Dark Lady of the Sonnets Part 3

THE MAN. A good cadence. By your leave _[He makes a note of it]._

THE BEEFEATER. What manner of thing is a cadence, sir? I have not heard of it.

THE MAN. A thing to rule the world with, friend.

THE BEEFEATER. You speak strangely, sir: no offence. But, an't like you, you are a very civil gentleman; and a poor man feels drawn to you, you being, as twere, willing to share your thought with him.

THE MAN. Tis my trade. But alas! the world for the most part will none of my thoughts.

_Lamplight streams from the palace door as it opens from within._

THE BEEFEATER. Here comes your lady, sir. I'll to t'other end of my ward. You may een take your time about your business: I shall not return too suddenly unless my sergeant comes prowling round. Tis a fell sergeant, sir: strict in his arrest. Go'd'en, sir; and good luck! _[He goes]._

THE MAN. "Strict in his arrest"! "Fell sergeant"! _[As if tasting a ripe plum]_ O-o-o-h! _[He makes a note of them]._

_A Cloaked Lady gropes her way from the palace and wanders along the terrace, walking in her sleep._

THE LADY. _[rubbing her hands as if was.h.i.+ng them]_ Out, d.a.m.ned spot.

You will mar all with these cosmetics. G.o.d made you one face; and you make yourself another. Think of your grave, woman, not ever of being beautified. All the perfumes of Arabia will not whiten this Tudor hand.

THE MAN. "All the perfumes of Arabia"! "Beautified"! "Beautified"!

a poem in a single word. Can this be my Mary? _[To the Lady]_ Why do you speak in a strange voice, and utter poetry for the first time?

Are you ailing? You walk like the dead. Mary! Mary!

THE LADY. _[echoing him]_ Mary! Mary! Who would have thought that woman to have had so much blood in her! Is it my fault that my counsellors put deeds of blood on me? Fie! If you were women you would have more wit than to stain the floor so foully. Hold not up her head so: the hair is false. I tell you yet again, Mary's buried: she cannot come out of her grave. I fear her not: these cats that dare jump into thrones though they be fit only for men's laps must be put away. Whats done cannot be undone. Out, I say. Fie! a queen, and freckled!

THE MAN. _[shaking her arm]_ Mary, I say: art asleep?

_The Lady wakes; starts; and nearly faints. He catches her on his arm._

THE LADY. Where am I? What art thou?

THE MAN. I cry your mercy. I have mistook your person all this while. Methought you were my Mary: my mistress.

THE LADY. _[outraged]_ Profane fellow: how do you dare?

THE MAN. Be not wroth with me, lady. My mistress is a marvellous proper woman. But she does not speak so well as you. "All the perfumes of Arabia"! That was well said: spoken with good accent and excellent discretion.

THE LADY. Have I been in speech with you here?

THE MAN. Why, yes, fair lady. Have you forgot it?

THE LADY. I have walked in my sleep.

THE MAN. Walk ever in your sleep, fair one; for then your words drop like honey.

THE LADY. _[with cold majesty]_ Know you to whom you speak, sir, that you dare express yourself so saucily?

THE MAN. _[unabashed]_ Not I, not care neither. You are some lady of the Court, belike. To me there are but two sorts of women: those with excellent voices, sweet and low, and cackling hens that cannot make me dream. Your voice has all manner of loveliness in it. Grudge me not a short hour of its music.

THE LADY. Sir: you are overbold. Season your admiration for a while with--

THE MAN. _[holding up his hand to stop her]_ "Season your admiration for a while--"

THE LADY. Fellow: do you dare mimic me to my face?

THE MAN. Tis music. Can you not hear? When a good musician sings a song, do you not sing it and sing it again till you have caught and fixed its perfect melody? "Season your admiration for a while": G.o.d!

the history of man's heart is in that one word admiration.

Admiration! _[Taking up his tablets]_ What was it? "Suspend your admiration for a s.p.a.ce--"

THE LADY. A very vile jingle of esses. I said "Season your--"

THE MAN. _[hastily]_ Season: ay, season, season, season. Plague on my memory, my wretched memory! I must een write it down. _[He begins to write, but stops, his memory failing him]._ Yet tell me which was the vile jingle? You said very justly: mine own ear caught it even as my false tongue said it.

THE LADY. You said "for a s.p.a.ce." I said "for a while."

THE MAN. "For a while" _[he corrects it]._ Good! _[Ardently]_ And now be mine neither for a s.p.a.ce nor a while, but for ever.

THE LADY. Odds my life! Are you by chance making love to me, knave?

THE MAN. Nay: tis you who have made the love: I but pour it out at your feet. I cannot but love a la.s.s that sets such store by an apt word. Therefore vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman--no: I have said that before somewhere; and the wordy garment of my love for you must be fire-new--

THE LADY. You talk too much, sir. Let me warn you: I am more accustomed to be listened to than preached at.

THE MAN. The most are like that that do talk well. But though you spake with the tongues of angels, as indeed you do, yet know that I am the king of words--

THE LADY. A king, ha!

THE MAN. No less. We are poor things, we men and women--

THE LADY. Dare you call me woman?

THE MAN. What n.o.bler name can I tender you? How else can I love you?

Yet you may well shrink from the name: have I not said we are but poor things? Yet there is a power that can redeem us.

THE LADY. Gramercy for your sermon, sir. I hope I know my duty.

THE MAN. This is no sermon, but the living truth. The power I speak of is the power of immortal poesy. For know that vile as this world is, and worms as we are, you have but to invest all this vileness with a magical garment of words to transfigure us and uplift our souls til earth flowers into a million heavens.

THE LADY. You spoil your heaven with your million. You are extravagant. Observe some measure in your speech.

THE MAN. You speak now as Ben does.

THE LADY. And who, pray, is Ben?

THE MAN. A learned bricklayer who thinks that the sky is at the top of his ladder, and so takes it on him to rebuke me for flying. I tell you there is no word yet coined and no melody yet sung that is extravagant and majestical enough for the glory that lovely words can reveal. It is heresy to deny it: have you not been taught that in the beginning was the Word? that the Word was with G.o.d? nay, that the Word was G.o.d?

THE LADY. Beware, fellow, how you presume to speak of holy things.