Standard Selections Part 67

PAULINE. Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue!

Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly, Who would not love thee like Pauline?

MEL. Oh, false one!

It is the prince thou lovest, not the man; If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and power, I had painted poverty, and toil, and care, Thou hadst found no honey on my tongue; Pauline, That is not love.

PAULINE. Thou wrong'st me, cruel Prince!

At first, in truth, I might not have been won, Save through the weakness of a flatter'd pride; But now--oh! trust me--couldst thou fall from power And sink--

MEL. As low as that poor gardener's son Who dared to lift his eyes to thee?

PAULINE. Even then, Methinks thou wouldst be only made more dear By the sweet thought that I could prove how deep Is woman's love! We are like the insects, caught By the poor glittering of a garish flame; But, oh, the wings once scorch'd, the brightest star Lures us no more; and by the fatal light We cling till death!

MEL. Angel! [_Aside._] O conscience! conscience!

It must not be--her love hath grown a torture Worse than her hate. I will at once to Beauseant, And--ha! he comes. Sweet love, one moment leave me.

I have business with these gentlemen--I--I Will forthwith join you.

PAULINE. I obey, sweet Prince. [_Exit separately._

ACT III, SCENE II

CHARACTERS: Pauline, Claude, and the Widow Melnotte, the mother of Claude.

SCENE: Melnotte's cottage, widow bustling about, a table spread for supper.

WIDOW. So, I think that looks very neat. He sent me a line, so blotted that I can scarcely read it, to say he would be here almost immediately.

She must have loved him well indeed to have forgotten his birth; for though he was introduced to her in disguise, he is too honorable not to have revealed to her the artifice; which her love only could forgive.

Well, I do not wonder at it; for though my son is not a prince, he ought to be one, and that's almost as good. [_Knock at door._] Ah! here they are.

_Enter_ MELNOTTE _and_ PAULINE

WIDOW. Oh, my boy--the pride of my heart!--welcome, welcome. I beg pardon, ma'am, but I do love him so!

PAULINE. Good woman, I really--why, Prince, what is this?--does the old lady know you? Oh, I guess you have done her some service. Another proof of your kind heart; is it not?

MEL. Of my kind heart, ay!

PAULINE. So you know the Prince?

WIDOW. Know him, madam? Ah, I begin to fear it is you who know him not!

PAULINE. Can we stay here, my lord? I think there's something very wild about her.

MEL. Madam, I--no, I cannot tell her; what a coward is a man who has lost his honor! Speak to her--speak to her--[_to his mother_] tell her that--O Heaven, that I were dead!

PAULINE. How confused he looks!--this strange place!--this woman--what can it mean?--I half suspect--who are you, madam?--who are you? can't you speak? are you struck dumb?

WIDOW. Claude, you have not deceived her? Ah, shame upon you! I thought that, before you went to the altar, she was to have known all.

PAULINE. All! what! My blood freezes in my veins!

WIDOW. Poor lady--dare I tell her, Claude? Know you not, then, madam, that this young man is of poor though honest parents? Know you not that you are wedded to my son, Claude Melnotte?

PAULINE. Your son! hold--hold! do not speak to me. [_Approaches_ MELNOTTE.] Is this a jest? is it? I know it is, only speak--one word--one look--one smile. I cannot believe--I who loved thee so--I cannot believe that thou art such a--no, I will not wrong thee by a harsh word! Speak.

MEL. Leave us. [_To_ WIDOW.] Have pity on her, on me; leave us!

WIDOW. Oh, Claude, that I should live to see thee bowed by shame! thee of whom I was so proud! [_Exit._

PAULINE. Her son--her son!

MEL. Now, lady, hear me.

PAULINE. Hear thee!

Ay, speak--her son! have fiends a parent? speak, That thou mayst silence curses--speak!

MEL. No, curse me; Thy curse would blast me less than thy forgiveness.

PAULINE [_laughing wildly_]. This is thy palace, where "the perfumed light Steals through the mist of alabaster lamps, And every air is heavy with the sighs Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth I' the midst of roses!--Dost thou like the picture?"

This is my bridal home, and thou my bridegroom!

O fool--O dupe--O wretch! I see it all.

The by-word and the jeer of every tongue In Lyons. Hast thou in thy heart one touch Of human kindness? if thou hast, why kill me, And save thy wife from madness. No, it cannot-- It cannot be; this is some horrid dream; I shall wake soon. [_Touching him._] Art flesh? art man? or but The shadows seen in sleep? It is too real.

What have I done to thee? how sinn'd against thee, That thou shouldst crush me thus?

MEL. Pauline, by pride Angels have fallen ere thy time; by pride-- That sole alloy of thy most lovely mold-- The evil spirit of a bitter love, And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee.

From my first years my soul was fill'd with thee; I saw thee midst the flow'rs the lowly boy Tended, unmark'd by thee--a spirit of bloom, And joy, and freshness, as if Spring itself Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape!

I saw thee, and the pa.s.sionate heart of man Enter'd the breast of the wild-dreaming boy.

And from that hour I grew--what to the last I shall be--thine adorer! Well, this love, Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became A fountain of ambition and bright hope; I thought of tales that by the winter hearth Old gossips tell--how maidens, sprung from kings, Have stoop'd from their high sphere; how love, like death, Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook Beside the scepter.

My father died; and I, the peasant born, Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise Out of the prison of my mean estate; And, with such jewels as the exploring mind Brings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransom From those twin jailers of the daring heart-- Low birth and iron fortune. For thee I grew A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages.

For thee I sought to borrow from each grace, And every muse, such attributes as lend Ideal charms to love. I thought of thee, And pa.s.sion taught me poesy--of thee, And on the painter's canvas grew the life Of beauty! Art became the shadow Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes!

Men call'd me vain--some mad--I heeded not; But still toil'd on--hoped on--for it was sweet, If not to win, to feel more worthy thee.

PAULINE. Why do I cease to hate him!

MEL. At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour The thoughts that burst their channels into song, And set them to thee--such a tribute, lady, As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest.

The name--appended by the burning heart That long'd to show its idol what bright things It had created--yea, the enthusiast's name, That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn; That very hour--when pa.s.sion, turn'd to wrath, Resembled hatred most--when thy disdain Made my whole soul a chaos--in that hour The tempters, found me a revengeful tool For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the worm-- It turned and stung thee!

PAULINE. Love, sir, hath no sting.

What was the slight of a poor powerless girl To the deep wrong of this most vile revenge?

Oh, how I loved this man!--a serf--a slave!

MEL. Hold, lady! No, not a slave! Despair is free.

I will not tell thee of the throes--the struggles-- The anguish--the remorse. No, let it pa.s.s!