IN tim Love in Literature and Art Love in Literature and Art SELECTED AND EDITED BY ESTHER SINGLETON Aiitlior of "Turrets, Towers and Temples" "Great Pictures" "Wonders of Nature" "Romantic Castles and Palaces" "A Guide to the Opera" and Transla- tor of "The Music Dramas of Richard Wagner " New York Dodd, Mead and Company 1901 Copyright, 1901 by DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY First Edition published October, IQOI Preface TN the present compilation, I have endeavoured to include as great a variety as possible of mood and expression in love. At the same time, the method of treatment adopted by the great writers has also guided the selection. I there- fore hope that the contents of this volume may be of inter- est to the student of literature as well as to the casual reader who merely takes pleasure in fictitious emotional crises, or the entertaining situations of love's lighter vein. The literary treatment of the great passion by the great masters of romance, as revealed even in the limited space at my command, alone forms a most instructive study. Moreover, the chronological arrangement of the excerpts enables the reader to comprehend the varied notions of ideal propriety in the female at different periods. The correct attitude of reserve maintained by the heroine under the ordeal of a proposal of marriage during the Eighteenth Century, and the initiative she might assume under the strong impulse of love at other periods, are shown in the following pages by many examples. Most striking is the lead taken by the woman in the old Romans; two in- stances of which are given in Blonde of Oxford and Nic- olete. Don Quixote's mad pranks in Love's service are included as being only slight exaggerations of what was expected of the true lover in the ancient days when the Courts of Love were sitting. The moods of love being innumerable, we have here VI Preface instances of love at first sight, ferocious and tenacious pur- suit of the unloving, quarrels, reconciliations, misunder- standings, pardons, concealed love that fears to speak, timid appeals, stratagems to trick hated guardians, woman's wiles and man's contrivances, the devotion of the disguised page, old love that re-awakens, love that lingers even behind cloister bars, love that faces death unflinchingly, and the despair of love forsaken. I hope that the sprinkling of comedy may serve as a welcome relief to some of the more tragic pathos in these pages. Some of the famous lovers who do not appear in the text will be found represented in the pictures, as for example Rinaldo and Armida, Ulysses and Penelope, Paolo and Francesca, Paris and Helen, Bradamante and Fiordispina, .and Cupid and Psyche. There will also be found among ;the illustrations several Gardens of Love, in which gay -couples u fleet the time carelessly as they did in the golden ueen of Carthage, 50 Love in Literature and Art CONCEALED LOVE WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE A Room in the DUKE'S Palace. r\UKE. [Music. *^ Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love, In the sweet pangs of it remember me : For, such as I am, all true lovers are ; Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, Save in the constant image of the creature That is belov'd. How dost thou like this tune ? Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat Where Love is throned. Duke. Thou dost speak masterly : My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves; Hath it not, boy ? Vio. A little, by your favour. Duke. What kind of woman is't ? Vio. Of your complexion. Duke. She is not worth thee then. What years, i'faith ? Vio. About your years, my lord. Duke. Too old, by heaven. Let still the woman take An elder than herself; so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart. For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn Than women's are. Vio. I think it well, my lord. Duke. Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent : For women are as roses, whose fair flower, Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour. Vio. And so they are : alas, that they are so ; To die even when they to perfection grow ! Concealed Love 51 Duke. Once more, Cesario, Get thee to yon same sovereign cruelty . Tell her my love, more noble than the world, Prizes not quantity of dirty lands; The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her, Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune ; But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems That Nature pranks her in attracts my soul. Fio. But if she cannot love you, sir ? Duke. I cannot be so answer'd. Fio. 'Sooth, but you must. Say that some lady, as perhaps there is, Hath for your love as great a pang of heart As you have for Olivia : you cannot love her ; You tell her so. Must she not then be answer'd ? Duke. There is no woman's sides Can bide the beating of so strong a passion As love doth give my heart : no woman's heart So big to hold so much ; they lack retention. Alas, their love may be called appetite, No motion of the liver, but the palate, That suffer surfeit, cloyment and revolt; But mine is all as hungry as the sea, And can digest as much : make no compare Between that love a woman can bear me And that I owe Olivia. Fio. Ay, but I know, Duke. What dost thou know ? Fio. Too well what love women to men may owe : In faith, they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter loved a man, As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship. Duke. And what's her history ? Fio. A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek : she pined in thought ; And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed ? 52 Love in Literature and Art We men may say more, swear more ; but, indeed, Our shows are more than will ; for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love. Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy ? Vio. I am all the daughters of my father's house, And all the brothers too ; and yet I know not. Sir, shall I to this lady ? . Duke. Ay, that's the theme. To her in haste : give her this jewel ; say My love can give no place, bide no delay. \_Exeunt. (Twelfth Night, The Proud, Disdainful Shepherdess 53 THE PROUD, DISDAINFUL SHEPHERDESS WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE The Forest of Arden. Enter CORIN. R. Mistress and master you have oft inquired After the shepherd that complain'd of love, Who you saw sitting by me on the turf, Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess That was his mistress. CeL Well, and what of him ? Cor. If you will see a pageant truly play'd, Between the pale complexion of true love And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain, Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you, If you will remark it. Ros. O, come, let us remove : The sight of lovers feedeth those in love. Bring us unto this sight, and you shall say I'll prove a busy actor in their play. \JLxeunt. Another part of the Forest. Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE. Sil. