MELCHIOR.
And here you wait the matter’s issue?

    BERTHOLD.
                                                Here.

    MELCHIOR.
I don’t regret I shut Amelius, then.
But tell me, on this grand disclosure,—how
Behaved our spokesman with the forehead?

    BERTHOLD.
                                            Oh,
Turned out no better than the foreheadless—
Was dazzled not so very soon, that’s all!
For my part, this is scarce the hasty showy
Chivalrous measure you give me credit of.
Perhaps I had a fancy,—but ’tis gone.
—Let her commence the unfriended innocent
And carry wrongs about from court to court?
No, truly! The least shake of fortune’s sand,
—My uncle-Pope chokes in a coughing fit,
King-cousin takes a fancy to blue eyes,—
And wondrously her claims would brighten up;
Forth comes a new gloss on the ancient law,
O’er-looked provisoes, o’er-past premises,
Follow in plenty. No: ’t is the safe step.
The hour beneath the convent-wall is lost:
Juliers and she, once mine, are ever mine.

    MELCHIOR.
Which is to say, you, losing heart already,
Elude the adventure.

    BERTBOLD.
                    Not so—or, if so—
Why not confess at once that I advise
None of our kingly craft and guild just now
To lay, one moment, down their privilege
With the notion they can any time at pleasure
Retake it: that may turn out hazardous.
We seem, in Europe, pretty well at end
O’ the night, with our great masque: those favored few
Who keep the chamber’s top, and honor’s chance
Of the early evening, may retain their place
And figure as they list till out of breath.
But it is growing late: and I observe
A dim grim kind of tipstaves at the doorway
Not only bar new-comers entering now,
But caution those who left, for any cause,
And would return, that morning draws too near;
The ball must die off, shut itself up. We—
I think, may dance lights out and sunshine in,
And sleep off headache on our frippery:
But friend the other, who cunningly stole out,
And, after breathing the fresh air outside,
Means to re-enter with a new costume,
Will be advised go back to bed, I fear.
I stick to privilege, on second thoughts.

    MELCHIOR.
Yes—you evade the adventure: and, beside,
Give yourself out for colder than you are.
King Philip, only, notes the lady’s eyes?
Don’t they come in for somewhat of the motive
With you too?

    BERTHOLD.
        Yes—no: I am past that now.
Gone ’tis: I cannot shut my soul to fact.
Of course, I might by forethought and contrivance
Reason myself into a rapture. Gone:
And something better come instead, no doubt.

    MELCHIOR.
So be it! Yet, all the same, proceed my way,
Though to your ends; so shall you prosper best!
The lady,—to be won for selfish ends,—
Will be won easier my unselfish . . . call it,
Romantic way.

    BERTHOLD.
        Won easier?

    MELCHIOR.
                                Will not she?

    BERTHOLD.
There I profess humility without bound:
Ill cannot speed—not I—the Emperor.

    MELCHIOR.
And I should think the Emperor best waived,
From your description of her mood and way.
You could look, if it pleased you, into hearts;
But are too indolent and fond of watching
Your own—you know that, for you study it.

    BERTHOLD.
Had you but seen the orator her friend,
So bold and voluble an hour before,
Abashed to earth at aspect of the change!
Make her an Empress? Ah, that changed the case!
Oh, I read hearts! ’T is for my own behoof,
I court her with my true worth: wait the event!
I learned my final lesson on that head
When years ago,—my first and last essay—
Before the priest my uncle could by help
Of his superior, raise me from the dirt—
Priscilla left me for a Brabant lord
Whose cheek was like the topaz on his thumb.
I am past illusion on that score.

    MELCHIOR.
                                        Here comes
The lady—

    BERTBOLD.
—And there you go. But do not! Give me
Another chance to please you! Hear me plead!

    MELCHIOR.
You’ll keep, then, to the lover, to the man?

    BERTBOLD.
Good auspice to our meeting!

    THE DUCHESS.
                                        May it prove!
—And you, sir, will be Emperor one day?

    BERTBOLD.
(Ay, that’s the point!) I may be Emperor.

    THE DUCHESS.
’T is not for my sake only, I am proud
Of this you offer: I am prouder far
That from the highest state should duly spring
The highest, since most generous, of deeds.

    BERTBOLD.
(Generous—still that!) You underrate yourself.
You are, what I, to be complete, must gain—
Find now, and may not find, another time.
While I career on all the world for stage,
There needs at home my representative.

    THE DUCHESS.
—Such, rather, would some warrior-woman be—
One dowered with lands and gold, or rich in friends—
One like yourself.

    BERTHOLD.
                Lady, I am myself,
And have all these: I want what’s not myself,
Nor has all these. Why give one hand two swords?
Here’s one already: be a friend’s next gift
A silk glove, if you will—I have a sword.

