Bells and Pomegranates, First Series/King Victor and King Charles/1731/I

SECOND YEAR 1731.—KING CHARLES. Part I.

Enter and .—A pause.

Polyxena. And now, sir, what have you to say?

D'Ormea. Count Tende. ..

Polyxena. Affirm not I betrayed you; you resolve On uttering this strange intelligence —Nay, post yourself to find me ere I reach The capital, because you know King Charles Tarries a day or two at Evian baths Behind me:—but take warning,—here and thus [Seating herself in the royal seat.] I listen, if I listen—not your friend. Explicitly the statement, if you still Persist to urge it on me, must proceed: I am not made for aught else.

D'Ormea. Good! Count Tende. ..

Polyxena. I, who mistrust you, shall acquaint King Charles, Who even more mistrusts you.

D'Ormea. Does he so?

Polyxena. Why should he not?

D'Ormea. Ay, why not? Motives, seek You virtuous people, motives! Say, I serve God at the devil's bidding—will that do? I'm proud: our People have been pacified (Really I know not how)—

Polyxena. By truthfulness.

D'Ormea. Exactly ; that shows I had nought to do With pacifying them: our foreign perils Also exceed my means to stay: but here 'Tis otherwise, and my pride's piqued. Count Tende Completes a full year's absence: would you, madam, Have the old monarch back, his mistress back, His measures back? I pray you, act upon My counsel, or they will be.

Polyxena. When?

D'Ormea. Let's think. Home-matters settled—Victor's coming now; Let foreign matters settle—Victor's here: Unless I stop him; as I will, this way.

Polyxena. [Reading the papers he presents.] If this should prove a plot 'twixt you and Victor? You seek annoyances to give him pretext For what you say you fear!

D'Ormea. Oh, possibly! I go for nothing. Only show King Charles That thus Count Tende purposes return, And style me his inviter, if you please.

Polyxena. Half of your tale is true; most like, the Count Seeks to return: but why stay you with us? To aid in such emergencies.

D'Ormea. Keep safe Those papers: or, to serve me, leave no proof I thus have counselled: when the Count returns, And the King abdicates, 'twill stead me little To have thus counselled.

Polyxena. The King abdicate!

D'Ormea. He's good, we knew long since—wise, we discover— Firm, let us hope:—but I'd have gone to work With him away. Well!

[Charles without.] In the Council Chamber?

D'Ormea. All's lost!

Polyxena. Oh, surely, not King Charles! He's changed— That's not this year's care-burdened voice and step: 'Tis last year's step—the Prince's voice!

D'Ormea. I know!

[Enter Charles:—D'Ormea retiring a little.]

Charles. Now wish me joy, Polyxena! Wish it me The old way! [She embraces him.] There was too much cause for that! But I have found myself again! What's news At Turin? Oh, if you but felt the load I'm free of—free! I said this year would end Or it, or me—but I am free, thank God!

Polyxena. How, Charles?

Charles. You do not guess? The day I found Sardinia's hideous coil, at home, abroad, And how my father was involved in it,— Of course, I vowed to rest or smile no more Until I freed his name from obloquy. We did the people right—'twas much to gain That point, redress our nobles' grievance, too— But that took place here, was no crying shame: All must be done abroad,—if I abroad Appeased the justly angered Powers, destroyed The scandal, took down Victor's name at last From a bad eminence, I then might breathe And rest! No moment was to lose. Behold The proud result—a Treaty, Austria, Spain Agree to—

D'Ormea. [Aside.] I shall merely stipulate For an experienced headsman.

Charles. Not a soul Is compromised: the blotted Past's a blank: Even D'Ormea will escape unquestioned. See! It reached me from Vienna; I remained At Evian to despatch the Count his news; 'Tis gone to Chambery a week ago— And here am I: do I deserve to feel Your warm white arms around me?

D'Ormea. [coming forward.]          He knows that?

Charles. What, in Heaven's name, means this?

D'Ormea. He knows that matters Are settled at Vienna? Not too late!

D'Ormea. Plainly, unless you post this very hour Some man you trust (say, me) to Chambery, And take precautions I'll acquaint you with, Your father will return here.

Charles. Is he crazed, This D'Ormea? Here? For what? As well return To take his crown!

D'Ormea. He will return for that.

Charles. [to Polyxena.] You have not listened to this man?

Polyxena. He spoke About your safety—and I listened.

[He disengages himself from her arm.]

Charles. [to D'Ormea.]                What Apprised you of the Count's intentions?