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me ; do not, Phebe : Say that you love me not ; but say not so In bitterness. The common executioner, Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard, Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops ? Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, at a distance. Phe. I would not be the executioner: I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. Thou telPst me there is murder in mine eye : 54 Love in Literature and Art 'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable, That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things, Who shut their coward gates on atomies, Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers ! Now I do frown on thee with all my heart ; And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee : Now counterfeit to swoon ; why, now fall down ; Or, if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame, Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers. Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee : Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains Some scar of it ; lean but upon a rush, The cicatrice and capable impressure Thy palm some moment keeps ; but now mine eyes, Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not ; Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes That can do hurt. Sil. O dear Phebe, If ever, as that ever may be near, You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, Then shall you know the wounds invisible That love's keen arrows make. Phe. But till that time Come not thou near me ; and when that time comes Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not ; As till that time I shall not pity thee. Ros. [advancing]. And why, I pray you ? Who might be your mother, That you insult, exult, and all at once, Over the wretched ? What though you have no beauty, As, by my faith, I see no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed, Must you be therefore proud and pitiless ? Why, what means this ? Why do you look on me ? I see no more in you than in the ordinary Of nature's sale-work : Od's my little life, I think she means to tangle my eyes too ! No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it; 'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair, Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream, The Proud, Disdainful Shepherdess 55 That can entame my spirits to your worship. You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her, Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain ? You are a thousand times a properer man Than she a woman. 'Tis such fools as you That make the world full of ill-favour'd children : 'Tis not her glass, but you that flatters her ; And out of you she sees herself more proper Than any of her lineaments can show her; But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees, And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love : For I must tell you friendly in your ear, Sell when you can ; you are not for all markets : Cry the man mercy ; love him ; take his offer : Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer. So take her to thee, shepherd ; fare you well. Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together : I had rather hear you chide than this man woo. Ros. He's fallen in love with her foulness, and she'll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she an- swers thee with frowning looks, I'll sauce her with bitter words. Why look you so upon me ? Phe. For no ill-will I bear you. Ros. I pray you, do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine : Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house, 'Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by. Will you go, sister ? Shepherd, ply her hard. Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better, And be not proud ; though all the world could see, None could be so abus'd in sight as he. Come to our flock. [Exeunt Ros., CEL., and COR. Phe. Dead shepherd ! now I find thy saw of might ; Who ever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight ? Sil. Sweet Phebe, Phe. Ha ! what say'st thou, Silvius ? Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me. Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius. Sil. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be : If you do sorrow at my grief in love, 56 Love in Literature and Art By giving love, your sorrow and my grief Were both extermin'd. Phe. Thou hast my love : is not that neighbourly ? SV/. I would have you. Phe. Why, that were covetousness. Silvius, the time was that I hated thee ; And yet it is not that I bear thee love : But since that thou canst talk of love so well, Thy company, which erst was irksome to me, I will endure ; and I'll employ thee too : But do not look for further recompense Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd. &7. So holy and so perfect is my love, And I in such a poverty of grace, That I shall think it a most plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harvest reaps : loose now and then A scattered smile, and that I'll live upon. Phe. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile ? Sil. Not very well, but I have met him oft ; And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds That the old carlot once was master of. Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him ; 'Tis but a peevish boy: yet he talks well; But what care I for words ? yet words do well When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. It is a pretty youth : not very pretty : But, sure, he's proud ; and yet his pride becomes him : He'll make a proper man : the best thing in him Is his complexion ; and faster than his tongue Did make offence, his eye did heal it up. He is not tall ; yet for his years he's tall ; His leg is but so-so ; and yet 'tis well : There was a pretty redness in his lip ; A little riper and more lusty red Than that mix'd in his cheek ; 'twas just the difference Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him In parcels as I did, would have gone near To fall in love with him : but, for my part, The Proud, Disdainful Shepherdess 57 I love him not, nor hate him not ; and yet I have more cause to hate him than to love him : For what had he to do to chide at me ? He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black; And, now I am remember'd, scorn'd at me : I marvel why I answer'd not again : But that's all one ; omittance is not quittance. I'll write to him a very taunting letter, And thou shalt bear it : wilt thou, Silvius ? SiL Phebe, with all my heart. Phe. I'll write it straight ; The matter's in my head and in my heart : I will be bitter with him and passing short : Go with me, Silvius. \Exeunt. (As You Like //, about 58 Love in Literature and Art LOVE'S PENANCE MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA A ND in this very manner was Amadis the north star and the sun of valorous and amorous knights, whom all we ought to imitate which march under the ensigns of love and chivalry. And this being so manifest as it is, I find, friend Sancho, that the knight-errant who shall imitate him most shall likewise be nearest to attain the perfection of arms. And that wherein this knight bewrayed