Chapter 2Act I, Scene 1

Act I Scene 1 The King’s Court at Salamanca. King Philip, Conrad, Beltran, Roncedas, Guzman, Antonio, Basil, Ismenia, Brigida; Grandees. CONRAD Till when do we wait here? RONCEDAS The Court is dull. This melancholy gains upon the King. CONRAD I should be riding homeward. How long it is To lose the noble hours so emptily. RONCEDAS This is a daily weariness. But look: The King has left his toying with the tassels Of the great chair and turns slow eyes to us. KING PHILIP Count Beltran. BELTRAN Your Highness? KING PHILIP What is your masque’s device

The Maid in the Mill For which I still must thank your loyal pains To cheer our stay in this so famous city? Shall we hear it? BELTRAN Nothing from me, Your Highness. Castilians, forg`ed iron of old time, And hearts that beat to tread of empires, cannot Keep pace with dances, entertainments, masques. But here’s my son, a piece of modern colour, For now our forward children overstep Their rough begetters — ask him, Sire; I doubt not His answers shall reveal the grace men lend him In attribution, — would ’twere used more nobly. KING PHILIP Your son, Lord Beltran? Surely you fatigued The holy saints in heaven and perfect martyrs In your yet hopeful youth, till they consented To your best wish. What masque, Antonio? ANTONIO One little worthy, yet in a spirit framed That may excuse much error; ’tis the Judgment Of Paris and the Rape of Spartan Helen. GUZMAN Is that not very old? ISMENIA Antonio? He Antonio? O my poor eyes misled, Whither have you wandered? BRIGIDA Hush.

Act I, Scene 1 KING PHILIP It has I think Been staged a little often and though, Antonio, I doubt not that fine pen and curious staging Will raise it beyond new things rough conceived, Yet is fresh subject something. ANTONIO For a play It were so; this is none. Pardon me, Sir, I err in boldness, urge too far my answer. KING PHILIP Your boldness, youth, is others’ modesty. Speak freely. ANTONIO Thus I say then. A masque is heard Once only and in that once must all be grasped at But the swift action of the stage speeds on, While slow conception labouring after it Roughens its subtleties, blurs over shades, Sees masses only. If the plot is new, The mind is like a traveller pressed for time, And quite engrossed with incident, omits To take the breath of flowers and lingering shade From haste to reach a goal. But the plot old Leaves it at leisure and it culls at ease Those delicate, scarcely-heeded strokes, which art Throws in, to justify genius. These being lost Perfection’s disappointed. Then if old The subject amplifies creative labour, For what’s creation but to make old things Admirably new; the other’s mere invention, A small gift, though a gracious. He’s creator Who greatly handles great material, Calls order out of the abundant deep,

The Maid in the Mill Not who invents sweet shadows out of air. KING PHILIP You are blessed, Lord Beltran, in your son. His voice Performs the promise of his eyes; he is A taking speaker. ISMENIA True, O true! He has taken My heart out of my bosom. BRIGIDA Will you hush? KING PHILIP You have, Lord Beltran, lands of which the fame Gives much to Nature. I have not yet beheld them. Indeed I grudge each rood of Spanish earth My eyes have not perused, my heart stored up. But what with foreign boyhood, strange extraction, And hardly reaching with turmoil to power I am a stranger merely. I have swept Through beautiful Spain more like a wind than man, Now fugitive, now blown into my right On a great whirlwind of success. So tell me, Have you not many lovely things to live with? BELTRAN My son would answer better, Sire. I care not Whether this tree be like a tower or that A dragon: and I never saw myself Difference twixt field and field, save the main one Of size, boundary and revenue; and those Were great once, — why now lessened and by whom I will not move you by repeating, Sire, Although my heart speaks of it feelingly.

Act I, Scene 1 KING PHILIP I have not time for hatred or revenge. Speak then, Antonio, but tell me not Of formal French demesnes and careful parks, Life dressed like a stone lady, statuesque. They please the judging eye, but not the heart. When Nature is disnatured, all her glowing Great outlines chillingly disharmonised Into stiff lines, the heart’s dissatisfied, Asks freedom, wideness; it compares the sweep Of the large heavens above and feels a discord. Your architects plan beauty by the yard, Weigh sand with sand, parallel line with line But miss the greatest, since uncultured force Though rude, yet striking home by far exceeds Artisan’s work, mechanically good. ANTONIO Our fields, Sir, are a rural holiday, Not Nature carved. KING PHILIP Has she a voice to you? Silent, she’s not so fair. ANTONIO Yes, we have brooks Muttering through sedge and stone, and willows by them Leaning dishevelled and forget-me-nots, Wonders of lurking azure, rue and mallow, Honeysuckle and painful meadowsweet, And when we’re tired of watching the rich bee Murmur absorbed about one lonely flower, Then we can turn and hear a noon of birds. Each on his own heart’s quite intent, yet all Join sweetness at melodious intervals.

