me. I bore it, — have insulted me, borne too — Now you insult yourself; and I remember What I believed you, what you really are, And cannot bear it. What! My life has passed Under your eye, tormented as you know, — Your whole sagacities, one after one, At leisure brought to play on me — to prove me A fool, I thought and I submitted; now You'd prove . . . what would you prove me ?

Vic. This to me ?

I hardly know you!

Cha. Know me ? Oh indeed

You do not! Wait tili I complain next time Of my simplicity! — for here's a sage Knows the world well, is not to be deceived, And his experience, and his Macchiavels, D'Ormeas, teach him — what ? — that I this while Have envied him his crown! He has not smiled, I Warrant, — has not eaten, drunk, nor slept, For I was plotting with my Princess yonder! Who knows what we might do or might not do ? Go now, be politic, astound the world! That sentry in the antechamber — nay, The varlet who disposed this precious trap

[Pointing to the crown. That was to take me — ask them if they think Their own sons envy them their posts! — Know me!

Vic. But you know me, it seems: so, learn, in brief, My pleasure. This assembly is convened . . .

Cha. Teil me, that woman put it in your head! You were not sole contriver of the scheine, My father!

Vic. Now observe me, sir! I jest

Seidom — on these points, never. Here, I say, The knights assemble to see me concede, And you accept, Sardinia's crown.

Cha. Farewell!

Twere vain to hope to change this: I can end it. Not that I cease from being yours, when sunk Into obscurity: 111 die for you, But not annoy you with my presence. Sir, Farewell! Farewell!

{Erder D'Ormea.)

D'O. [Aside.] Ha, sure he's changed again— Means not to fall into the cunning trap! Then, Victor, I shall escape you, Victor!

GLIMPSES OF POLITICAL LIFE 129 j

\ i

Vic. [Suddenly placing the crown upon the head of Charles.] D'Ormea, your King! [To Cha.] My son, obey me! Charles,

Your father, clearer-sighted than yourself, Decides it must be so. Taith, this looks real!

My reasons after; reason upon reason i

After: but now, obey me! Trust in me! *

By this, you save Sardinia, you save me! Why, the boy swoons! [To D'O.] Come this side!

D*0. [As Charles turns from him to Victob.] You persist?

Vic. Yes, I conceive the gesture's meaning. 'Faith, He almost seems to hate you: how is that ? Be reassured, my Charles! Is't over now ? Then, Marquis, teil the new King what remains To do! A moment's work. Del Borgo reads The Act of Abdication out, you sign it, Then I sign; after that, come back to me. i

D'O. Sir, for the last time, pause!

Vic. Five minutes longer

I am your sovereign, Marquis. Hesitate — And m so turn those minutes to account That . . . Ay, you recollect me! [Aside.] Could I bring My foolish mind to undergo the reading That Act of Abdication!

[As Charles motions D'Ormea to precede him. Thanks, dear Charles!

[Charles and D'Ormea rebire.

Vic. A novel feature in the boy, — indeed Just what I feared he wanted most. Quite right, This earnest tone: your truth, now for effect! It answers every purpose: with that look, That voice, — I hear him: "I began no treaty, (He speaks to Spain,) "nor ever dreamed of this

»> f.

You show me; this I from my soul regret;

But if my father signed it, bid not me

Dishonor him — who gave me all, beside:"

And, "true," says Spain, "'twere harsh to visit that

Upon the Prince." Then come the nobles trooping:

"I grieve at these exactions — I had cut

This hand off ere impose them; but shall I

Undo my father's deed ?" — and they confer:

"Doubtless he was no party, after all;

Give the Prince time!"

Ay, give us time, but time! Only, he must not, when the dark day comes, Befer our friends to me and frustrate all. We'U have no child's play, no desponding fits, No Charles at each cross turn entreating Victor To take his crown again. Guard against that!

{Erder D'Ormea.) Long live King Charles!

No — Charles's counsellor! Well, is it over, Marquis ? Did I jest ?

D'O. "King Charles!" What then may you be?

Vic. Anything!

A country gentleman that, cured of bustle, Now beats a quick retreat toward Chambery, Would hunt and hawk and leave you noisy folk To drive your trade without him. Fm Count Remont — Count Tende — any little place's Count!

D'O. Then Victor, Captain against Catinat At Staffarde, where the French beat you; and Duke At Turin, where you beat the French; King late Of Savoy, Piedmont, Montferrat, Sardinia, — Now, "any little place's Count" —

Vic. Proceed!

D'O. Breaker of vows to God, who crowned you first;

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Breaker of vows to man, who kept you since;

Most profligate to me who outraged God

And man to serve you, and am made pay crimes

I was but privy to, by passing thus

To your imbecile son — who, well you know,

Must — (when the people here, and nations there,

Clamor for you the main delinquent, slipped

From King to — "Count of any little place) "

Must needs surrender me, all in his reach, —

I, sir, forgive you: for I see the end —

See you on your return — (you will return) —

To him you trust, a moment . . .