most his prudence, valour, courage, patience, constancy, and love, was when he retired himself to do penance, being disdained by his lady Oriana, to the Poor Rock, changing his name unto that of Beltenebros : a name certainly most signifi- cative, and proper for the life which he had at that time willingly chosen. And I may more easily imitate him herein than in cleaving of giants, beheading of serpents, killing of monsters, overthrowing of armies, putting navies to flight, and finishing of enchantments. And seeing that this mountain is so fit for that purpose, there is no reason why I should overslip the occasion, which doth so com- modiously proffer me her locks. " In effect," quoth Sancho, " what is it you mean to do in these remote places ? " " Have I not told thee already," said Don Quixote, "that I mean to follow Amadis, by playing here the despaired, wood, and furious man ? . . . And although I mean not to imitate Roldan, or Orlando, or Rowland (for he had all these names), exactly in every mad prank that he played, yet will I do it the best I can in those things which shall seem unto me most essential. And perhaps I may rest contented with the only imitation of Amadis, who, without endamaging, and by his ravings, and only using these of feeling laments, [arrived] to as great fame thereby as any one whatsoever." " I believe," replied Sancho, " that the knights which performed the like penances were moved by some reasons to do the like austerities and follies ; but, good sir, what Loves Penance 59 occasion hath been offered unto you to become mad ? What lady hath disdained you ? Of what arguments have you found that the Lady Dulcmea of Toboso hath ever dallied with Moor or Christian ? " " That is the point," answered our knight, "and therein consists the perfection of mine affairs ; for that a knight-errant do run mad upon any just occasion deserves neither praise nor thanks; the wit is in waxing mad without cause, whereby my mistress may understand, that if dry I could do this, what would I have done being watered ? How much more, seeing I have a just motive, through the prolix absence that I have made from my ever supremest Lady Dulcinea of Toboso ? For, as thou mightest have heard read in Marias Ambrosio his Shepherd, " To him that absent is, All things succeed amiss." So that, friend Sancho, I would not have thee lavish time longer in advising to let slip so rare, so happy, and singular an invitation. I am mad, and will be mad, until thou return again with answer upon a letter, which I mean to send with thee to my Lady Dulcinea ; and if it be such as my loyalty deserves, my madness and penance shall end ; but if the contrary, I shall run mad in good earnest, and be in that state that I shall apprehend nor feel anything. So that, howsoever I be answered, I shall issue out of the con- flict and pain wherein thou leavest me, by joying the good thou shalt bring me, as wise ; or not feeling the evil thou shalt denounce, as mad." Whilst thus he discoursed, he arrived at the foot of a lofty mountain, which stood like a hewn rock divided from all the rest, by the skirt whereof glided a smooth river, hemmed in on every side by a green and flourishing meadow, whose verdure did marvellously delight the greedy beholding eye; there were in it also many wild trees, and some plants and flowers, which rendered the place much more pleasing. The Knight of the Ill-favoured Face made choice of this place to accomplish therein his penance; and therefore, as soon as he had viewed it, he began to say, with a loud voice like a dis- 6o Love in Literature and Art tracted man, these words ensuing : " This is the place where the humour of mine eyes shall increase the liquid veins of this crystal current, and my continual and deep sighs shall give perpetual motion to the leaves of these mountainy trees, in testimony of the pain which my op- pressed heart doth suffer. O you, whosoever you be, rustical gods ! which have your mansion in this inhabitable place, give ear to the plaints of this unfortunate lover, whom a long absence and a few imagined suspicions have conducted to deplore his state among these deserts, and make him exclaim on the rough condition of that ingrate and fair, who is the top, the sun, the period, term, and end of all human beauty. O ye Napeas and Dryads ! which do wontedly inhabit the thickets and groves, so may the nimble and lascivious satyrs, by whom (although in vain) you are beloved, never have power to interrupt your sweet rest, as you shall assist me to lament my disasters, or at least attend them, while I dolefully breathe them. O Dulcinea of Toboso ! the day of my night, the glory of my pain, north of my travels, and star of my fortune so Heaven enrich thee with the highest, whensoever thou shalt demand it, as thou wilt consider the place and pass unto which thine absence hath conducted me, and answer my faith and desires in compassionate and gracious manner. O solitary trees (which shall from henceforward keep com- pany with my solitude), give tokens, with the soft motion of your boughs, that my presence doth not dislike you. O thou squire, and grateful companion in all prosperous and adverse successes ! bear well away what thou shalt see me do here, to the end that thou mayest after promptly recount it as the total cause of my ruin." And, saying so, he alighted from Rosinante, and, taking off in a trice his bridle and saddle, he struck him on the buttock, saying, " He gives thee liberty that wants it himself, O horse ! as famous for thy works as thou art unfortunate by thy fates. Go where thou pleasest ; for thou bearest written in thy forehead, how that neither the Hippogriff of Astolpho, nor the renowned Frontino, which cost Bradamante so dearly, could compare with thee for swiftness." When Sancho had viewed and heard his lord speak thus, Loves Penance 61 he likewise said, " Good betide him that freed us from the pains of unpannelling the grey ass ; for if he were here, in faith, he should also have two or three claps on the buttocks, and a short oration in his praise. Yet if he were here, I would not permit any other to unpannel him, seeing there was no occasion why ; for he good beast, was nothing sub- ject to the passions of love or despair, no more than I, who was his master when it pleased God. And, in good sooth, sir Knight of the Ill-favoured Face, if my departure and your madness be in good earnest, it will be needful to saddle Rosinante again, that he may supply the want of mine ass ; for it will shorten the time of my departure and return again. And if I make my voyage afoot, I know not when I shall arrive there, or return here back unto you ; for, in good earnest, I am a very ill footman." 