The Maid in the Mill KING PHILIP You have many trees? ANTONIO Glades, Sire, and green assemblies And separate giants bending to each other As if they longed to meet. Some are pranked out; Others wear merely green like foresters. ISMENIA Can hatred sound so sweet? Are enemies’ voices Like hail of angels to the ear, Brigida? BRIGIDA Hush, fool. We are too near. Someone will mark you. ISMENIA Why, cousin, if they do, what harm? Sure all Unblamed may praise sweet music when they hear it. BRIGIDA Rule your tongue, madam. Or must I leave you? KING PHILIP You have made me sorrowful. How different Is this pale picture of a Court, these walls Shut out from honest breathing; God kept not His quarries in the wild and distant hills For such perversion. It was sin when first Hands serried stone with stone. Guzman, you are A patient reasoner, — is it not better To live in the great air God made for us, A peasant in the open glory of earth, Feeling it, yet not knowing it, like him To drink the cool life-giving brook nor crave The sour fermented madness of the grape Nor the dull exquisiteness of far-fetched viands

Act I, Scene 1 For the tired palate, but black bread or maize, Mere wholesome ordinary corn. Think you not A life so in the glorious sunlight bathed, Straight nursed and suckled from the vigorous Earth With shaping labour and the homely touch Of the great hearty mother, edifies A nobler kind than nourished is in courts? For we are even as children, when removed From those her streaming breasts, we of the sun Defrauded and the lusty salutation Of wind and rain, grow up amphibious nothing, Not man, who are too sickly wise for earth Nor angel, too corrupt for heirs of heaven. GUZMAN I think not so, Your Highness. KING PHILIP Not so, Guzman? Is not a peasant happier than a king? For he has useful physical toil and sleep Unbroken as a child’s. He is not hedged By swathing ceremony which forbids A king to feel himself a man. He has friends, For he has equals. And in youth he marries The comrade of his boyhood whom he loved And gets on that sweet helper stalwart children. Then vigorously his days endure till age Sees his grandchildren climbing on his knees, A happy calm old man; because he lived Man’s genuine life and goes with task accomplished Thro’ death as thro’ a gate, not questioning. GUZMAN Each creature labouring in his own vocation Desires another’s and deems the heavy burden Of his own fate the world’s sole heaviness.

The Maid in the Mill Each thing’s to its perceptions limited, Another’s are to it intangible, A shadow far away, quite bodiless, Lost in conjecture’s wide impalpable. On its unceasing errand through the void The earth rolls on, a blind and moaning sphere; It knows not Venus’ sorrows, but it looks With envy crying, “These have light and beauty, I only am all dark and comfortless.” The land yearning for life, endeavours seaward, The sea, weary of motion, pines to turn Into reposeful earth: yet were this done Each would repine again and hate the doer, The land would miss its flowers and grass and birds, The sea long for the coral and the cave. For he who made expenditure of life Condition of that life prolonged, made also Each mortal gift dependent on defect And truth to one’s own self the only virtue. The labourer physically is divine, Inward a void; yet in his limits blest. But were the city’s cultured son, who turns Watching and envious, crying “Were I simple, Primeval in my life as he, how happy!”, Into such environs confined, how then His temperament would beat against the bars Of circumstance and rage for wider field. Uninterchangeable their natures stand And self-confined; for so Earth made them, Earth, The brute and kindly mother groping for mind. She of her vigorous nature bore her sons, Made lusty with her milk and strengthening motion Abundant in her veins; her dumb attraction Is as their mother’s arms, else like the lark Aiming from her to heaven. And Souls are there Who rooted in her puissant animalism Are greatly earthy, yet widen to the bound

Act I, Scene 1 And heighten towards the sun. But these are rare And of no privileged country citizens Nor to the city bounded nor the field. They are wise and royal in the furrow, keep In schools their chastened vigour from the soil Full-tempered. Man Antaeuslike is strong While he is natural and feels the soil From which being lifted great communities Die in their intellectual grandeur. Let then The city’s many-minded son preserve And the clear-natured peasant unabridged Their just, great uses, heighten or refresh By breath and force of each a different spirit If may be; one not admit untutored envy, The other vain imagination making Return to nature a misleading name For a reversion most unnatural. KING PHILIP You reason well, Guzman; nor must we pine At stations where God and his saints have set us. And yet because I’ld feel the rural air, Of greatness unreminded, I will go Tomorrow as a private noble, you, My lords, forget for one day I’m the king, Nor watch my moods, nor with your eyes wait on me Nor disillusionize by close observance But keep as to an equal courtesy. MAJORDOMO Your Majesty — KING PHILIP Well, sir, Your Ancient Wisdom — MAJORDOMO The Kings of Spain —

