Chapter 3Scene 2

A garden at the town-house of Count Beltran. Antonio, Basil. BASIL I am abashed for you. What, make a lady Woo you, and she a face so excellent, Of an address so admirably lovely It shows a goddess in her — at each sentence Let pause to give you opportunity, Then shame with the dead silence of the hall For her continual answer. Fie, you’re not Antonio, you’re not Beltran’s issue. Seek Your kindred in the snowdrifts of the Alps, Or call a post your father. ANTONIO I deserve Your censure, Basil. Yet were it done again, I know I should again be dumb. My tongue Teems in imagination but is barren In actuality. When I am from her, I woo her with the accent of a god, My mind o’erflows with words as the wide Nile With waters. Let her but appear and I Am her poor mute. She may do her will with me And O remember but her words. When she, Ah she, my white divinity with that kindness Celestial in the smiling of her eyes And in her voice the world’s great music, rose Of blushing frankness, half woman and half angel, Crowned me unwooed, lavished on me her heart

Act I, Scene 2 In her prodigious liberality, Could I then speak? O to have language then Had been the index to a shallow love. BASIL Away! you modest lovers are the blot Of manhood, traitors to our sovereignty. I’ld have you banished, all of you, and kept In desert islands, where no petticoat Should enter, so the breed of you might perish. ANTONIO You speak against the very sense of Love Which lives by service. BASIL Flat treason! Was not man made Woman’s superior that he might control her, In strength to exact obedience and in wisdom To guide her will, in wit to keep her silent, Three Herculean labours. O were women Once loose, they would new-deluge earth with words, Sapiently base creation on its apex, Logic would be new-modelled, arithmetic Grow drunk and reason despairing abdicate. No thunderbolt could stop a woman’s will, Once it is started. ANTONIO O you speak at ease. Loved you, you would recant this and without small Torture to quicken you. BASIL I? I recant? I wish, Antonio, I had known your case Earlier. I would have taught you how to love.

The Maid in the Mill ANTONIO Come, will you woo a woman? Teach me at least By diagram upon a blackboard. BASIL Well, I will so, if it should hearten your weak spirits. And now I think of it, I am resolved I’ll publish a new Art of Love, shall be The only Ovid memorable. ANTONIO Well, quickly teach Your diagram. Suppose your maid and win her. BASIL First, I would kiss her. ANTONIO What, without leave asked? BASIL Leave? Ask a woman leave to kiss her! Why, What was she made for else? ANTONIO If she is angry? BASIL So much the better. Then you by repetition Convince her of your manly strength, which is A great point gained at the outset and moreover Your duty, comfortable to yourself. Besides she likes it. On the same occasion When she will scold, I’ll silence her with wit. Laughter breaks down impregnable battlements. Let me but make her smile and there is conquest

Act I, Scene 2 Won by the triple strength, horse, foot, artillery, Of eloquence, wit and muscle. Then but remains Pacification, with or else without The Church’s help; that’s a mere form and makes No difference to the principle. ANTONIO There should be Inquisitions for such as you. What after? BASIL Nothing unless you wish to assure the conquest, Not plunder it merely like a Tamerlane. I’ll teach that also. ’Tis but making her Realise her inferiority. Unanswerably and o’erwhelmingly Show her how fortunate she is to get you And all her life too short for gratitude; That you have robbed her merely for her good, To civilize her or to train her up: Punish each word that shows want of affection. Plague her to death and make her thank you for it. Accustom her to sing hosannas to you When you beat her. All this is ordinary, And every wise benevolent conqueror Has learnt the trick of it. Then she’ll love for ever. ANTONIO You are a Pagan and would burn for this If Love still kept his Holy Office. BASIL I Am safe from him. ANTONIO And therefore boast securely

The Maid in the Mill Conducting in imagination wars That others have the burden of. I’ve seen The critical civilian in his chair Win famous victories with wordy carnage, Guide his strategic finger o’er a map, Cry “Eugene’s fault! Here Marlborough was to blame; And look, a child might see it, Villars’ plain error That lost him Malplaquet!” I think you are Just such a pen-and-paper strategist. A wooer! BASIL Death! I will have pity on you, Antonio. You shall see my great example And learn by me. ANTONIO Good! I’m your pupil. But hear, A pretty face or I’ll not enter for her, Wellborn or I shall much discount your prowess. BASIL Agreed. And yet they say, Experimentum In corpore vili. But I take your terms Lest you substract me for advantages. ANTONIO Look where the enemy comes. You are well off If you can win her. BASIL A rare face, by Heaven. Almost too costly a piece of goods for this Mad trial. ANTONIO You sound retreat?

