Chastelard(蔡斯特拉德)

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Algernon Charles Swinburne, _Chastelard, a tragedy_ . Boston: E.P. Dutton, 1866.

Chastelard

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Algernon Charles Swinburne, _Chastelard, a tragedy_ . Boston: E.P. Dutton, 1866.

PERSONS.

MARY STUART. MARY BEATON. MARY SEYTON. MARY

CARMICHAEL. MARY HAMILTON. PIERRE DE BOSCOSEL DE

CHASTELARD. DARNLEY. MURRAY. RANDOLPH. MORTON.

LINDSAY. FATHER BLACK.

Guards, Burgesses, a Preacher, Citizens, &c.

Algernon Charles Swinburne, _Chastelard, a tragedy_ . Boston: E.P. Dutton, 1866.

ACT I.

MARY BEATON.

SCENE I.--The Upper Chamber in Holyrood.

The four MARIES.

MARY BEATON (sings):--

1. Le navire Est a l'eau; Entends rire Ce gros flot Que fait luire Et

bruire Le vieux sire Aquilo.

2. Dans l'espace Du grand air Le vent passe Comme un fer; Siffle et

sonne, Tombe et tonne, Prend et donne A la mer.

3. Vois, la brise Tourne au nord, Et la bise Souffle et mord Sur ta pure

Chevelure Qui murmure Et se tord.

MARY HAMILTON. You never sing now but it makes you sad; Why

do you sing?

MARY BEATON. I hardly know well why; It makes me sad to sing,

and very sad To hold my peace.

MARY CARMICHAEL. I know what saddens you.

MARY BEATON. Prithee, what? what?

MARY CARMICHAEL. Why, since we came from France, You have

no lover to make stuff for songs.

MARY BEATON. You are wise; for there my pain begins indeed,

Because I have no lovers out of France.

MARY SEYTON. I mind me of one Olivier de Pesme, (You knew him,

sweet,) a pale man with short hair, Wore tied at sleeve the Beaton color.

MARY CARMICHAEL. Blue-- I know, blue scarfs. I never liked that

knight.

MARY HAMILTON. Me? I know him? I hardly knew his name. Black,

was his hair? no, brown.

MARY SEYTON. Light pleases you: I have seen the time brown

Algernon Charles Swinburne, _Chastelard, a tragedy_ . Boston: E.P. Dutton, 1866.

served you well enough.

MARY CARMICHAEL. Lord Darnley's is a mere maid's yellow.

MARY HAMILTON. No, A man's, good color.

MARY SEYTON. Ah, does that burn your blood? Why, what a bitter

color is this read That fills your face! if you be not in love, I am no

maiden.

MARY HAMILTON. Nay, God help true hearts! I must be stabbed

with love then, to the bone, Yea to the spirit, past cure.

MARY SEYTON. What were you saying? I see some jest run up and

down your lips.

MARY CARMICHAEL. Finish your song; I know you have more of it;

Good sweet, I pray you do.

MARY BEATON. I am too sad.

MARY CARMICHAEL. This will not sadden you to sing; your song

Tastes sharp of sea and the sea's bitterness, But small pain sticks on it.

MARY BEATON. Nay, it is sad; For either sorrow with the beaten lips

Sings not at all, or if it does get breath Sings quick and sharp like a hard

sort of mirth: And so this song does; or I would it did, That it might please

me better than it does.

MARY SEYTON. Well, as you choose then. What a sort of men

Crowd all about the squares!

MARY CARMICHAEL. Ay, hateful men; For look how many talking

mouths be there, So many angers show their teeth at us. Which one is that,

stooped somewhat in the neck, That walks so with his chin against the

wind, Lips sideways shut? a keen-faced man--lo there, He that walks

midmost.

MARY SEYTON. That is Master Knox. He carries all these folk

within his skin, Bound up as 't were between the brows of him Like a bad

thought; their hearts beat inside his; They gather at his lips like flies in the

sun, Thrust sides to catch his face.

MARY CARMICHAEL. Look forth; so--push The window--further--

see you anything?

MARY HAMILTON. They are well gone; but pull the lattice in, The

wind is like a blade aslant. Would God I could get back one day I think

Algernon Charles Swinburne, _Chastelard, a tragedy_ . Boston: E.P. Dutton, 1866.

upon: The day we four and some six after us Sat in that Louvre garden and

plucked fruits To cast love-lots with in the gathered grapes; This way: you

shut your eyes and reach and pluck, And catch a lover for each grape you

get. I got but one, a green one, and it broke Between my fingers and it ran

down through them.

MARY SEYTON. Ay, and the queen fell in a little wrath Because she

got so many, and tore off Some of them she had plucked unwittingly-- She

said, against her will. What fell to you?

MARY BEATON. Me? nothing but the stalk of a stripped bunch With

clammy grape-juice leavings at the tip.