The Maid in the Mill KING PHILIP Are absolute, you’ld say, Over men only? Custom masters kings. I’ll not be ruled by your stale ceremonies As kings are by an arrogating Senate, But will control them, wear them when I will, Walk disencumbered when I will. Enough. You have done your part in protest. I have heard you. And now, my lords. LORDS Your Highness is obeyed. KING PHILIP Tell on, Antonio. Who perform the masque? BELTRAN That can I tell Your Highness; rural girls, The daughters of the soil, whom country air Has given the red-blooded health to bloom. Full of our Spanish sunlight are they, voiced Like Junos and will make our ladies pale Before them. And there’s a Farmer’s lovely daughter, A marvel. Robed in excellent apparel, As she will be, there’s not a maid in Spain Can stand beside her and stay happy. My sons Have spared nor words nor music nor array Nor beauty, to express their loyal duty. KING PHILIP I am much graced by this their gentle trouble And yet, Lord Beltran, there are nobler things Than these brocaded masques; not that I scorn these, — Do not believe I would be so ungracious, — Nor anything belittle in which true hearts Interpret their rich silence. Yet there’s one Desire, I would exchange for many masques.

Act I, Scene 1 ’Tis little: an easy word bestows it wholly, And yet, I fear, for you too difficult. BELTRAN My lord, you know my service and should not Doubt my compliance. Name and take it. Else judge me. KING PHILIP Why, noble reconcilement, Conde Beltran, Sweet friendship between mighty jarring houses And by great intercession war renounced Betwixt magnificent hearts: these are the masques Most sumptuous, these the glorious theatres That subjects should present to princes. Conrad And noble Beltran, I respect the wrath Sunders your pride: yet mildness has the blessing Of God and is religion’s perfect mood. Admit that better weakness. Throw your hearts Wide to the low knock of entering peace: let not The ashes of a rage the world renounces Smoulder between you nor outdated griefs Keep living. What, quite silent? Will you, Conrad, Refuse to me your anger, who so often Have for my sake your very life renounced? CONRAD My lord, the hate that I have never cherished, I know not how to abandon. Not in the sway Of other men’s affections I have lived But walked in the straight road my fortunes build me. Let any love who will or any hate who will, I take both with a calm, unburdened spirit, Inarm my lover as a friend, embrace My enemy as a wrestler: do my will, Because it is my will, go where I go Because my path lies there. If any cross me, That is his choice, not mine. And if he suffer,

The Maid in the Mill Again it is his choice, not mine. If I, That is my star: I curse him not for it: My fate’s beyond his making as my spirit’s Above affection by him. I hate no man And if Lord Beltran give to me his hand, Gladly I’ll clasp it, easily forget Outdated injuries and wounds long healed. BELTRAN You are most noble, Conrad, most benign. Who now can say the ill-doer ne’er forgives? Conrad has dispossessed my kinsmen, slain My vassals, me of ancient lands relieved, Thinned my great house; but Beltran is forgiven. Will you not now enlarge your generous nature, Wrong me still more, have new and ampler room For exercise to your forgiving heart? I do embrace misfortune and fresh loss Before your friendship, lord. KING PHILIP No more of this. BELTRAN Pardon, Your Highness; this was little praise For so much Christianity. Lord Conrad, I will not trouble you further. And perhaps With help of the good saints and holy Virgin I too shall make me some room to pardon in. CONRAD I fear you not, Lord Count. Our swords have clashed: Mine was the stronger. When I was but a boy I carved your lands out. So had you won mine If you had simply grappled fortune to you And kept her faithful with your sword. ’Tis not Crooked dexterity that has the secret

Act I, Scene 1 To win her. Briefly I hold your lands and satire Has no sharp edge, till it cut that from me. KING PHILIP This is unprofitable. No more of it. Lord Conrad, you go homeward with the dawn? CONRAD Winning your gracious leave to have with me My sisters, Sir. KING PHILIP The Queen is very loth To lose her favourites, but to disappoint you Much more unwilling. Exeunt King, Beltran, Guzman and Grandees. RONCEDAS A word with you, Lord Conrad. CONRAD As many as you will, Roncedas. RONCEDAS This. (whispers) My lord, your good friend always. CONRAD So you have been. Exit Roncedas. Cousin, and sweetest sister, I am bound Homeward upon a task that needs my presence. Don Mario and his wife will bring you there. Are you content or shall I stay for you? ISMENIA With all you do, dear brother, yet would have

The Maid in the Mill Your blessing by me. CONRAD May your happiness Greatly exceed my widest wishes. Exit Conrad. ISMENIA So It must do, brother, or I am unhappy. What task? BRIGIDA Some girl-lifting. What other task Will he have now? Shall we go, cousin? ISMENIA Stay. Let us not press so closely after them. BRIGIDA Good manners? Oh, your pardon. I was blind. BASIL Are you a lover or a fish, Antonio? Speak. She yet lingers. ANTONIO Speak? BASIL The devil remove you Where you can never more have sight of her. I lose all patience. BRIGIDA Cousin, I know you’re tired

