-40_The Maid in the Mill Act-1 Sc-1.htm

THE MAID IN THE MILL

LOVE SHUFFLES THE CARDS

A Comedy 

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

CUPID.
ATE.

KING PHILIP OF SPAIN.

COUNT BELTRAN, a nobleman.

ANTONIO, his son.

BASIL, his nephew.

COUNT CONRAD, a young nobleman.

THE MILLER.

ACINTO, his son.

JERONIMO, a student.

CARLOS, a student.

FRIAR BALTASAR, a pedagogue.

EUPHROSYNE, the maid of the farm.

ISMENIA, sister of Conrad.

BRIGIDA, her cousin.

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Facsimile of a page from THE MADE IN THE MILL

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Act One  

SCENE I

The King’s Court at Salamanca.

King Philip, Conrad, Beltran, Roncedas, Guzman, Antonio, Basil,
Ismenia, Brigida, Grandees.

KING PHILIP

Count Beltran.

BELTRAN

Sire?

KING PHILIP

Shall we know the device ?

BELTRAN

It is no secret. Sire. And yet so little

This toy is mine, the name’s far off from me.

Castilians, forged iron of old time

Armies to wield and empires, we’re astray

With these smooth, silken things. We were never valiant

Vega with Calderon to weigh and con

Devices. But our sons. Sire, have outstripped

Their rough begetters, almost they are Frenchmen.

Speak you, Antonio.

ANTONIO

‘Tis the Judgment, Sire,
Of Paris and the Rape of Spartan Helen.

KING PHILIP

That is an old device.

ISMENIA

Antonio? He  

Page – 825

Antonio? O my poor eyes misled,
Whither have you wandered ?

BELTRAN

Hush.

ANTONIO

The older. Sire,
The fitter for a masque that’s heard but once.
For the swift action of the stage speeds on
And slow conception labouring after it
Roughens its subtleties, blurs o’er its shades,
Sees masses only. Then if the plot is new,
The mind engrossed with incidents, omits
To take the breath of flowers and lingering shade
In hurrying with the stream. But the plot known,
It is at leisure and may cull in running
Those delicate, scarcely-heeded strokes, which lost
Perfection’s disappointed. There art comes in
To justify genius. Being old besides
The subject occupies¹ creative labour
To make old new. The other’s but invention,
A frail thing, though a gracious. He’s creator
Who greatly handles great material,
Calls order out of the abundant deep,
Not who invents sweet shadows out of air.
Pardon, Sir, I forgot my limits thus
To speak at random in so great a presence.

KING PHILIP

You have a hopeful son. Lord Beltran, modest
And witty, a fair conjunction, a large critic
And taking speaker.

ISMENIA

True, O true! He has taken

¹amplifies

  Page – 826

My heart out of my bosom.

BRIGIDA

Will you hush?

KING PHILIP

Count, I have heard your lands are very lavish
In Nature’s best. I think I have not seen them.
Indeed I grudge each rood of Spanish earth
My eyes have not perused, my heart stored up.
Yet what with foreign boyhood, strange extraction
And hardly reaching with turmoil to power
I am a stranger purely. I have swept
Through beautiful Spain more like a wind than man,
Now fugitive, now blown into my right
On a mere whirlwind of success. But maybe
Great occupation has disabled you
From this poor trifle also.

BELTRAN

I avow
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.

KING PHILIP

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

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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, Sire, 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.

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.

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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 wise, 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

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 ?

But we are even as children quite removed

From those her streaming breasts, and of the sun

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Defrauded and the lusty salutation
Of wind and rain, grow up amphibious nothing,
Non-man, who are too sickly wise for earth
And too corrupt to be the 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 brings 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.

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,

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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 labour the base of life,
Gave with it power, a thing so dear to existence,
To lose’t is death. Toil is the form of power;

Nay, toil’s self creates answering energy

And makes the loss of toil a wretchedness.

The labourer physically is divine,

Inward a void, yet in his limits blest.

But were the city’s cultured son, who turns

Watching an 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 the warm force

Redundant in her veins, 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 void

And heighten to the sky. 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

To base their spirits vastly. Man is strong

Antaeuslike, based on his native Earth

From which being lifted great communities

Die in their intellectual grandeur. So then

Let the soil’s son and grafting of the city

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Keep their conditions, heightened or refreshed
With 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’d feel the rural air,

Of greatness unreminded, I will go

Tomorrow as a private nobleman.

My lords, forget for one day I’m the king

Nor watch my moods, nor with your eyes wait on me

Nor disillusionize by high observance

But keep as to an equal courtesy.

MAJORDOMO

But, Your Majesty —

KING PHILIP

Well, Sir, Your Ancient Wisdom —

MAJORDOMO

The Kings of Spain —

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.

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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 ruddy health to bloom in their cheeks.

Full of our Spanish sunlight are they, voiced

Like Junos and will make our ladies pale

Before them. There’s a Miller’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,
Tis noble: 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  

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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 knocks 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 answer, 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,

Again it is his choice, not mine. It’s 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,
I will most gladly clasp it and forget
Outdated injuries and wounds long healed.

BELTRAN

O you are most noble, Conrad, most benign.

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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 must 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 deep¹ 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. For what I have won,
I got it by decree of arms. So you
Had won mine, had you taken sides with fortune
And kept her faithful with your sword. Your 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.

¹much

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KING PHILIP

The Queen is very loth
To lose her favourite, but to disappoint you
Much more unwilling. You’ll come with me,
My lords, you too. Lord Beltran.

Exeunt King, Beltran, Guzman & 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
Your blessing by me.

CONRAD

May your happiness
Greatly exceed my widest wishes.

ISMENIA

So
It must do, brother or I am unhappy.

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BRIGIDA

What task will he have now? Some girl-lifting.
What other task! 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,¹Antonio ?
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
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

¹sheep,

Page – 837

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 frail men
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.

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.

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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.

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.

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Therefore I spoke.

BASIL

Speak or be dumb forever.

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
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

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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 have 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!

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

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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.

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