MARY CARMICHAEL. Ay, true, the queen came first and she won all;

It was her bunch we took to cheat you with. What, will you weep for that

now? for you seem As one that means to weep. God pardon me! I think

your throat is choking up with tears. You are not well, sweet, for a lying

jest To shake you thus much.

MARY BEATON. I am well enough: Give not your pity trouble for my

sake.

MARY SEYTON. If you be well sing out your song and laugh,

Though it were but to fret the fellows there.-- Now shall we catch her

secret washed and wet In the middle of her song; for she must weep If she

sing through.

MARY HAMILTON. I told you it was love; I watched her eyes all

through the masquing time Feed on his face by morsels; she must weep.

MARY BEATON.

4. Le navire Passe et luit, Puis chavire A grand bruit; Et sur l'onde La

plus blonde Tete au monde Flotte et fuit.

5. Moi, je rame, Et l'amour, C'est ma flamme, Mon grand jour, Ma

chandelle Blanche et belle, Ma chapelle

De sejour.

6. Toi, mon ame Et ma foi, Sois, ma dame; Et ma loi; Sois ma mie,

Sois Marie, Sois ma vie, Toute a moi!

MARY SEYTON. I know the song; a song of Chastelard's, He made in

coming over with the queen. How hard it rained! he played that over twice

Sitting before her, singing each word soft, As if he loved the least she

Algernon Charles Swinburne, _Chastelard, a tragedy_ . Boston: E.P. Dutton, 1866.

listened to.

MARY HAMILTON. No marvel if he loved it for her sake; She is the

choice of women in the world; Is she not, sweet?

MARY BEATON. I have seen no fairer one.

MARY SEYTON. And the most loving: did you note last night How

long she held him with her hands and eyes, Looking a little sadly, and at

last Kissed him below the chin and parted so As the dance ended?

MARY HAMILTON. This was courtesy; So might I kiss my singing-

bird's red bill After some song, till he bit short my lip.

MARY SEYTON. But if a lady hold her bird anights To sing to her

between her fingers-ha? I have seen such birds.

MARY CARMICHAEL. O, you talk emptily; She is full of grace; and

marriage in good time Will wash the fool called scandal off men's lips.

MARY HAMILTON. I know not that; I know how folk would gibe If

one of us pushed courtesy so far. She has always loved love's fashions

well; you wot, The marshal, head friend of this Chastelard's, She used to

talk with ere he brought her here And sow their talk with little kisses thick

As roses in rose-harvest. For myself, I cannot see which side of her that

lurks, Which snares in such wise all the sense of men; What special beauty,

subtle as man's eye And tender as the inside of the eyelid is, There grows

about her.

MARY CARMICHAEL. I think her cunning speech- The soft and

rapid shudder of her breath In talking-the rare tender little laugh- The

pitiful sweet sound like a bird's sigh When her voice breaks; her talking

does it all.

MARY SEYTON. I say, her eyes with those clear perfect brows: It is

the playing of those eyelashes, The lure of amorous looks as sad as love,

Plucks all souls toward her like a net.

MARY HAMILTON. What, what! You praise her in too lover-like a

wise For women that praise women; such report Is like robes worn the

rough side next the skin, Frets where it warms.

MARY SEYTON. You think too much in French.

Enter DARNLEY.

Here comes your thorn; what glove against it now?

Algernon Charles Swinburne, _Chastelard, a tragedy_ . Boston: E.P. Dutton, 1866.

MARY HAMILTON. O, God's good pity! this a thorn of mine? It has

not run deep in yet.

MARY CARMICHAEL. I am not sure: The red runs over to your

face's edge.

DARNLEY. Give me one word; nay, lady, for love's sake; Here, come

this way; I will not keep you; no. --O my sweet soul, why do you wrong

me thus?

MARY HAMILTON. Why will you give me for men's eyes to burn?

DARNLEY. What, sweet, I love you as mine own soul loves me; They

shall divide when we do.

MARY HAMILTON. I cannot say.

DARNLEY. Why, look you, I am broken with the queen; This is the

rancor and the bitter heart That grows in you; by God it is nought else.

Why, this last night she held me for a fool- Ay, God wot, for a thing of

stripe and bell. I bade her make me marshal in her masque- I had the dress

here painted, gold and gray (That is, not gray but a blue-green like this)-

She tells me she had chosen her marshal, she, The best o' the world for

cunning and sweet wit; And what sweet fool but her sweet knight, God

help! To serve her with that three-inch wit of his? She is all fool and

fiddling now; for me, I am well-pleased; God knows, if I might choose I

would not be more troubled with her love. Her love is like a briar that

rasps the flesh, And yours is soft like flowers. Come this way, love; So,

further in this window; hark you here.

Enter CHASTELARD.

MARY BEATON. Good morrow, sir.

CHASTELARD. Good morrow, noble lady.

MARY CARMICHAEL. You have heard no news? what news?