Act I, Scene 2 BASIL Not I an inch. Watch how I’ll overcrow her. ANTONIO Hush, she’s here. Enter Brigida. BRIGIDA Se˜nor, I was bidden to deliver this letter to you. BASIL To me, sweetheart? BRIGIDA I have the inventory of you in my pock, if you be he truly. I will study it. Hair of the ordinary poetic length — no; dress indefinable — no; a modest address — I think not you, Se˜nor; a noble manner — Pooh, no! that fits not in; a handsome face — I am sure not you, Se˜nor. BASIL Humph. ANTONIO Well, cousin. All silent? Open your batteries, open your batter- ies. BASIL Wait, wait. Ought a conqueror to be hurried? Caesar himself must study his ground before he attempts it. You will hear my trumpets instanter. BRIGIDA Will you take your letter, Sir?

The Maid in the Mill ANTONIO To me then, maiden? A dainty-looking note, and I marvel much from whom it can be. I do not know the handwriting. A lady’s, seemingly, yet it has a touch of the masculine too — there is rapidity and initiative in its flow. Fair one, from whom comes this? BRIGIDA Why, sir, I am not her signature; which if you will look within, I think you will find unforgotten. BASIL Here is a clever woman, Antonio, to think of that, and she but eighteen or a miracle. ANTONIO Well, cousin? BRIGIDA This Don Witty-pate eyes me strangely. I fear he will recognise me. ANTONIO Ismenia Ostrocadiz. O my joy! BRIGIDA You’re ill, sir, you change colour. ANTONIO Now, by heaven, Were death within my heart’s door or his blast Upon my eyelids, this would exile him. The writing swims before me. BRIGIDA Sir, you pale Extremely. Is there no poison in the letter?

Act I, Scene 2 ANTONIO O might I so be poisoned hourly. Let me No longer dally with my happiness, Lest it take wings or turn a dream. Hail, letter, For thou hast come from that white hand I worship. “To Lord Antonio. Se˜nor, how you may deem of my bold wooing, How cruelly I suffer in your thoughts, I dread to think. Take the plain truth, Antonio. I cannot live without your love. If you From this misdoubt my nobleness or infer A wanton haste or instability, — As men pretend quick love is quickly spent — Tear up this letter, and with it my heart. And yet I hope you will not tear it. I love you And since I saw our family variance And your too noble fearfulness withhold me From my heart’s lord, I have thrown from me shame And the admir`ed dalliance of women To bridge it. Come to me, Antonio! Come, But come in honour. I am not nor can be So far degenerate from my house’s greatness Or my pure self to love ignobly. Dear, I have thrown from me modesty’s coy pretences But the reality I’ll grapple to me Close as your image. I am loth to end, Yet must, and therefore will I end with this, Beloved, love me, respect me or forget me.” Writing more sweet than any yet that came From heaven to earth, O thou dear revelation, Make my lips holy. Ah, could I imagine Thee the white hand that wrote thee, I were blest Utterly. Thou hast made me twice myself. I think I am another than Antonio: The sky seems nearer to me or the earth Environed with a sacred light. O come! I’ll study to imprint this on my heart,

The Maid in the Mill That when death comes he’ll find it there and leave it, A monument and an immortal writing. BASIL Damsel, you are of the Lady Ismenia’s household? BRIGIDA A poor relative of hers, Se˜nor. BASIL Your face seems strangely familiar to me. Have I not seen you in some place where I constantly resort? BRIGIDA O Sir, I hope you do not think so meanly of me. I am a poor girl but an honest. BASIL How, how? BRIGIDA I know not how. I spoke only as the spirit moved me. BASIL You have a marvellously nimble tongue. Two words with you. BRIGIDA Willingly, Se˜nor, if you exceed not measure. BASIL Fair one — BRIGIDA Oh, sir, I am glad I listened. I like your two words extremely. God be with you.

