-41_The Maid in the Mill Act-1 Sc-2.htm

SCENE II

A garden at the town-house of Count Beltran.
Antonio, Basil.

BASIL  

I am abashed of¹ 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 are 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
In her prodigious liberality,
Could I then speak? O to have language then
Had been the index to a shallow love.
 

¹for

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BASIL  

Away! You modest lovers are the blot

Of manhood, traitors to our sovereignty.

I’d have you banished, all of you, and kept

In desert islands, where no petticoat

Should enter, so the brood 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 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.

ANTONIO

Come, will you woo a woman? Teach me at least

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By diagram, upon a blackboard.

BASIL

Well,
I will so, if it should hearten your weak spirits.
And now I thin-k of it, I am resolved
I’ll publish a new Art of Love, shall be
The only Ovid memorable.

ANTONIO

On, on! Let’s hear you.

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
Won by the triple strength, horse, foot, artillery,
Of eloquence, wit and muscle. Then but remains
Pacification, with or else without

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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 you for ever.

ANTONIO

You are a Pagan and would burn for this
If Love still kept his Holy Office.

BASIL

Am safe from him.

ANTONIO

And therefore boast securely
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,

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Guide his strategic finger o’er a map,

Cry "Eugene’s fault! here Marlboro’ 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?

BASIL

Not I an inch.
Watch how I’ll overcrow her.

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ANTONIO

Hush, she’s here.

Enter Brigida.

BRIGIDA

Senor, I was bidden to deliver this letter to you.

BASIL

To me, sweetheart?

BRIGIDA

I have the inventory of you in my books, if you be he truly. I will study it. Hair of the ordinary poetic length, dress indefinable, a modest address, — I think not you, Senor, — a noble manner, — Pooh, no! — a handsome face. I am sure not to you, Senor.

BASIL

Humph.

ANTONIO

Well, cousin. All silent? Open your batteries, open your batteries !

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?

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?

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BRIGIDA

Why, Sir, I am not her signature; which if you will look within, there I doubt not you will find a solution of your difficulty.

BASIL

Here’s a clever"1 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 recognize 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 that letter?

ANTONIO

O might I so be poisoned hourly. Let me

No longer dally with my happiness,

Let it take wings or turn a dream. Hail, letter,  

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For thou hast come from that white hand I worship.

"To Lord Antonio:

Señor, 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 tearfulness withhold me

From my heart’s lord I have thrown from me shame

And the admired 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,

That when death comes he’ll find it there and leave it,

A monument and an immortal writing.

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BASIL

Damsel, you are of the Lady Ismenia’s household?

BRIGIDA

A poor relative of hers, Señor.

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, Senor, 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.

BASIL

Why, I have not begun yet.

BRIGIDA

The more shame to your arithmetic. If your teacher had reckoned  

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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 draft 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

Senor, 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 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.

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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, Senor. 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

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—

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BRIGIDA

Hold, hold, Senor. 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 Velasquez, within sight of the Donna’s windows. Then 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 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

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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 thy- self 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 marry¹ her. Saints!

¹beat

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