The Mysterious Mother/Act 1 Scene 2
SCENE II.
PORTER of the Castle, FLORIAN.
PORTER.
Methought
I heard a ftranger's voice—What lack you, sir?
Methought
I heard a ftranger's voice—What lack you, sir?
FLORIAN.
Good fellow, who inhabits here?
Good fellow, who inhabits here?
PORTER.
I do.
I do.
FLORIAN.
Belike this castle is not thine.
Belike this castle is not thine.
PORTER.
Belike so
But be it whose it may, this is no haunt
For revellers and gallants—pass your way.
Belike so
But be it whose it may, this is no haunt
For revellers and gallants—pass your way.
FLORIAN.
Thou churl! Is this your Gallic hospitality?
Thy lady, on my life, would not thus rudely
Chide from her presence a bewilder'd knight.
Thou churl! Is this your Gallic hospitality?
Thy lady, on my life, would not thus rudely
Chide from her presence a bewilder'd knight.
PORTER.
Thou know'st my lady then!—Thou know'st her not.
Canst thou, in hair-cloths vex those dainty limbs?
Canst thou on reeking pavements and cold marble,
In meditation pass the livelong night?
Canst mortify that flesh, my rosy minion,
And bid thy rebel appetite refrain
From goblets foaming wine, and costly viands?
These are the deeds, my youngster, must draw down
My lady's ever-heav'n-directed eye.
Thou know'st my lady then!—Thou know'st her not.
Canst thou, in hair-cloths vex those dainty limbs?
Canst thou on reeking pavements and cold marble,
In meditation pass the livelong night?
Canst mortify that flesh, my rosy minion,
And bid thy rebel appetite refrain
From goblets foaming wine, and costly viands?
These are the deeds, my youngster, must draw down
My lady's ever-heav'n-directed eye.
FLORIAN.
In sooth, good friend, my knighthood is not school'd
In voluntary rigours—I can fast,
March supperless, and make cold earth my pillow,
When my companions know no choicer fare.
But seldom roost in churches, or reject
The ready banquet, or a willing fair one.
In sooth, good friend, my knighthood is not school'd
In voluntary rigours—I can fast,
March supperless, and make cold earth my pillow,
When my companions know no choicer fare.
But seldom roost in churches, or reject
The ready banquet, or a willing fair one.
PORTER.
Angels defend us! what a reprobate!
Yon mould'ring porch for sixteen years and more
Has not been struck with such unhallow'd sounds.
Hence to thy lewd companions!
Angels defend us! what a reprobate!
Yon mould'ring porch for sixteen years and more
Has not been struck with such unhallow'd sounds.
Hence to thy lewd companions!
FLORIAN.
Father greybeard,
I cry you mercy; nor was't my intention
To wound your reverence's saint-like organs.
But come, thou hast known other days—canst tell
Of banquettings and dancings—'twas not always thus.
Father greybeard,
I cry you mercy; nor was't my intention
To wound your reverence's saint-like organs.
But come, thou hast known other days—canst tell
Of banquettings and dancings—'twas not always thus.
PORTER.
No, no—time was—my lord, the count of Narbonne,
A prosperous gentleman, were he alive,
We should not know these moping melancholies.
Heav'n rest his soul! I marvel not my lady
Cherishes his remembrance, for he was
Comely to sight, and wond'rous goodly built.
They say his son count Edmund's mainly like him.
Would these old arms, that serv'd his grandfather,
Could once enfold him! I should part in peace.
No, no—time was—my lord, the count of Narbonne,
A prosperous gentleman, were he alive,
We should not know these moping melancholies.
Heav'n rest his soul! I marvel not my lady
Cherishes his remembrance, for he was
Comely to sight, and wond'rous goodly built.
They say his son count Edmund's mainly like him.
Would these old arms, that serv'd his grandfather,
Could once enfold him! I should part in peace.
FLORIAN.
What, if I bring thee tidings of count Edmund!
What, if I bring thee tidings of count Edmund!
PORTER.
Mercy befall me! now my dream is out.
Last night the raven croak'd, and from the bars
Of our lodge-fire flitted a messenger—
I knew no good would follow—bring you ill tidings,
Sir gentleman?
Mercy befall me! now my dream is out.
Last night the raven croak'd, and from the bars
Of our lodge-fire flitted a messenger—
I knew no good would follow—bring you ill tidings,
Sir gentleman?
FLORIAN.
(This is a solemn fool, [Aside.
Or solemn knave.) Shouldst thou indeed rejoice
To see count Edmund? Would thy noble mistress
Spring with a mother's joy to clasp her son?
(This is a solemn fool, [Aside.
Or solemn knave.) Shouldst thou indeed rejoice
To see count Edmund? Would thy noble mistress
Spring with a mother's joy to clasp her son?
PORTER.
Oh! no, no, no.—He must not here—alas!
He must not here set foot—But tell me, stranger,
I prithee say, does my old master's heir
Still breathe this vital air? Is he in France?
Is he within some ten, or twenty leagues,
Or fifty? I am hearty yet, have all my limbs,
And I would make a weary pilgrimage
To kiss his gracious hand, and at his feet
Lay my old bones—for here I ne'er must see him.
[Weeps.
Oh! no, no, no.—He must not here—alas!
He must not here set foot—But tell me, stranger,
I prithee say, does my old master's heir
Still breathe this vital air? Is he in France?