Act I, Scene 2 BASIL Why, I have not begun yet. BRIGIDA The more shame to your arithmetic. If your teacher had reck- oned as loosely with his cane-cuts, he would have made the carefuller scholar. BASIL God’s wounds, will you listen to me? BRIGIDA Well, Sir, I will not insist upon numbers. But pray, for your own sake, swear no more. No eloquence will long stand such drafts upon it. BASIL If you would listen, I would tell you a piece of news that might please you. BRIGIDA Let it be good news, new news and repeatable news and I will thank you for it. BASIL Sure, maiden, you are wondrous beautiful. BRIGIDA Se˜nor, Queen Anne is dead. Tell me the next. BASIL The next is, I will kiss you. BRIGIDA Oh, Sir, that’s a prophecy. Well, death and kissing come to all of us, and by what disease the one or by whom the other, wise men care not to forecast. It profits little to study calamities

The Maid in the Mill beforehand. When it comes, I pray God I may learn to take it with resignation, if I cannot do better. BASIL By my life, I will kiss you and without farther respite. BRIGIDA On what ground? BASIL Have I not told you, you are beautiful? BRIGIDA So has my mirror, not once but a hundred times, and never yet offered to kiss me. When it does, I’ll allow your logic. No, we are already near enough to each other. Pray keep your distance. BASIL I will establish my argument with my lips. BRIGIDA I will defend mine with my hand. I promise you ’twill prove the abler dialectician of the two. BASIL Well. BRIGIDA I am glad you think so, Se˜nor. My lord, I cannot stay. What shall I tell my lady? ANTONIO Tell her my heart is at her feet, and I Am hers, hers only until heaven ceases And after. Tell her that I am more blest In her sweet condescension to my humbleness Than Ilian Anchises when Love’s mother

Act I, Scene 2 Stooped from her golden heavens into his lap. Tell her that as a goddess I revere her And as a saint adore; that she and life Are one to me, for I’ve no heart but her, No atmosphere beyond her pleasure, light But what her eyes allow me. Tell, O tell her — BRIGIDA Hold, hold, Se˜nor. You may tell her all this yourself. I would not remember the half of it and could not understand the other half. Shall I tell her, you will come surely? ANTONIO As sure as is the sun to its fixed hour Or midnight to its duty. I will come. BRIGIDA Good! there are at last three words a poor girl can understand. Mark then, you will wait a while after nightfall, less than half a bowshot from the place you know towards the Square Velas- quez, within sight of the Donna’s windows. There I will come to you. Sir, if your sword be half as ready and irresistible as your tongue, I would gladly have you there with him, though Saint Iago grant that neither prove necessary. You look sad, Sir. God save you for a witty and eloquent gentleman. Exit. ANTONIO O cousin, I am bewitched with happiness. Pardon me that I leave you. Solitude Demands a god and godlike I am grown Unto myself. This letter deifies me. I will be sole with my felicity. Exit. BASIL God grant that I am not bewitched also! Saints and angels! How

The Maid in the Mill is it? How did it happen? Is the sun still in heaven? Is that the song of a bird or a barrel-organ? I am not drunk either. I can still distinguish between a tree and the squirrel upon it. What, am I not Basil? whom men call the witty and eloquent Basil? Did I not laugh from the womb? Was not my first cry a jest upon the world I came into? Did I not invent a conceit upon my mother’s milk ere I had sucked of it? Death! and have I been bashed and beaten by the tongue of a girl? silenced by a common purveyor of impertinences? It is so and yet it cannot be. I begin to believe in the dogmas of the materialist. The gastric juice rises in my estimation. Genius is after all only a form of indigestion, a line of Shakespeare the apotheosis of a leg of mutton and the speculations of Plato an escape of diseased tissue arrested in the permanency of ink. What did I break my fast with this morning? Kippered herring? bread? marmalade? tea? O kippered herring, art thou the material form of stupidity and is marmalade an enemy of wit? It must be so. O mighty gastric juice! Mother and Saviour! I bow down before thee. Be propitious, fair goddess, to thy adorer. Arise, Basil. Today thou shalt retrieve thy tarnished laurels or be expunged for ever from the book of the witty. Arm thyself in full panoply of allusion and irony, gird on raillery like a sword and repartee like a buckler. I will meet this girl tonight. I will tund her with conceits, torture her with ironies, tickle her with jests, prick her all over with epigrams. My wit shall smother her, tear her, burst her sides, press her to death, hang her, draw her, quarter her, and if all this fails, Death! as a last revenge, I’ll — I’ll beat her. Saints!