11 Let it be as thou likest," quoth Don Quixote ; " for thy design displeaseth me nothing ; and therefore I resolve that thou shalt depart from hence after three days ; for in the mean space thou shalt behold what I will do and say for my lady's sake to the end thou mayst tell it to her." " Why," quoth Sancho, " what more can I view than that which I have seen already ? " " Thou art altogether wide of the matter," answered Don Quixote ; " for I must yet tear mine apparel, throw away mine armour, and beat my head about these rocks, with many other things of that kind that will strike thee into admiration." " Let me be- seech you," quoth Sancho, " see well how you give your- self those knocks about the rocks ; for you might happen upon some one so ungracious a rock, as at the first rap would dissolve all the whole machina of your adventures and penance ; and therefore I would be of opinion, seeing that you do hold it necessary that some knocks be given with the head, and that this enterprise cannot be accom- plished without them, that you content yourself, seeing that all is but feigned, counterfeited, and a jest, that you should, I say, content yourself with striking it on the water, or on some other soft thing, as cotton or wool, and leave to my charge the exaggeration thereof; for I will tell to my lady that you strike your head against the point of a rock which was harder than a diamond." 62 Love in Literature and Art " I thank thee, Sancho, for thy good-will," quoth Don Quixote, " but I can assure thee that all these things which I do are no jests, but very serious earnests ; for otherwise we should transgress the statutes of chivalry, which com- mand us not to avouch any untruth, on pain of relapse ; and to do one thing for another, is as much as to lie. So that my head-knocks must be true, firm, and sound ones, with- out any sophistical or fantastical shadow : and it will be requisite that you leave me some lint to cure me, seeing that fortune hath deprived us of the balsam we have lost." " It was worse to have lost the ass," quoth Sancho, " seeing that at once with him we have lost our lint and all our other provision ... go write your letter, and despatch me with all haste ; for I long already to return, and take you out of this purgatory wherein I leave you." . . . "Thou hast reason," answered the Knight of the Ill- favoured Face ; " but how shall I write the letter ? " " And the warrant for the receipt of the colts also ? " added Sancho. "All shall be inserted together," quoth Don Quixote ; " and seeing we have no paper, we may do well, imitating the ancient men of times past, to write our mind in the leaves of trees or wax ; yet wax is as hard to be found here as paper. But, now that I remember myself, I know where we may write our mind well, and more than well, to wit, in Cardenio's tablets, and thou shalt have care to cause the letters to be written out again fairly, in the first village wherein thou shalt find a schoolmaster ; or, if such a one be wanting, by the clerk of the church ; and beware in any sort that thou give it not to a notary or court-clerk to be copied, for they write such an entangling, confounded process letter, as Satan himself would scarce be able to read it." " And how shall we do for want of your name and subscription ? " quoth Sancho. " Why," answered Don Quixote, " Amadis was never wont to sub- scribe to his letters." " Ay, but the warrant to receive the three asses must forcibly be subsigned ; and if it should afterwards be copied, they would say the former is false, and so I shall rest without my colts." " The warrant shall be written and firmed with my hand in the tablets, Loves Penance 63 which, as soon as my niece shall see, she shall make no difficulty to deliver thee them. And, as concerning the love-letter, thou shall put this subscription to it, 4 yours until death, the Knight of the Ill-favoured Face.' And it makes no matter though it be written by any stranger ; forasmuch as I can remember Dulcinea can neither write nor read, nor hath she seen any letter, no, not so much as a character of my writing all the days of her life ; for my love and hers have been ever Platonical, never extending themselves further than to an honest regard and view the one of the other, and even this same so rarely, as I dare boldly swear, that in these dozen years which I love her more dearly than the light of these mine eyes, which the earth shall one day devour, I have not seen her four times, and perhaps of those same four times she hath scarce per- ceived once that I beheld her such is the care and close- ness wherewithal her parents, Lorenzo Corcuelo and her mother Aldonza Nogales have brought her up." " Ta, ta," quoth Sancho, " that the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso is Lorenzo Corcuelo his daughter, called by another name, Aldonza Lorenzo ? " " The same is she," quoth Don Quixote, "and it is she that merits to be empress of the vast universe." " I know her very well," replied Sancho, " and I dare say that she can throw an iron bar as well as any the strongest lad in our parish." . . . "I have oft told thee, Sancho, many times, that thou art too great a prattler," quoth Don Quixote. ..." For all the poets which celebrate certain ladies at pleasure, thinkest thou that they all had mistresses ? No. Dost thou believe that the Amaryllises, the Phyllises, Silvias, Dianas, Galateas, Alcidas, and others such like, wherewithal the books, ditties, barbers' shops and theatres are filled, were truly ladies of flesh and bones, and their mistresses which have and do celebrate them thus ? No, certainly ; but were for the greater part feigned, to serve as a subject for their verses, to the end the authors might be accounted amorous, and men of courage enough to be such." . . . "I avouch," quoth Sancho, "that you have great reason in all that you say, and that I am myself a very ass but alas ! why do I name an ass with my mouth, seeing one should not mention 64 Love in Literature and Art a rope in one's house that was hanged ? But give me the letter, and farewell ; for I will change." With that, Don Quixote drew out his tablets, and, going aside, began to in- dite his letter with great gravity ; which ended, he called Sancho to read it to him, to the end he might bear it away in memory, lest by chance he did lose the tablets on the way; for such were, his cross fortunes, as made him fear every event. To which Sancho answered, saying, " Write it there twice or thrice in the book, and give it me after; for I will carry it safely, by God's grace. For to think that I will be able ever to take it by rote is a great folly ; for my memory is so short as I do many times forget my own name. But yet, for all that, read it to me, good sir ; for I would be glad to hear it, as a thing which I suppose to be as excellent as if it were cast in a mould." " Hear it, then," said Don Quixote, " for thus it says : THE LETTER OF DON QUIXOTE TO DULCINEA OF TOBOSO. 