    THE DUCHESS.
You love me, then?

    BERTHOLD.
                                Your lineage I revere,
Honor your virtue, in your truth believe,
Do homage to your intellect, and bow
Before your peerless beauty.

    THE DUCHESS.
                        But, for love—

    BERTHOLD.
A further love I do not understand.
Our best course is to say these hideous truths,
And see them, once said, grow endurable:
Like waters shuddering from their central bed,
Black with the midnight bowels of the earth,
That, once up-spouted by an earthquake’s throe,
A portent and a terror—soon subside,
Freshen apace, take gold and rainbow hues
In sunshine, sleep in shadow, and at last
Grow common to the earth as hills or trees—
Accepted by all things they came to scare.

    THE DUCHESS.
You cannot love, then?

    BERTHOLD.
                        —Charlemagne, perhaps!
Are you not over-curious in love-lore?

    THE DUCHESS.
I have become so, very recently.
It seems, then, I shall best deserve esteem,
Respect, and all your candor promises,
By putting on a calculating mood—
Asking the terms of my becoming yours?

    BERTHOLD.
Let me not do myself injustice, neither.
Because I will not condescend to fictions
That promise what my soul can ne’er acquit,
It does not follow that my guarded phrase
May not include far more of what you seek,
Than wide profession of less scrupulous men.
You will be Empress, once for all: with me
The Pope disputes supremacy—you stand,
And none gainsays, the earth’s first woman.

    THE DUCHESS.
                                                        That—
Or simple Lady of Ravestein again?

    BERTHOLD.
The matter’s not in my arbitrament:
Now I have made my claims—which I regret—
Cede one, cede all.

    THE DUCHESS.
        This claim then, you enforce?

    BERTHOLD.
The world looks on.

    THE DUCHESS.
                And when must I decide?

    BERTHOLD.
When, lady? Have I said thus much so promptly
For nothing?—Poured out, with such pains, at once
What I might else have suffered to ooze forth
Droplet by droplet in a lifetime long—
For aught less than as prompt an answer, too?
All’s fairly told now: who can teach you more?

    THE DUCHESS.
I do not see him.

    BERTHOLD.
                                I shall ne’er deceive.
This offer should be made befittingly
Did time allow the better setting forth
The good of it, with what is not so good,
Advantage, and disparagement as well:
But as it is, the sum of both must serve.
I am already weary of this place;
My thoughts are next stage on to Rome. Decide!
The Empire—or,—not even Juliers now!
Hail to the Empress—farewell to the Duchess!

    GAUCELME.
—“Farewell,” Prince? when we break in at our risk—

    CLUGNET.
Almost upon court-license trespassing—

    GAUCELME.
—To point out how your claims are valid yet!
You know not, by the Duke her father’s will,
The lady, if she weds beneath her rank,—
Forfeits her Duchy in the next heir’s favor
So ’tis expressly stipulate. And if
It can be shown ’tis her intent to wed
A subject, then yourself, next heir, by right
Succeed to Juliers.

    BERTHOLD.
            What insanity?—

    GUIBERT.
Sir, there’s one Valence, the pale fiery man
You saw and heard this morning—thought, no doubt,
Was of considerable standing here:
I put it to your penetration, Prince,
If aught save love, the truest love for her
Could make him serve the lady as he did!
He’s simply a poor advocate of Cleves
—Creeps here with difficulty, finds a place
With danger, gets in by a miracle,
And for the first time meets the lady’s face—
So runs the story: is that credible?
For, first—no sooner in, than he’s apprised
Fortunes have changed; you are all-powerful here,
The lady as powerless: he stands fast by her!

    THE DUCHESS    [aside].
And do such deeds spring up from love alone?

    GUIBERT.
But here occurs the question, does the lady
Love him again? I say, how else can she?
Can she forget how he stood singly forth
In her defence, dared outrage all of us,
Insult yourself—for what, save love’s reward.

    THE DUCHESS    [aside.]
And is love then the sole reward of love?

    GUIBERT.
But, love him as she may and must—you ask,
Means she to wed him? “Yes,” both natures answer!
Both, in their pride, point out the sole result;
Naught less would he accept nor she propose.
For each conjecture was she great enough
—Will be, for this.

    CLUGNET.
                Though, now that this is known,
Policy, doubtless, urges she deny . . . 

    THE DUCHESS.
—What, sir, and wherefore?—since I am not sure
That all is any other than you say!
You take this Valence, hold him close to me,
Him with his actions: can I choose but look?
I am not sure, love trulier shows itself
Than in this man, you hate and would degrade,
Yet, with your worst abatement, show me thus.
Nor am I—(thus made look within myself,
Ere I had dared)—now that the look is dared—
Sure that I do not love him!

