Act 6 — SCENE IV
Reading edition
The Château of La Motte-Feuilly in France.
A balcony hung with black—below it are forest-trees, some in full leaf, others creeping into green. Solemn masses of wild hyacinths clump up against the castle walls.
The Duchess Charlotte de Valentinois in deep black stands in the balcony, a purple purse laid beside her.
CHARLOTTE.
My sables Hang heavy on the spring; and I myself Have known a bliss struck cold, a pleasure So terrible ... he, who attracts such joy And overcomes such hate, Is puissant as an infinite lost god.... The leaves Are very soft and green and masterful.... The peasant-folk approach, the humble poor They say he gave his voice in softness to Who brought old kings to murmur round his urn, Rebellious that it held him.
[Some Peasants come through the trees.
O good people, Pray for Lord César—for his soul!
[She gives alms from the purple purse and they pass out.
They pray, They will go home and pray: I love to watch them homeward, simple folk, With hunger I can feed. [She leans forward, supporting her arms on the balcony.
I cannot pray: my Aves And all the beads of all my rosary, Would be for access to him, for his favour. They will pray, And bring him peace far from me. But to me It is the many leaves bring peace, the forest, The wrapping and the murmur of the wind; For when I wake at night, wake in my forest, I am glad to wake: I hear the accusation Of the great Kings they carved about his tomb, Who pass around it, weeping—Saul and David And Solomon, the Scripture Kings, all lost And wandering as ghosts and desolate, With cry to the four royal winds, to Heaven, And to the swerving roll of the great forest, That César has no crown....
[A Nurse passes under the balcony leading a young child.
... No crown, no race—I have not borne a son.
[She bows her face over her arms.
There is not any Among the Kings gold-browed as this. Oh, peace! But lift it in your hands—’tis Gideon’s fleece This forthright weft of silky blond. And many Dumb animals lurk at the eyelids’ crease, Under the eyes—a serpent that from fenny Marish finds sluice; a lion when in den he Deviseth rage; an ox beneath the trees: Yea, and an eagle droopeth for its prey, A malign eagle, in the slack, dull gaze. But on the lips what panting savagery, The fang of the wolf on winter forest-ways! Yet is the face soft, lonely, over all A honied mystery that must appal.
Elogia virorum illustrium, 1551.
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