CHASTELARD. Nay, I have none. That maiden-tongued male-faced

Elizabeth Hath eyes unlike our queen's, hair not so soft, And lips no kiss

of love's could bring to flower In such red wise as our queen's; save this

news, I know none English.

MARY SEYTON. Come, no news of her; For God's love talk still

rather of our queen.

MARY BEATON. God give us grace then to speak well of her. You

Algernon Charles Swinburne, _Chastelard, a tragedy_ . Boston: E.P. Dutton, 1866.

did right joyfully in our masque last night' I saw you when the queen lost

breath (her head Bent back, her chin and lips catching the air- A goodly

thing to see her) how you smiled Across her head, between your lips-no

doubt You had great joy, sir. Did you not take note Once how one lock fell?

that was good to see.

CHASTELARD. Yea, good enough to live for.

MARY BEATON. Nay, but sweet Enough to die. When she broke off

the dance, Turning round short and soft-I never saw Such supple ways of

walking as she has.

CHASTLELARD. Why do you praise her gracious looks to me?

MARY BEATON. Sir, for mere sport: but tell me even for love How

much you love her.

CHASTELARD. I know not: it may be If I had set mine eyes to find

that out, I should not know it. She hath fair eyes: may be I love her for

sweet eyes or brows or hair, For the smooth temples, where God touching

her Made blue with sweeter veins the flower-sweet white Or for the tender

turning of her wrist, Or marriage of the eyelid with the cheek; I cannot tell;

or flush of lifting throat, I know not if the color get a name This side of

heaven-no man knows; or her mouth, A flower's lip with a snake's lip,

stinging sweet, And sweet to sting with: face that one would see And then

fall blind and die with sight of it Held fast between the eyelids-oh, all

these And all her body and the soul to that, The speech and shape and hand

and foot and heart That I would die of-yea, her name that turns My face to

fire being written-I know no whit How much I love them.

MARY BEATON. Nor how she loves you back?

CHASTELARD. I know her ways of loving, all of them: A sweet soft

way the first is; afterward It burns and bites like fire; the end of that,

Charred dust, and eyelids bitten through with smoke.

MARY BEATON. What has she done for you to gird at her?

CHASTELARD. Nothing. You do not greatly love her, you, Who do

not-gird, you call it. I am bound to France; Shall I take word from you to

any one? So it be harmless, not a gird, I will.

MARY BEATON. I doubt you will not go hence with your life.

CHASTELARD. Why, who should slay me? No man northwards born,

Algernon Charles Swinburne, _Chastelard, a tragedy_ . Boston: E.P. Dutton, 1866.

In my poor mind; my sword's lip is no maid's To fear the iron biting of

their own, Though they kiss hard for hate's sake.

MARY BEATON. Lo you, sir, How sharp he whispers, what close

breath and eyes- And here are fast upon him, do you see?

CHASTELARD. Well, which of these must take my life in hand? Pray

God it be the better: nay, which hand?

MARY BEATON. I think, none such. The man is goodly made; She is

tender-hearted toward his courtesies, And would not have them fall too

low to find. Look, they slip forth.

[Exeunt DARNLEY and MARY HAMILTON.]

MARY SEYTON. For love's sake, after them, And soft as love can.

[Exeunt MARY CARMICHAEL and MARY SEYTON.]

CHASTELARD. True, a goodly man. What shapeliness and state he

hath, what eyes, Brave brow and lordly lip! Were it not fit Great queens

should love him?

MARY BEATON. See how now, fair lord, I have but scant breath's

time to help myself, And I must cast my heart out on a chance; So bear

with me. That we twain have loved well, I have no heart nor wit to say;

God wot We had never made good lovers, you and I. Look you, I would

not have you love me, sir, For all the love's sake in the world. I say, You

love the queen, and loving burns you up, And mars the grace and joyous

wit you had, Turning your speech to sad, your face to strange, Your mirth

to nothing: and I am piteous, I, Even as the queen is, and such women are;

And if I helped you to your love-longing, Meseems some grain of love

might fall my way And love's god help me when I came to love; I have

read tales of men that won their loves On some such wise.

CHASTELARD. If you mean mercifully, I am bound to you past

thought and thank; if worse I will but thank your lips and not your heart.

MARY BEATON. Nay, let love wait and praise me, in God's name,

Some day when he shall find me; yet, God wot, My lips are of one color

with my heart. Withdraw now from me, and about midnight In some close

chamber without light or noise It may be I shall get you speech of her: She

loves you well: it may be she will speak, I wot not what; she loves you at

her heart. Let her not see that I have given you word, Lest she take shame

Algernon Charles Swinburne, _Chastelard, a tragedy_ . Boston: E.P. Dutton, 1866.

and hate her love. Till night Let her not see it.

CHASTLELARD. I will not thank you now, And then I'll die what sort

of death you will. Farewell.

[Exit.]

MARY BEATON. And by God's mercy and my love's I will find ways

to earn such thank of you.

[Exit.]

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