D'Ormea. Me? His heart, Sire; you may not be used to read Such evidence, however; therefore read [Pointing to Polyxena's papers.] My evidence.

Charles. [to Polyxena.] Oh, worthy this of you! And of your speech I never have forgotten, Tho' I professed forgetfulness; which haunts me As if I did not know how false it was; Which made me toil unconsciously thus long That there might be no least occasion left For aught of its prediction coming true! And now, when there is left no least occasion To instigate my father to such crime; When I might venture to forget (I hoped) That speech and recognize Polyxena— Oh, worthy, to revive, and tenfold worse, That plague now! D'Ormea at your ear, his slanders Still in your hand! Silent?

Polyxena. As the wronged are.

Charles. And, D'Ormea, pray, since when have you presumed To spy upon my father? (I conceive What that wise paper shows, and easily.) Since when?

D'Ormea. The when, and where, and how, belong To me. 'Tis sad work, but I deal in such. You ofttimes serve yourself—I'd serve you here: Use makes me not so squeamish. In a word, Since the first hour he went to Chambery, Of his seven servants, five have I suborned.

Charles. You hate my father?

D'Ormea. Oh, just as you will! [Looking at Polyxena.] A minute since, I loved him—hate him, now! What matters?—If you'll ponder just one thing: Has he that Treaty?—He is setting forward Already. Are your guards here?

Charles. Well for you They are not! [To Polyxena.] Him I knew of old, but you— To hear that pickthank, further his designs! [To D'Ormea.] Guards?—were they here, I'd bid them, for your trouble, Arrest you.

D'Ormea. Guards you shall not want. I lived The servant of your choice, not of your need. You never greatly needed me till now That you discard me. This is my arrest. Again I tender you my charge—its duty Would bid me press you read those documents. Here, Sire! [Offering his badge of office.]

Charles. [taking it.] The papers also! Do you think I dare not read them?

Polyxena. Read them, sir!

Charles. They prove, My father, still a month within the year Since he so solemnly consigned it me, Means to resume his crown? They shall prove that, Or my best dungeon. ..

D'Ormea. Even say, Chambery! 'Tis vacant, I surmise, by this.

Charles. You prove Your words or pay their forfeit, sir. Go there! Polyxena, one chance to rend the veil Thickening and blackening 'twixt us two! Do say, You'll see the falsehood of the charges proved! Do say, at least, you wish to see them proved False charges—my heart's love of other times!

Polyxena. Ah, Charles!

Charles. [to D'Ormea.] Precede me, sir!

D'Ormea. And I'm at length A martyr for the truth! No end, they say, Of miracles. My conscious innocence!

[As they go out, enter—by the middle door, at which he pauses—Victor.]

Victor. Sure I heard voices? No! Well, I do best To make at once for this, the heart o' the place. The old room! Nothing changed!—So near my seat, D'Ormea? [Pushing away the stool which is by the King's chair.] I want that meeting over first, I know not why. Tush, D'Ormea won't be slow To hearten me, the supple knave! That burst Of spite so eased him! He'll inform me. . .                                         What? Why come I hither? All's in rough—let all Remain rough; there's full time to draw back—nay, There's nought to draw back from, as yet; whereas, If reason should be, to arrest a course Of error—reason good, to interpose And save, as I have saved so many times, Our House, admonish my son's giddy youth, Relieve him of a weight that proves too much— Now is the time,—or now, or never. 'Faith, This kind of step is pitiful—not due To Charles, this stealing back—hither, because He's from his Capital! Oh, Victor! Victor! But thus it is: the age of crafty men Is loathsome; youth contrives to carry off Dissimulation; we may intersperse Extenuating passages of strength, Ardour, vivacity, and wit—may turn E'en guile into a voluntary grace,— But one's old age, when graces drop away And leave guile the pure staple of our lives— Ah, loathsome! Not so—or why pause I? Turin Is mine to have, were I so minded, for The asking ; all the Army's mine—I've witnessed Each private fight beneath me; all the Court's Mine too; and, best of all, my D'Ormea's still His D'Ormea; no! There's some grace clinging yet. Had I decided on this step, ere midnight I'd take the crown. No! Just this step to rise Exhausts me! Here am I arrived: the rest Must be done for me.. Would I could sit here And let things right themselves, the masque unmasque —Of the King, crownless, gray hairs and hot blood,— The young King, crowned, but calm before his time, They say,—the eager woman with her taunts,— And the sad earnest wife who motions me Away—ay, there she knelt to me! E'en yet I can return and sleep at Chambery A dream out. Rather shake it off at Turin, King Victor! Is't to Turin—yes, or no? 'Tis this relentless noonday-lighted chamber, Lighted like life, but silent as the grave, That disconcerts me! There must be the change— No silence last year: some one flung doors wide (Those two great doors which scrutinize me now) And out I went 'mid crowds of men—men talking, Men watching if my lip fell or brow changed; Men saw me safe forth—put me on my road: That makes the misery of this return! Oh, had a battle done it! Had I dropped —Haling some battle, three entire days old, Hither and thither by the forehead—dropped In Spain, in Austria, best of all, in France— Spurned on its horns or underneath its hooves, When the spent monster goes upon its knees To pad and pash the prostrate wretch—I, Victor, Sole to have stood up against France—beat down By inches, brayed to pieces finally By some vast unimaginable charge, A flying hell of horse and foot and guns Over me, and all's lost, forever lost, There's no more Victor when the world wakes up! Then silence, as of a raw battle-field, Throughout the world. Then after (as whole days After, you catch at intervals faint noise Thro' the stiff crust of frozen blood)—there creeps A rumour forth, so faint, no noise at all, That a strange old man, with face outworn for wounds, Is stumbling on from frontier town to town, Begging a pittance that may help him find His Turin out; what scorn and laughter follow The coin you fling into his cap: and last, Some bright morn, how men crowd about the midst Of the market-place, where takes the old king breath Ere with his crutch he strike the palace-gate Wide ope! To Turin, yes or no—or no?