    GUIBERT.
                        Hear you, Prince?

    BERTHOLD.
And what, sirs, please you, may this prattle mean
Unless to prove with what alacrity
You give your lady’s secrets to the world?
How much indebted, for discovering
That quality, you make me, will be found
When there’s a keeper for my own to seek.

    COURTIERS.
“Our lady?”

    BERTHOLD.
                                —She assuredly remains.

    THE DUCHESS.
Ah, Prince—and you too can be generous?
You could renounce your power, if this were so,
And let me, as these phrase it, wed my love
Yet keep my Duchy? You perhaps exceed
Him, even, in disinterestedness!

    BERTHOLD.
How, lady, should all this affect my purpose?
Your will and choice are still as ever, free.
Say, you have known a worthier than myself
In mind and heart, of happier form and face—
Others must have their birthright: I have gifts,
To balance theirs, not blot them out of sight.
Against a hundred alien qualities,
I lay the prize I offer. I am nothing:
Wed you the Empire?

    THE DUCHESS.
                And my heart away?

    BERTHOLD.
When have I made pretension to your heart?
I give none. I shall keep your honor safe;
With mine I trust you, as the sculptor trusts
Yon marble woman with the marble rose,
Loose on her hand, she never will let fall,
In graceful, slight, silent security.
You will be proud of my world-wide career,
And I content in you the fair and good.
What were the use of planting a few seeds
The thankless climate never would mature—
Affections all repelled by circumstance?
Enough: to these no credit I attach,—
To what you own, find nothing to object.
Write simply on my requisition’s face
What shall content my friends—that you admit,
As Colombe of Ravestein, the claims therein,
Or never need admit them, as my wife—
And either way, all’s ended!

    THE DUCHESS.
                        Let all end!

    BERTBOLD.
The requisition!

    GUIBERT.
                —Valence holds, of course!

    BERTBOLD.
Desire his presence!                [Adolf goes out.

    COURTIERS    [to each otber].
                Out it all comes yet;
He’ll have his word against the bargain yet;
He’s not the man to tamely acquiesce.
One passionate appeal—upbraiding even,
May turn the tide again. Despair not yet!

    MELCHIOR.
You’ve had your way: before the spokesman speaks,
Let me, but this once, work a problem out,
And evermore be dumb! The Empire wins?
To better purpose have I read my books!

    MELCHIOR    [to the COURTIERS].
Apart, my masters!
[To VALENCE.] Sir, one word with you!
I am a poor dependent of the Prince’s—
Pitched on to speak, as of slight consequence.
You are no higher, I find: in other words,
We two, as probably the wisest here,
Need not hold diplomatic talk like fools.
Suppose I speak, divesting the plain fact
Of all their tortuous phrases, fit for them?
Do you reply so, and what trouble saved!
The Prince, then—an embroiled strange heap of news
This moment reaches him—if true or false,
All dignity forbids he should inquire
In person, or by worthier deputy;
Yet somehow must inquire, lest slander come:
And so, ’t is I am pitched on. You have heard
His offer to your lady?

    VALENCE.
                        Yes.

    MELCHIOR.
                                        —Conceive
Her joy thereat?

    VALENCE.
                I cannot.

    MELCHIOR.
                                No one can.
All draws to a conclusion, therefore.

    VALENCE    [aside.]
                                                So!
No after-judgment—no first thought revised—
Her first and last decision!—me, she leaves,
Takes him; a simple heart is flung aside,
The ermine o’er a heartless breast embraced.
Oh Heaven, this mockery has been played too oft!
Once, to surprise the angels—twice, that fiends
Recording, might be proud they chose not so—
Thrice, many thousand times, to teach the world
All men should pause, misdoubt their strength, since men
Can have such chance yet fail so signally,
—But ever, ever this farewell to Heaven,
Welcome to earth this taking death for life—
This spurning love and kneeling to the world—
Oh Heaven, it is too often and too old!

    MELCHIOR.
Well, on this point, what but an absurd rumor
Arises—these, its source—its subject, you!
Your faith and loyalty misconstruing,
They say, your service claims the lady’s hand!
Of course, nor Prince nor lady can respond:
Yet something must be said: for, were it true
You made such claim, the Prince would . . . 

    VALENCE.
                                        Well, sir,—would?

    MELCHIOR.
—Not only probably withdraw his suit,
But, very like, the lady might be forced
Accept your own. Oh, there are reasons why!
But you’ll excuse at present all save one,—
I think so. What we want is, your own witness,
For, or against—her good, or yours: decide!