41 SOVEREIGN LADY, The wounded by the point of absence, and the hurt by the darts of the heart, sweetest Dulcinea of Toboso ! doth send thee that health which he wanteth himself. If thy beauty disdain me, if thy valour turn not to my benefit, if thy disdains convert themselves to my harm, maugre all my patience, I shall be ill able to sustain this care ; which, besides that it is violent, is also too durable. My good squire Sancho will give thee certain relation, O beautiful ingrate, and my dearest beloved enemy ! of the state wherein I remain for thy sake. If thou please to favour me, I am thine ; and if not, do what thou likest : for, by ending of my life, I shall both satisfy thy cruelty and my desires. Thine until death, THE KNIGHT OF THE ILL-FAVOURED FACE." " By my father's life," quoth Sancho, when he heard the letter, "it is the highest thing that I ever heard. Good God ! how well you say everything in it ! and how excel- lently have you applied the subscription of l The Knight of the Ill-favoured Face ! ' ' (Don Quixote, Madrid, 160$ ; translation by Thomas Shel- ton, London, 1620^) Unrequited Love 65 UNREQUITED LOVE BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER An Apartment in the Palace. Enter PHILASTER and BEL- LARIO. DHL And thou shall find her honourable, boy ; Full of regard unto thy tender youth, For thine own modesty ; and, for my sake, Apter to give than thou wilt be to ask, Ay, or deserve. Bel. Sir, you did take me up When I was nothing ; and only yet am something By being yours. You trusted me unknown ; And that which you were apt to conster A simple innocence in me, perhaps Might have been craft, the cunning of a boy Hardened in lies and theft ; yet ventured you To part my miseries and me ; for which, I never can expect to serve a lady That bears more honour in her breast than you. Phi. But, boy, it will prefer thee. Thou art young, And bear'st a childish overflowing love To them that clap thy cheeks and speak thee fair yet ; But when thy judgment comes to rule those passions, Thou wilt remember best those careful friends That placed thee in the noblest way of life. She is a princess I prefer thee to. Bel. In that small time that I have seen the world, I never knew a man hasty to part with A servant he thought trusty : I remember, My father would prefer the boys he kept To greater men than he ; but did it not Till they were grown top saucy for himself. Phi. Why gentle boy, I find no fault at all In thy behaviour. Bel. Sir, if I have made 66 Love in Literature and Art A fault in ignorance, instruct my youth : I shall be willing, if not apt, to learn ; Age and experience will adorn my mind With larger knowledge ; and if I have done A wilful fault, think me not past all hope For once. What master holds so strict a hand Over his boy that he will part with him Without one warning. Let me be corrected, To break my stubbornness, if it be so, Rather than turn me off; and I shall mind. Phi. Xhy love doth plead so prettily to stay That, trust me, I could weep to part with thee. Alas, I do not turn thee off! thou know'st It is my business that doth call thee hence ; And when thou art with her, thou dwell'st with me. Think so, and 'tis so : and when time is full, That thou hast well discharged this heavy trust, Laid on so weak a one, I will again With joy receive thee ; as I live, I will ! Nay, weep not, gentle boy. 'Tis more than time Thou didst attend the princess. Bel. I am gone But since I am to part with you, my lord, And none knows whether I shall live to do More service for you, take this little prayer : Heaven bless your loves, your fights, all your designs ! May sick men, if they have thy wish, be well ; And Heaven hate those you curse, though I be one ! [Exit. Phi. The love of boys unto their lords is strange; I have read wonders of it : yet this boy For my sake (if a man may judge by looks And speech) would out-do story. I may see A day to pay him for his loyalty. [Exit. ARETHUSA'S Apartment in the Palace. Enter BELLARIO richly dressed. Are. Sir, You are sad to change your service ; is't not so ? Unrequited Love 67 Bel. Madam, I have not changed ; I wait on you, To do him service. Are. Thou disclaim'st in me. Tell me thy name. Bel. Bellario. Are. Thou canst sing and play ? Bel. If grief will give me leave, madam, I can. Are. Alas, what kind of grief can thy years know ? Hadst thou a curst master when thou went'st to school ? Thou art not capable of other grief; Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as waters be When no breath troubles them : believe me, boy, Care seeks out wrinkled brows and hollow eyes, And builds himself caves to abide in them. Come, sir, tell me truly does your lord love me ? Bel. Love, madam ! I know not what it is. Are. Canst thou know grief, and never yet knew'st love ? Thou art deceived, boy. Does he speak of me As if he wished me well ? Bel. If it be love To forget all respect of his own friends In thinking of your face ; if it be love To sit cross-armed and sigh away the day, Mingled with starts, crying your name as loud And hastily as men i' the streets do fire ; If it be love to weep himself away When he but hears of any lady dead Or killed, because it might have been your chance ; If, when he goes to rest (which will not be), 'Twixt every prayer he says, to name you once, As others drop a bead, be to be in love, Then, madam, I dare swear he loves you. Are. Oh you're a cunning boy, and taught to lie For your lord's credit ! but thou know'st a lie That bears this sound is welcomer to me Than any truth that says he loves me not. Lead the way boy. Do you attend me, too, 'Tis thy lord's business hastes me thus. Away ! \_Exeunt. (Philaster : or Love lies a Bleeding, 1608^) 68 Love in Literature and Art PERIGOT AND AMORET JOHN FLETCHER A Dale in the Wood. Enter AMORET. /t MO. This is the bottom. Speak, if thou be here, My Perigot ! Thy Amoret, thy dear, Calls on thy loved name. Peri. What art thou, dare Tread these forbidden paths, where death and care Dwell on the face of darkness ? Amo. 'Tis thy friend, Thy Amoret come hither, to give end To these consumings. Look up, gentle boy : I have forgot those pains and dear annoy I suffered for thy sake, and am content To be thy love again. Why hast thou rent Those curled locks, where I have often hung Ribbons and damask roses, and have flung Waters distilled, to" make thee fresh and gay, Sweeter than nosegays on a bridal day ? Why dost thou cross thine arms, and hang thy face Down to thy bosom, letting fall apace From those two little heavens, upon the ground, Showers of more price, more orient, and more round, Than those that hang upon the moon's pale brow ? Cease these complainings, shepherd : I am now The same I ever was, as kind and free, And can forgive before you ask of me ; Indeed, I can and will. Peri. So spoke my fair ! Oh, you great working powers of earth and air, Water and forming fire, why have you lent Your hidden virtues of so ill intent ? Even such a face, so fair, so bright of hue, Had Amoret; such words, so smooth and new, Came flowing from her tongue ; such was her eye, Peri got and Amoret 69 And like the pointed sparkle that did fly Forth like a bleeding shaft ; all is the same, The robe and buskins, painted hook and frame Of all her body. Oh me, Amoret ! Amo. Shepherd, what means this riddle ? who hath set So strong a difference 'twixt myself and me, That I am grown another ? Look, and see The ring thou gav'st me, and about my wrist That curious bracelet thou thyself didst twist From those fair tresses. Know'st thou Amoret ? Hath not some newer love forced thee forget Thy ancient faith ? Peri. Still nearer to my love ! These be the very words she oft did prove Upon my temper; so she still would take Wonder into her face, and silent make Signs with her head and hand, as who would say, 41 Shepherd, remember this another day." Amo. Am I not Amoret ? where was I lost ? Can there be heaven, and time, and men, and most Of these inconstant ? Faith, where art thou fled ? Are all the vows and protestations dead, The hands held up, the wishes and the heart ? Is there not one remaining, not a part Of all these to be found ? Why, then, I see Men never knew that virtue, constancy. Perl. Men ever were most blessed, till cross fate Brought love and women forth, unfortunate To all that ever tasted of their smiles ; Whose actions are all double, full of wiles ; Like to the subtle hare, that 'fore the hounds Makes many turnings, leaps and many rounds, This way and that way, to deceive the scent Of her pursuers. Amo. 