Vic. Trust him ? How ?

My poor man, merely a prime-minister, Make me know where my trust errs!

D'O. In his fear,

His love, his — but discover for yourself What you are weakest, trusting in!

Vic. Aha,

D'Ormea, not a shrewder scheme than this In your repertory ? You know old Victor — Vain, choleric, inconstant, rash — (IVe heard Talkers who little thought the King so close) — Felicitous now, were *t not, to provoke him To clean forget, one minute afterward, His solemn act, and call the nobles back And pray them give again the very power He has abjured ? — for the dear sake of what ? Vengeance on you, D'Ormea! No: such am I, Count Tende or Count anything you please, — Only, the same that did the things you say, And, among other things you say not, used Your finest fibre, meanest muscle, — you I used, and now, since you will have it so,

Leave to your fate — mere lumber in the midst, You and your works. Why, what on earth beside Are you made for, you sort of ministers ?

D'O. Not left, though, to my fate! Your witless son Has more wit than to load himself with lumber: He foils you that way, and I follow you.

Vic. Stay with my son — protect the weaker side!

D'O. Ay, to be tossed the people like a rag, And flung by them for Spain and Austria's sport, Abolishing the record of your part In all this perfidy!

Vic. Prevent, beside,

My own return!

D'O. That's half prevented now!

Twill go hard but you find a wondrous charm In exile, to discredit me. The Alps, Silk-mills to watch, vines asking vigilance — Hounds open for the stag, your hawk's a-wing — Brave days that wait the Louis of the South, Italy's Janus!

Vic. So, the lawyer's clerk

Won't teil me that I shall repent!

D'O. You give me

Füll leave to ask if you repent ?

Vic. Whene'er

Sufficient time's elapsed for that, you judge!

[Shouts inside, "King Charles!"

D'O. Do you repent ?

Vic. [After a slight pause.] . . . IVe kept them waiting? Yes! Come in, complete the Abdication, sir! [They go out.

(Enter Polyxena.)

Pol. A shout! The sycophants are free of Charles! Oh, is not this like Italy ? No fruit

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Of his or my distempered fancy, this,

But just an ordinary fact! Beside,

Here they've set forms for such proceedings; Victor

Imprisoned his own mother: he should know,

If any, how a son's to be deprived

Of a son's right. Our duty's palpable.

Ne'er was my husband for the wily king

And the unworthy subjects: be it so!

Come you safe out of them, my Charles! Our life

Grows not the broad and dazzling life, I dreamed

Might prove your lot; for strength was shut in you

None guessed but I — strength which, untrammelled once,

Had little shamed your vaunted ancestry —

Patience and self-devotion, fortitude,

Simplicity and utter truthfulness

— All which, they shout to lose!

So, now my work Begins — to save him from regret. Save Charles Regret ? — the noble nature! He's not made Like these Italians: 'tis a German soul.

(Charles enters crovmed.) Oh, where's the King's heir? Gone: — the Crown-prince ?

Gone:— Where's Savoy ? Gone! — Sardinia? Gone! But Charles Is left! And when my Rhine-land bowers arrive, If he looked almost handsome yester-twilight As his gray eyes seemed widening into black Because I praised him, then how will he look ? Farewell, you stripped and whited mulberry-trees Bound each to each by lazy ropes of vine! Now 111 teach you my language: Fm not forced To speak Italian now, Charles ? [She sees the crown.] What is this ?

Answer me — who has done this ? Ans wer!

Cha. He!

I am King now.

Pol. Oh worst, worst, worst of all!

Teil me! What, Victor? He has made you King ? What's he then ? What's to follow this ? You, King ?

Cha. Have I done wrong? Yes, for you were not by!

Pol. Teil me from first to last.

Cha. Hush — a new world

Brightens before me; he is moved away — The dark form that eclipsed it, he subsides Into a shape supporting me like you, And I, alone, tend upward, more and more Tend upward: I am grown Sardinia's King.

Pol. Now stop: was not this Victor, Duke of Savoy At ten years old ?

Cha. He was.

Pol. And the Duke spent,

Since then, just four-and-fifty years in toil Tobe —what?

Cha. King.

Pol. Then why unking himself ?

Cha. Those years are cause enough.

Pol. The only cause ?

Cha. Some new perplexities.

Pol. Which you can solve

Although he cannot ?

Cha. He assures me so.

Pol. And this he means shall last — how long ?

Cha. How long ?

Think you I fear the perils I confront ? He's praising me before the people's face — My people!

Pol Then he's changed — grown kind, the Eng ?