Is he within some ten, or twenty leagues,
Or fifty? I am hearty yet, have all my limbs,
And I would make a weary pilgrimage
To kiss his gracious hand, and at his feet
Lay my old bones—for here I ne'er must see him.
[Weeps.
FLORIAN.
Thou good old man, forgive a soldier's mirth.
But say, why Narbonne's heir from Narbonne's lands
Is banish'd, driven by a ruthless mother?
Thou good old man, forgive a soldier's mirth.
But say, why Narbonne's heir from Narbonne's lands
Is banish'd, driven by a ruthless mother?
PORTER.
Ah! sir, 'tis hard indeed—but spare his mother;
Such virtue never dwelt in female form.
Count Edmund—but he was indeed a stripling,
A very lad—it was the trick of youth,
And we have all our sins, or we have had;
Yet still no pardon—Thinkst thou not, my lord,
My late kind master, e'er he knew my lady,
Wist not what woman was?—I warrant him—
But so—count Edmund being not sixteen,
A lusty youth, his father's very image—
Oh! he has play'd me many a trick—good sir,
Does my young master ever name old Peter?
Well! but I prate—you must forgive my age;
I come to th' point—Her name was Beatrice;
A roguish eye—she ne'er would look on me,
Or we had sav'd full many a woeful day!
Mark you me well?
Ah! sir, 'tis hard indeed—but spare his mother;
Such virtue never dwelt in female form.
Count Edmund—but he was indeed a stripling,
A very lad—it was the trick of youth,
And we have all our sins, or we have had;
Yet still no pardon—Thinkst thou not, my lord,
My late kind master, e'er he knew my lady,
Wist not what woman was?—I warrant him—
But so—count Edmund being not sixteen,
A lusty youth, his father's very image—
Oh! he has play'd me many a trick—good sir,
Does my young master ever name old Peter?
Well! but I prate—you must forgive my age;
I come to th' point—Her name was Beatrice;
A roguish eye—she ne'er would look on me,
Or we had sav'd full many a woeful day!
Mark you me well?
FLORIAN.
I do.
I do.
PORTER.
This Beatrice—
But hark! my lady comes—retire a while
Beyond those yews—anon I'll tell you more.
This Beatrice—
But hark! my lady comes—retire a while
Beyond those yews—anon I'll tell you more.
FLORIAN.
May I not greet her?
May I not greet her?
PORTER.
For my office, no:
'Twere forfeit of my badge to hold a parley
With one of near thy years. [Florian withdraws.
[The Countess in weeds, with a crucifix in her hand, issues from the castle, accompanied by two maidens, and passes over the stage. When she is gone Florian returns.]
'Tis ever thus.
At break of morn she hies to yonder abbey,
And prostrate o'er some monumental stone,
Seems more to wait her doom, than ask to shun it.
The day is pass'd in ministring to wants
Of health or means; the closing eve beholds
New tears, new pray'rs, or haggar'd meditation.
But if cold moonshine, deep'ning ev'ry frown
Of these impending towers, invite her steps,
She issues forth.—Beshrew me, but I tremble,
When my own keys discharge the drawbridge chains,
And rattle thro' the castle's farmost vaults.
Then have I seen this sad, this sober mourner,
With frantic gesture and disorder'd step—
But hush—who moves up yonder avenue?
It is—no—stay—ifaith! but it is he,
My lady's confessor, with friar Martin—
Quick hie thee hence—should that same medling monk
Observe our conf'rence, there were fine work toward.
For my office, no:
'Twere forfeit of my badge to hold a parley
With one of near thy years. [Florian withdraws.
[The Countess in weeds, with a crucifix in her hand, issues from the castle, accompanied by two maidens, and passes over the stage. When she is gone Florian returns.]
'Tis ever thus.
At break of morn she hies to yonder abbey,
And prostrate o'er some monumental stone,
Seems more to wait her doom, than ask to shun it.
The day is pass'd in ministring to wants
Of health or means; the closing eve beholds
New tears, new pray'rs, or haggar'd meditation.
But if cold moonshine, deep'ning ev'ry frown
Of these impending towers, invite her steps,
She issues forth.—Beshrew me, but I tremble,
When my own keys discharge the drawbridge chains,
And rattle thro' the castle's farmost vaults.
Then have I seen this sad, this sober mourner,
With frantic gesture and disorder'd step—
But hush—who moves up yonder avenue?
It is—no—stay—ifaith! but it is he,
My lady's confessor, with friar Martin—
Quick hie thee hence—should that same medling monk
Observe our conf'rence, there were fine work toward.
FLORIAN.
You will not leave your tale unfinished?
You will not leave your tale unfinished?
PORTER.
Mass! but I will—a tale will pay no stipend.
These fifty winters have I borne this staff,
And will not lose my porridge for my prating.
Mass! but I will—a tale will pay no stipend.
These fifty winters have I borne this staff,
And will not lose my porridge for my prating.
FLORIAN.
Well! but count Edmund—wo't not hear of him?
Well! but count Edmund—wo't not hear of him?
PORTER.
Aye, bless his name! at any leisure hour.
This ev'ning, e'er the shutting of the gates,
Loiter about yon grange; I'll come to thee.
So now, begone—away. [Exeunt severally.
Aye, bless his name! at any leisure hour.
This ev'ning, e'er the shutting of the gates,
Loiter about yon grange; I'll come to thee.
So now, begone—away. [Exeunt severally.