'Tis but to prevent Their speedy coming on, that seek her fall ; The hands of cruel men, more bestial, And of a nature more refusing good Than beasts themselves or fishes of the flood. . Peri. Thou art all these, and more than nature meant jo Love in. Literature and Art When she created all ; frowns, joys, content ; Extreme fire for an hour, and presently Colder than sleepy poison, or the sea Upon whose face sits a continual frost ; Your actions ever driven to the most, Then down again as low, that none can find The rise or falling of a woman's mind. Amo. Can there be any age, or days, or time, Or tongues of men, guilty so great a crime As wronging simple maid ? Oh, Perigot, Thou that wast yesterday without a blot ; Thou that wast every good and every thing That men call blessed ; thou that wast the spring From whence our looser grooms drew all their best ; Thou that wast always just and always blest In faith and promise ; thou that hadst the name Of virtuous given thee, and made good the same Even from thy cradle ; thou that wast that all That men delighted in ! Oh, what a fall Is this, to have been so, and now to be The only best in wrong and infamy ! Am I to live to know this ! and by me, That loved thee dearer than mine eyes, or that Which we esteemed our honour, virgin-state ! Dearer than swallows love the early morn, Or dogs of chase the sound of merry horn ; Dearer than thou can'st love thy new love, if thou hast Another, and far dearer than the last ; Dearer than thou can'st love thyself, though all The self-love were within thee that did fall With -the coy swain that now is made a flower, For whose dear sake Echo weeps many a shower ! And am I thus rewarded for my flame ? Loved worthily to get a wanton's name ? Come, thou forsaken willow, wind my head, And noise it to the world, my love is dead ! I am forsaken I am cast away, And left for every lazy groom to say I was unconstant, light and sooner lost Than the quick clouds we see, or the chill frost Perigot and Amoret 71 When the hot sun beats on it ! Tell me yet, Canst thou not love again thy Amoret ? Peri. Thou art not worthy of that blessed name : I must not know thee : fling thy wanton flame Upon some lighter blood that may be hot With words and feigned passions ; Perigot Was ever yet unstained, and shall not now Stoop to the meltings of a borrowed brow. Amo. Then hear me, Heaven, to whom I call for right, And you fair twinkling stars, that crown the night ; And hear me woods, and silence of this peace, And ye, sad hours, that move a sullen pace ; Hear me, ye shadows, that delight to dwell In horrid darkness, and ye powers of hell, Whilst I breathe out my last ! I am that maid, That yet un-tainted Amoret, that played The careless prodigal, and gave away My soul to this young man that now dares say I am a stranger, not the same, more wild ; And thus with much belief I was beguiled : I am that maid, that have delayed, denied, And almost scorned the loves of all that tried To win me, but this swain; and yet confess I have been wooed by many with no less Soul of affection ; and have often had Rings, belts, and cracknels, sent me from the lad That feeds his flocks down westward : lambs and doves By young Alexis ; Daphnis sent me gloves ; All which I gave to thee : nor these nor they That sent them did I smile on, or e'er lay Up to my after-memory. But why Do I resolve to grieve, and not to die ? Happy had been the stroke thou gav'st, if home ; By this time I had found a quiet room, Where every slave is free, and every breast, That living bred new care, now lies at rest ; And thither will poor Amoret. Peri. Thou must. Was ever any man so loath to trust His eyes as I ? or was there ever yet 72 Love in Literature and Art Any so like as this to Amoret ? For whose dear sake I promise, if there be A living soul within thee, thus to free Thy body from it ! \Wounds her with bis spear. Amo. [falling^. So, this work hath end. Farewell and live ; be constant to thy friend That loves thee next. Enter SATYR ; PERIGOT runs off. Sat. See, the day begins to break, And the light shoots like a streak Of subtle fire ; the wind blows cold, Whilst the morning doth unfold; Now the birds begin to rouse, And the squirrel from the boughs Leaps, to get him nuts and fruit ; The early lark, that erst was mute, Carols to the rising day Many a note and many a lay : Therefore here I end my watch, Lest the wandering swain should catch Harm, or lose himself. Amo. Ah me ! Sat. Speak again, whate'er thou be ; I am ready ; speak, I say ; By the dawning of the day, By the power of night and Pan, I enforce thee speak again ! Amo. Oh, I am most unhappy. Sat. Yet more blood ! Sure, these wanton swains are wood. 1 Can there be a hand or heart Dare commit so vile a part As this murder ? By the moon, That hid herself when this was done, Never was a sweeter face : I will bear her to the place Where my goddess keeps and crave Her to give her life or grave. [Exit, carrying AMORET. (The Faithful Shepherdess, 1610.) i Mad. Greiffenhagen. AN IDYLL The Bereaved Lover 73 THE 'BEREAVED LOVER BEN JONSON Sherwood Forest. Enter ./EGLAMOUR, who is fallen into a deep melancholy for the loss of his beloved EARINE. fl-^G. Here she was wont to go ! and here ! and here ! Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets grow ; The world may find the spring by following her ; For other print her airy steps ne'er left : Her treading would not bend a blade of grass ! Or shake the downy Blow-ball from his stalk ! But like the soft west wind she shot along, And where she went, the flowers took thickest root, As she had sow'd 'em with her odorous foot. And ha' you found her ? Muc. Whom ? JEg. My drowned love, Earine, the sweet Earine ! The bright and beautiful Earine ! Have you not heard of my Earine ? Just by your father's mill (I think I'm right) Are not you Much the miller's son ? Muc. I am. jEg. And baliff to brave Robin Hood ? Muc. The same. jEg. Close by your father's mills, Earine, Earine was drown'd ! O my Earine ! (Old Maudlin tells me so, and Douce her daughter) Ha' you swept the river, say you ? and not found her ? Muc. For fowl and fish we have. g. O, not for her ? You're goodly friends ! right charitable men ! Nay, keep your way ; and leave me : make your toys, 74 Love in Literature and Art Your tales, your posies that you talk'd of; all Your entertainments : you not injure me : Only if I may enjoy my cypress wreath ! And you will let me weep ! ('tis all I ask ;) Till I be turn'd to water, as was she ! And troth, what less suit can you grant a man ? Tuc. His phantasie is hurt, let us now leave him : The wound is yet too fresh to admit searching. jg. Searching ? where should I search ? or on what track ? Can my slow drop of tears, or this dark shade About my brows, enough describe her loss ! Earine ! O my Earine's loss ! No, no, no, no; this heart will break first. Geo. How will this sad disaster strike the ears Of bounteous Robin Hood, our gentle master ! Muc. How will it mar his mirth, abate his feast ; And strike a horror into every guest ! ;Eg. If I could knit whole clouds about my brows, And weep like Swithin, or those wat'ry signs, The kids that rise then, and drown all the flocks Of those rich shepherds, dwelling in this vale j Those careless shepherds that did let her drown ; Then I did something : or could make old Trent Drunk with my sorrow, to start out in breaches, To drown their herds, their cattle and their corn ; Break down their mills, their dams, o'erturn their wears, And see their houses and whole livelihood Wrought into water with her, all were good : I'ld kiss the torrent, and those whirles of Trent, That suck'd her in my sweet Earine ! When they have cast her body on the shore, And it comes up as tainted as themselves, All pale and bloodless, I will love it still, For all that they can do, and make 'em mad, To see how I will hug it in mine arms ! And hang upon her looks, dwell on her eyes, Feed round about her lips, and eat her kisses ! Suck off her drowned flesh ! and where's their malice ? Not all their envious sousing can change that : The Bereaved Lover 75 But I will still study some revenge past this ! I pray you, give me leave, for I will study, Though all the bells, pipes, tabors, timburines ring, That you can plant about me : I will study. ( The Sad Shepherd.} 76 Love in Literature and Art A LADY'S STRATAGEM JEAN BAPTISTE MOLIERE ISABELLA, SGANARELLE. QGAN. That will do ; I know the house and the person simply from the description you have given me. ha. \aside\. Heaven, be propitious, and favour to-day the artful contrivance of an innocent love ! Sgan. Do you say they have told you that his name is Valere ? ha. Yes. Sgan. That will do ; do not make yourself uneasy about it. Go inside, and leave me to act. I am going at once to talk to this young madcap. ha. [as she goes /']. For a girl, I am planning a pretty bold scheme. But the unreasonable severity with which I am treated will be my excuse to every right mind. SGANARELLE, alone. [Knocks at the door of Satire's bouse]. Let us lose no time ; here it is. Who's there ? Why, I am dreaming ! Hulloa, I say ! hulloa somebody ! hulloa ! I do not won- der, after this information, that he came up to me just now so meekly. But I must make haste, and teach this foolish aspirant. VALERE, SGANARELLE, ERGASTE. Sgan. [to ERGASTE, who has come out hastily]. A plague on the lubberly ox ! Do you mean to knock me down coming and sticking yourself in front of me like a post ? Val. Sir, I regret . Sgan. Ah ! you are the man I want. Val. I, sir ? Sgan. You. Your name is Valere, is it not ? Val. Yes. A Lady's Stratagem 77 Sgan. Tell me : do you know that I am guardian to a tolerably young and passably handsome girl who lives in this neighbourhood, and whose name is Isabella ? Val Yes. Sgan. As you know it, I need not tell it you. But do you know, likewise, that as I find her charming, I care for her otherwise than a guardian, and that she is destined for the honour of being my wife ? Val. No ! Sgan. I tell it you then ; and also that it is as well that your passion if you please, should leave her in peace. Val. Who ? I, sir ? Sgan. Yes, you. Let us have no dissembling. Val. Who has told you that my heart is smitten by her ? Sgan. Those who are worthy of belief. Val. Be more explicit. Sgan. She herself. Val. She ! Sgan. She. Is not that enough ? Like a virtuous young girl, who has loved me from childhood, she told me all just now ; moreover, she charged me to tell you, that, since she has everywhere been followed by you, her heart, which your pursuit greatly offends, has only too well under- stood the language of your eyes ; that your secret desires are well-known to her; and that to try more fully to ex- plain a passion which is contrary to the affection she enter- tains for me, is to give yourself needless trouble. Val. She, you say, of her own accord, makes you . . . Sgan. Yes, makes me come to you and give you this frank and plain message; also that, having observed the violent love wherewith your soul is smitten, she would earlier have let you know what she thinks about you if, perplexed as she was, she could have found any one to send the message by ; but that at length she was painfully compelled to make use of me, in order to assure you, as I have told you, that her affection is denied to all save me ; that you have been ogling her long enough ; and that, if you have ever so little brains, you will carry your passion somewhere else. Farewell, till our next meeting. That is what I had to tell you. 78 Love in Literature and Art Val. \aside\. Ergaste, what say you to such an ad- venture ? Sgan. \_aside, retiring]^. See how he is taken aback ! Erg. \in a low tone to VALERE]. For my part, I think there is nothing in it to displease you ; that a rather subtle mystery is concealed under it; in short, that this message is not sent by one who desires to see the love end which she inspires in you. Sgan. \_aside\. He takes it as he ought. Val. \in a low tone to ERGASTEJ. You think it a mys- tery . . . Erg. Yes. . . . But he is looking at us ; let us get out of his sight. SGANARELLE, alone. How his face showed his confusion! Doubtless he did not expect this message. Let me call Isabella ; she is showing the fruits which education produces on the mind. Virtue is all she cares for; and her heart is so deeply steeped in it, that she is offended if a man merely looks at her. ISABELLA, SGANARELLE. Isa. \aside, as she enter s\. I fear that my lover, full of his passion, has not understood my message rightly ! Since I am so strictly guarded, I must risk one which shall make my meaning clearer. Sgan. Here I am, returned again. Isa. Well ? Sgan. Your words wrought their full purpose ; I have done his business. He wanted to deny that his heart was touched ; but when I told him I came from you, he stood immediately dumbfounded and confused ; I do not believe he will come here any more. Isa. Ah, what do you tell me ? I much fear the con- trary, and that he will still give us more trouble. Sgan. And why do you fear this ? Isa. You had hardly left the house when, going to the window to take a breath of air, I saw a young man at yonder turning, who first came, most unexpectedly to wish me good-morning, on the part of this impertinent man, and A Lady's Stratagem 79 then threw right into my chamber a box, enclosing a letter, sealed like a love-letter. I meant