Robert Browning (1812–1889). A Blot in the ’Scutcheon.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Act I
Scene IIIMILDRED’S Chamber. A Painted Window overlooks the Park.
Robert Browning (1812–1889). A Blot in the ’Scutcheon.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
MILDRED’S Chamber. A Painted Window overlooks the Park.
MILDRED and GUENDOLEN
Guendolen.Now, Mildred, spare those pains. I have not left
Mildred.Guendolen!
Guendolen.There, there!
Mildred.My brother—
Guendolen.If I said only “well” I said not much.
Mildred.Thorold! who—who else?
Guendolen.Thorold (a secret) is too proud by half,—
Mildred.You wrong him, Guendolen.
Guendolen.He’s proud, confess; so proud with brooding o’er
Mildred.Dear Guendolen, ’tis late!
Guendolen.Well, that Thorold
Mildred.Who finds
Guendolen.Not your brother; therefore,
Mildred.I am weary, Guendolen,
Guendolen.I am foolish.
Mildred.Oh no, kind!
Guendolen.Good night and rest to you!
Mildred.Brown hair.
Guendolen.Brown? why, it is brown: how could you know that?
Mildred.How? did not you—Oh, Austin ’twas, declared
Guendolen.Forgive me—sleep the soundlier for me![Going, she turns suddenly.
Goes.
Mildred.Is she—can she be really gone at last?
She lifts the small lamp which is suspended before the Virgin’s image in the window, and places it by the purple pane.
She returns to the seat in front.
A noise without.
The window opens softly. A low voice sings.
There’s a woman like a dew-drop, she’s so purer than purest;
And her noble heart’s the noblest, yes, and her sure faith’s the surest:
And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre
Hid i’ the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wildgrape cluster,
Gush in golden tinted plenty down her neck’s rose-misted marble
Then her voice’s music … call it the well’s bubbling, the bird’s warble![A figure wrapped in a mantle appears at the window.
And this woman says, “My days were sunless and my nights were moonless,
Parched the pleasant April herbage, and the lark’s heart’s outbreak tuneless,
If you loved me not!” And I who—(ah, for words of flame!) adore her,
Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her—[He enters, approaches her seat, and bends over her.
I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me,
And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me![The EARL throws off his slouched hat and long cloak.
Mildred.Sit, Henry—do not take my hand!
Mertoun.’Tis mine.
Mildred.What begins now?
Mertoun.Happiness
Mildred.That is it.
Mertoun.Oh, Mildred, have I met your brother’s face?
Mildred.sin has surprised us, so will punishment.
Mertoun.No—me alone, who sinned alone!
Mildred.The night
Mertoun.Of your life
Mildred.Come what, come will,
Mertoun[after a pause].How good
Mildred.They told me all.
Mertoun.It will soon be over.
Mildred.Over?
is…
Mertoun.Mildred, my honour is your own. I’ll share
Mildred.I’ll meet their faces, Henry!
Mertoun.When? to-morrow!
Mildred.Oh, Henry, not to-morrow!
Mertoun.Mildred, break it if you choose,
Mildred.Dear Henry!
Mertoun.I was scarce a boy—e’en now
Mildred.Do you believe…
Mertoun.Oh, to love less what one has injured! Dove
Mildred.Go!
Mertoun.This is not our last meeting?
Mildred.One night more.
Mertoun.And then—think, then!
Mildred.Then, no sweet courtship-days,
Mertoun.How else should love’s perfected noontide follow?
Mildred.So may it be! but—
Mertoun.Oh, trust me! Then our final meeting’s fixed
Mildred.Farewell! stay, Henry … wherefore?