Becket And Other Plays - LightNovelsOnl.com
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(_Reads_.) 'Dead mountain.' Nay, for who could trace a hand So wild and staggering?
COUNT.
This was penn'd, Madonna, Close to the grating on a winter morn In the perpetual twilight of a prison, When he that made it, having his right hand Lamed in the battle, wrote it with his left.
LADY GIOVANNA.
O heavens! the very letters seem to shake With cold, with pain perhaps, poor prisoner! Well, Tell me the words--or better--for I see There goes a musical score along with them, Repeat them to their music.
COUNT.
You can touch No chord in me that would not answer you In music.
LADY GIOVANNA.
That is musically said.
[COUNT _takes guitar_. LADY GIOVANNA _sits listening with wreath in her hand, and quietly removes scroll and places it on table at the end of the song_.
COUNT (_sings, playing guitar_).
'Dead mountain flowers, dead mountain-meadow flowers, Dearer than when you made your mountain gay, Sweeter than any violet of to-day, Richer than all the wide world-wealth of May, To me, tho' all your bloom has died away, You bloom again, dead mountain-meadow flowers.'
_Enter_ ELISABETTA _with cloth_.
ELISABETTA.
A word with you, my lord!
COUNT (_singing_).
'O mountain flowers!'
ELISABETTA.
A word, my lord! (_Louder_).
COUNT (_sings_).
'Dead flowers!'
ELISABETTA.
A word, my lord! (_Louder_).
COUNT.
I pray you pardon me again!
[LADY GIOVANNA _looking at wreath_.
(COUNT _to_ ELISABETTA.) What is it?
ELISABETTA.
My lord, we have but one piece of earthenware to serve the salad in to my lady, and that cracked!
COUNT.
Why then, that flower'd bowl my ancestor Fetch'd from the farthest east--we never use it For fear of breakage--but this day has brought A great occasion. You can take it, nurse!
ELISABETTA.
I did take it, my lord, but what with my lady's coming that had so flurried me, and what with the fear of breaking it, I did break it, my lord: it is broken!
COUNT.
My one thing left of value in the world!
No matter! see your cloth be white as snow!
ELISABETTA (_pointing thro' window_).
White? I warrant thee, my son, as the snow yonder on the very tip-top o' the mountain.
COUNT.
And yet to speak white truth, my good old mother, I have seen it like the snow on the moraine.
ELISABETTA: How can your lords.h.i.+p say so? There my lord!
[_Lays cloth_.
O my dear son, be not unkind to me.
And one word more. [_Going--returns_.
COUNT (_touching guitar_).
Good! let it be but one.
ELISABETTA.
Hath she return'd thy love?
COUNT.
Not yet!
ELISABETTA.
And will she?
COUNT (_looking at_ LADY GIOVANNA).
I scarce believe it!
ELISABETTA.
Shame upon her then! [_Exit_.
COUNT (_sings_).
'Dead mountain flowers'---- Ah well, my nurse has broken The thread of my dead flowers, as she has broken My china bowl. My memory is as dead.
[_Goes and replaces guitar_.
Strange that the words at home with me so long Should fly like bosom friends when needed most.
So by your leave if you would hear the rest, The writing.
LADY GIOVANNA (_holding wreath toward him_).
There! my lord, you are a poet, And can you not imagine that the wreath, Set, as you say, so lightly on her head, Fell with her motion as she rose, and she, A girl, a child, then but fifteen, however Flutter'd or flatter'd by your notice of her, Was yet too bashful to return for it?
COUNT.
Was it so indeed? was it so? was it so?
[_Leans forward to take wreath, and touches_ LADY GIOVANNA'S _hand, which she withdraws hastily; he places wreath on corner of chair_.