[Re-enter Charles with papers.]

Charles. Just as I thought! A miserable falsehood Of hirelings discontented with their pay And longing for enfranchisement! A few Testy expressions of old age that thinks To keep alive its dignity o'er slaves By means that suit their natures! [Tearing them.]              Thus they shake My faith in Victor!

[Turning, he discovers Victor.]

Victor. [after a pause.] Not at Evian, Charles? What's this? Why do you run to close the doors? No welcome for your father?

Charles. [Aside.] Not his voice! What would I give for one imperious tone Of the old sort! That's gone forever.

Victor. Must I ask once more. ..

Charles. No—I concede it, sir! You are returned for. . . true, your health declines True, Chambery's a bleak unkindly spot; You'd choose one fitter for your final lodge— Veneria—or Moncaglier—ay, that's close, And I concede it.

Victor. I received advices Of the conclusion of the Spanish matter Dated from Evian baths. ..

Charles. And you forbore To visit me at Evian, satisfied The work I had to do would fully task The little wit I have, and that your presence Would only disconcert me—

Victor. Charles?

Charles. —Me—set Forever in a foreign course to yours, And. . .          Sir, this way of wile were good to catch, But I have not the sleight of it. The truth! Though I sink under it! What brings you here?

Victor. Not hope of this reception, certainly, From one who'd scarce assume a stranger mode Of speech, did I return to bring about Some awfulest calamity!

Charles. —You mean, Did you require your crown again! Oh yes, I should speak otherwise! But turn not that To jesting! Sir, the truth! Your health declines? Is aught deficient in your equipage? Wisely you seek myself to make complaint, And foil the malice of the world which laughs At petty discontents; but I shall care That not a soul knows of this visit. Speak!

Victor. [Aside.] Here is the grateful, much-professing son Who was to worship me, and for whose sake I think to waive my plans of public good! [Aloud.] Nay, Charles, if I did seek to take once more My crown, were so disposed to plague myself— What would be warrant for this bitterness? I gave it—grant, I would resume it—well?

Charles. I should say simply—leaving out the why And how—you made me swear to keep that crown: And as you then intended. ..

Victor. Fool! What way Could I intend or not intend? As man, With a man's life, when I say "I intend," I can intend up to a certain point, No further. I intended to preserve The Crown of Savoy and Sardinia whole: And if events arise demonstrating The way I took to keep it. rather's like To lose it. ..

Charles. Keep within your sphere and mine! It is God's province we usurp on, else. Here, blindfold thro' the maze of things we walk By a slight thread of false, true, right and wrong; All else is rambling and presumption. I Have sworn to keep this kingdom: there's my truth.

Victor. Truth, boy, is here—within my breast; and in Your recognition of it, truth is, too ; And in the effect of all this tortuous dealing With falsehood, used to carry out the truth, —In its success, this falsehood turns, again, Truth for the world! But you are right: these themes Are over-subtle. I should rather say In such a case, frankly,—it fails, my scheme: I hoped to see you bring about, yourself, What I must bring about: I interpose On your behalf—with my son's good in sight— To hold what he is nearly letting go— Confirm his title—add a grace, perhaps— There's Sicily, for instance,—granted me And taken back, some years since—till I give That island with the rest, my work's half done. For his sake, therefore, as of those he rules. ..