    VALENCE    [aside.]
Be it her good if she accounts it so!
[After a contest.] For what am I but hers, to choose as she?
Who knows how far, beside, the light from her
May reach, and dwell with, what she looks upon?

    MELCBIOR    [to THE PRINCE].
Now to him, you!

    BERTBOLD    [to VALENCE].
                My friend acquaints you, sir,
The noise runs . . . 

    VALENCE.
                —Prince, how fortunate are you,
Wedding her as you will, in spite of noise,
To show belief in love! Let her but love you,
All else you disregard! What else can be?
You know how love is incompatible
With falsehood—purifies, assimilates
All other passions to itself.

    MELCHIOR.
                            Ay, sir:
But softly! Where, in the object we select,
Such love is, perchance, wanting?

    VALENCE.
                                        Then indeed,
What is it you can take?

    MELCHIOR.
                                Nay, ask the world!
Youth, beauty, virtue, an illustrious name,
An influence o’er mankind.

    VALENCE.
                                When man perceives . . . 
—Ah, I can only speak as for myself!

    THE DUCHESS.
Speak for yourself!

    VALENCE.
                        May I?—no, I have spoken,
And time’s gone by. Had I seen such an one,
As I loved her—weighing thoroughly that word—
So should my task be to evolve her love:
If for myself!—if for another—well.

    BERTBOLD.
Heroic truly! And your sole reward,—
The secret pride in yielding up love’s right?

    VALENCE.
Who thought upon reward? And yet how much
Comes after—oh, what amplest recompense!
Is the knowledge of her, naught? the memory, naught?
—Lady, should such an one have looked on you,
Ne’er wrong yourself so far as quote the world
And say, love can go unrequited here!
You will have blessed him to his whole life’s end—
Low passions hindered, baser cares kept back,
All goodness cherished where you dwelt—and dwell.
What would he have? He holds you—you, both form
And mind, in his,—where self-love makes such room
For love of you, he would not serve you now
The vulgar way,—repulse your enemies,
Win you new realms, or best, to save the old
Die blissfully—that’s past so long ago!
He wishes you no need, thought, care of him—
Your good, by any means, himself unseen,
Away, forgotten!—He gives that life’ s task up,
As it were . . . but this charge which I return—

    THE DUCHESS    [having subscribed it].
And opportunely, sir—
Since at a birthday’s close, like this of mine,
Good wishes gentle deeds reciprocate.
Most on a wedding-day, as mine is too,
Should gifts be thought of: yours comes first by right.
Ask of me!

    BERTHOLD.
He shall have whate’er he asks,
For your sake and his own.

    VALENCE    [aside].
                        If I should ask—
The withered bunch of flowers she wears—perhaps,
One last touch of her hand, I nevermore
Shall see!

    BERTHOLD.
I will, sir!

    THE DUCHESS    [as VALENCE prepares to retire].
—Nay, do out your duty, first!
You bore this paper; I have registered
My answer to it: read it and have done!

    MELCHIOR.
                    Berthold, my one hero
Of the world she gives up, one friend worth my books,
Sole man I think it pays the pains to watch,—
Speak, for I know you through your Popes and Kings!

    BERTHOLD    [after a pause.]
Lady, well rewarded!
Sir, as well deserved!
I could not imitate—I hardly envy—
I do admire you. All is for the best.
Too costly a flower were this, I see it now,
To pluck and set upon my barren helm
To wither any garish plume will do.
I’ll not insult you and refuse your Duchy—
You can so well afford to yield it me,
And I were left, without it, sadly lorn.
As it is—for me—if that will flatter you,
A somewhat wearier life seems to remain
Than I thought possible where . . . ’faith, their life
Begins already! They ’re too occupied
To listen: and few words content me best.
[Abruptly to the COURTIERS.]
I am your Duke, though! Who obey me here?

    THE DUCHESS.
Adolf and Sabyne follow us—

    GUIBERT    [starting from the COURTIERS].
—And I?
Do I not follow them, if I may n’t you?
Shall not I get some little duties up
At Ravestein and emulate the rest?
God save you, Gaucelme! ’T is my Birthday, too!

    BERTHOLD.
You happy handful that remain with me
 . . . That is, with Dietrich the black Barnabite
I shall leave over you—will earn your wages
Or Dietrich has forgot to ply his trade!
Meantime,—go copy me the precedents
Of every installation, proper styles
And pedigrees of all your Juliers’ Dukes—
While I prepare to plod on my old way,
And somewhat wearily, I must confess!

    THE DUCHESS    [with a light joyous laugh as she turns from them].
Come, Valence, to our friends, God’s earth . . . 

    VALENCE    [as she falls into his arms].
—And thee!