Act I, Scene 1 With standing. Sit, and if you tire with that, As perseverance is a powerful virtue, For your reward the dumb may speak to you. ISMENIA What shall I do, dear girl? BRIGIDA Why, speak the first, Count Conrad’s sister! Be the Mahomet To your poor mountain. Hang me if I think not The prophet’s hill more moveable of the two; An earthquake stirs not this. What ails the man? He has made a wager with some lamp-post surely. ISMENIA Brigida, are you mad? Be so immodest? A stranger and my house’s enemy! BRIGIDA No, never speak to him. It would be indeed Horribly forward. ISMENIA Why, you jest, Brigida. I’m no such light thing that I must be dumb Lest men mistake my speaking. Let hidden frailness Or men suspect to their own purity Guard every issue of speech and gesture. Wherefore Should I be hedged so meanly in? To greet With few words, cold and grave, as is befitting This gentle youth, why do you call immodest? BRIGIDA You must not.

The Maid in the Mill ISMENIA Must not? Why, I will. BRIGIDA I say, You must not, child. ISMENIA I will then, not because I wish (why should I?), but because you always Provoke me with your idle prudities. BRIGIDA Good! you’ve been wishing it the last half hour And now you are provoked to’t. Charge him, charge him. I stand here as reserve. ISMENIA Impossible creature! But no! You shall not turn me. BRIGIDA ’Twas not my meaning. ISMENIA Sir — BASIL Rouse yourself, Antonio. Gather back Your manhood, or you’re shamed without retrieval. ISMENIA Help me, Brigida. BRIGIDA Not I, cousin.

Act I, Scene 1 ISMENIA Sir, You spoke divinely well. I say this, Sir, Not to recall to you that we have met — Since you will not remember — but because I would not have you — anyone think this of me That since you are Antonio and my enemy And much have hurt me — to the heart, therefore When one speaks or does worthily, I can Admire not, nor love merit, whosoe’er Be its receptacle. This was my meaning. I could not bear one should not know this of me. Therefore I spoke. BASIL Speak or be dumb for ever. ISMENIA I see, you have mistook me why I spoke And scorn me. Sir, you may be right to think You have so sweet a tongue would snare the birds From off the branches, ravish an enemy, — Some such poor wretch there may be — witch her heart out, If you could care for anything so cheap, And hold it in your hand, lost, — lost — Oh me! Brigida! BASIL O base silence! Speak! She is Confounded. Speak, you sheep, you! ISMENIA Though this is so, You do me wrong to think me such an one, Most flagrant wrong, Antonio. To think that I Wait one word of your lips to woo you, yearn To be your loving servant at a word

The Maid in the Mill From you, — one only word and I am yours. BASIL Admirable lady! Saints, can you be dumb Who hear this? ISMENIA Still you scorn me. For all this You shall not make me angry. Do you imagine Because you know I am Lord Conrad’s sister And lodge with Donna Clara Santa Cruz In the street Velasquez, and you have seen it With marble front and the quaint mullioned windows, That you need only after vespers, when The streets are empty, stand there, and I will Send one to you? Indeed, indeed I merit not You should think poorly of me. If you’re noble And do not scorn me, you will carefully Observe the tenour of my prohibition. Brigida! BRIGIDA Come away with your few words, Your cold grave words. You’ve frozen his speech with them. Exeunt. ANTONIO Heavens! it was she — her words were not a dream, Yet I was dumb. There was a majesty Even in her tremulous playfulness, a thrill When she smiled most, made my heart beat too quickly For speech. O that I should be dumb and shamefast, When with one step I might grasp Paradise. BASIL Antonio!

Act I, Scene 1 ANTONIO I was not deceived. She blushed, And the magnificent scarlet to her cheeks Welled from her heart an ocean inexhaustible. Rose but outcrimsoned rose. Yes, every word Royally marred the whiteness of her cheeks With new impossibilities of beauty. She blushed, and yet as with an angry shame Of that delicious weakness, gallantly Her small imperious head she held erect And strove in vain to encourage those sweet lids That fluttered lower and lower. O that but once My tongue had been as bold as were mine eyes! But these were fastened to her as with cords, Courage in them naked necessity. BASIL Ah poor Antonio. You’re bewitched, you’re maimed, Antonio. You must make her groan who did this. One sense will always now be absent from him. Lately he had no tongue. Now that’s returned His ears are gone on leave. Hark you, Antonio! Why do we stay here? ANTONIO I am in a dream. Lead where you will, since there is no place now In all the world, but only she or silence.