Charles. Our sakes are one—and that, you could not say, Because my answer would present itself Forthwith ;—a year has wrought an age's change: This people's not the people now, you once Could benefit; nor is my policy Your policy.

Victor. [with an outburst.'] I know it! You undo All I have done—my life of toil and care! I left you this the absolutest rule In Europe—do you think I will sit still And see. you throw all power off to the people— See my Sardinia, that has stood apart, Join in the mad and democratic whirl, Whereto I see all Europe haste full-tide? England casts off her kings—France mimics England— This realm I hoped was safe! Yet here I talk, When I can save it, not by force alone, But bidding plagues, which follow sons like you, Fasten upon my disobedient. . . [Recollecting himself.] Surely I could say this—if minded so—my son?

Charles. You could not! Bitterer curses than your curse Have I long since denounced upon myself If I misused my power. In fear of these I entered on those measures—will abide By them: so, I should say, Count Tende. ..

Victor. No! But no! But if, my Charles, your—more than old— Half-foolish father urged these arguments, And then confessed them futile, but said plainly That he forgot his promise, found his strength Fail him, had thought at savage Chambery Too much of brilliant Turin, Rivoli here, And Susa, and Veneria, and Superga— Pined for the pleasant places he had built When he was fortunate and young—

Charles. My father!

Victor. Stay yet—and if he said he could not die Deprived of baubles he had put aside, He deemed, forever—of the Crown that binds Your brain up, whole, sound, and impregnable, Creating kingliness—the Sceptre, too, Whose mere wind, should you wave it, back would beat Invaders—and the golden Ball which throbs As if you grasped the palpitating heart Indeed o' the realm, to mould as you may choose! —If I must totter up and down the.streets My sires built, where myself have introduced And fostered laws and letters, sciences, The civil and the military arts— Stay, Charles—I see you letting me pretend To live my former self once more—King Victor, The venturous yet politic—they style me Again, the Father of the Prince—friends wink Good-humouredly at the delusion you So sedulously guard from all rough truths That else would break upon the dotage!—You— Whom now I see preventing my old shame— I tell not, point by cruel point, my tale— For is't not in your breast my brow is hid? Is not your hand extended? Say you not. ..

[Enter D'Ormea, leading in Polyxena.]

Polyxena. [advancing and withdrawing Charles—to Victor.] In this conjuncture, even, he would say— (Tho' with a moistened eye and quivering lip) The suppliant is my father—I must save A great man from himself, nor see him fling His well-earned fame away: there must not follow Ruin so utter, a break-down of worth So absolute: no enemy shall learn, He thrust his child 'twixt danger and himself, And, when that child somehow stood danger out, Stole back with serpent wiles to ruin Charles —Body, that's much,—and soul, that's more—and realm, That's most of all! No enemy shall say. ..

D'Ormea. Do you repent, sir?

Victor. [resuming himself.] D'Ormea? This is well! Worthily done, King Charles, craftily done! Judiciously you post these, to o'erhear The little your importunate father thrusts Himself on you to say! Ay, they'll correct The amiable blind facility You showed in answering his peevish suit: What can he need to sue for? Bravely, D'Ormea, Have you fulfilled your office: but for you, The old Count might have drawn some few more livres To swell his income! Had you, Lady, missed The moment, a permission had been granted To build afresh my ruinous old pile— But you remembered properly the list Of wise precautions I took when I gave Nearly as much away—to reap the fruits I should have looked for!

Charles. Thanks, sir: degrade me, So you remain yourself. Adieu!

Victor. I'll not Forget it for the future, nor presume Next time to slight such potent mediators! Had I first moved them both to intercede, I might have had a chamber in Moncaglier —Who knows?

Charles. Adieu!

Victor. You bid me this adieu With the old spirit?

Charles. Adieu!

Victor. Charles—Charles—

Charles. Adieu!

[Victor goes.]

Charles. You were mistaken, Marquis, as you hear! 'Twas for another purpose the Count came. The Count desires Moncaglier. Give the order!

D'Ormea. [leisurely.] Your minister has lost your confidence, Asserting late, for his own purposes, Count Tende would. ..

Charles. [flinging his badge back.] Be still our minister! And give a loose to your insulting joy— It irks me more thus stifled than expressed. Loose it!

D'Ormea. There's none to loose, alas!—I see I never am to die a martyr!

Polyxena. Charles!

Charles. No praise, at least, Polyxena—no praise!