at once to throw it after him ; but he had already reached the end of the street. I feel very much annoyed at it. Sgan. Just see his trickery and rascality ! ha. It is my duty quickly to have this box and letter sent back to this detestable lover ; for that purpose I need some one ; for I dare not venture to ask yourself . Sgan. On the contrary, darling, it shows me all the more your love and faithfulness ; my heart joyfully accepts this task. You oblige me in this more than I can tell you. ha. Take it then. Sgan. Well, let us see what he has dared to say to you. ha. Heavens ! Take care not to open it. Sgan. Why so ? ha. Will you make him believe that it is I ? A respect- able girl ought always to refuse to read the letters a man sends her. The curiosity which she thus betrays shows a secret pleasure in listening to gallantries. I think it right that this letter should be peremptorily returned to Valere unopened, that he may the better learn this day the great contempt which my heart feels for him ; so that his pas- sion may from this time lose all hope, and never more attempt such a transgression. Sgan. Of a truth she is right in this ! Well, your virtue charms me, as well as your discretion. I see that my lessons have borne fruit in your mind ; you show your- self worthy of being my wife. ha. Still I do not like to stand in the way of your wishes. The letter is in your hands and you can open it. Sgan. No, far from it. Your reasons are too good ; I go to acquit myself of the task you impose upon me ; I have likewise to say a few words quite near, and will then return hither to set you at rest. SGANARELLE, alone. How delighted I am to find her such a discreet girl ! I have in my house a treasure of honour. To consider a loving look treason, to receive a love-letter as a supreme insult, and to have it carried back to the gallant by myself | 8o Love in Literature and Art I should like to know, seeing all this, if my brother's ward would have acted thus, on a similar occasion. Upon my word, girls are what you make them. . . . Hulloa ! \Knocks at VALERE'S door. SGANARELLE, ERGASTE. Erg, Who is there ? Sgan. Take this ; and tell your master not to presume so far as to write letters again, and send them in gold boxes ; say also that Isabella is mightily offended at it. See, it has not even been opened. He will perceive what regard she has for his passion, and what success he can ex- pect in it. Vol. What has that surly brute just given you ? Erg. This letter, sir, as well as this box, which he pre- tends that Isabella has received from you, and about which, he says, she is in a great rage. She returns it to you un- opened. Read it quickly, and let us see if I am mistaken. Vol. \reads\. "This letter will no doubt surprise you; both the resolution to write to you and the means of convey- ing it to your hands may be thought very bold in me ; but I am in such a condition, that I can no longer restrain my- self. Well-founded repugnance to a marriage with which I am threatened in six days, makes me risk everything; and in the determination to free myself from it by what- ever means, I thought I had rather choose you than despair. Yet do not think that you owe all to my evil fate ; it is not the constraint in which I find myself that has given rise to the sentiments I entertain for you ; but it hastens the avowal of them, and makes me transgress the decorum which the proprieties of my sex require. It depends on you alone to make me shortly your own ; I wait only until you have declared your intentions to me before acquainting you with the resolution I have taken : but, above all re- member that time presses, and that two hearts, which love each other, ought to understand even the slightest hint." Erg. Well, sir, is not this contrivance original ? For a young girl she is not so very ignorant. Would one have thought her capable of these love stratagems ? Vol. Ah, I consider her altogether adorable. This evi- A Lady s Stratagem 81 dence of her wit and tenderness doubles my love for her, and strengthens the feelings with which her beauty inspires me Erg. Here comes the dupe ; think what you will say to him. VALERE, SGANARELLE, ERGASTE. Val. Sir, what brings you here again ? Sgan. Your follies. Val. How ? Sgan. You know well enough what I wish to speak to you about. To tell you plainly I thought you had more sense. You have been making fun of me with your fine speeches, and nourish silly expectations. Look you, I wished to treat you gently ; but you will end by making me very angry. Are you not ashamed, considering who you are, to form such designs as you do ? to intend to carry off a respectable girl, and interrupt a marriage on which her whole happiness depends ? Val. Who told you this strange piece of news, sir ? Sgan. Do not let us dissimulate ; I have it from Isa- bella, who sends you word by me, fo'r the last time, that she has plainly enough shown you what her choice is ; that her heart, entirely mine, is insulted by such a plan ; that she would rather die than suffer such an outrage ; and that you will cause a terrible uproar unless you put an end to all this confusion. Val. If she really said what I have just heard, I confess that my passion has nothing more to expect. These ex- pressions are plain enough to let me see that all is ended ; I must respect the judgment she has passed. Sgan. If. ... You doubt it then, and fancy all the complaints that I have made to you on her behalf are mere pretences ! Do you wish that she herself should tell you her feelings ? To set you right, I willingly consent to it. Follow me ; you shall hear if I have added anything, and if her young heart hesitates between us two. [Goes and knocks at his own door. 82 Love in Literature and Art ISABELLA, SGANARELLE, VALERE, ERGASTE. Isa. What ! you bring Valere to see me ! What is your design ? Are you taking his part against me ? And do you wish, charmed by his rare merits, to compel me to love him, and endure his visits ? Sgan. No, my love ; your affection is too dear to me for that ; but he believes that my messages are untrue ; he thinks that it is I who speak, and cunningly represent you as full of hatred for him, and of tenderness for me ; I wish, therefore, from your own mouth, infallibly to cure him of a mistake which nourishes his love. Isa. [to VALERE]. What ! Is not my soul completely bared to your eyes, and can you still doubt whom I love ? VaL Yes, all that this gentleman has told me on your behalf, madam, might well surprise a man; I confess I doubted it. This final sentence, which decides the fate of my great love, moves my feelings so much that it can be no offence if I wish to have it repeated. Isa. No, no, such a sentence should not surprise you. Sganarelle told you my very sentiments ; I consider them to be sufficiently founded on justice, to make their full truth clear. Yes, I desire it to be known, and I ought to be believed, that fate here presents two objects to my eyes, who, inspiring me with different sentiments, agitate my heart. One, by a just choice, in which my honour is in- volved, has all my esteem and love ; and the other, in re- turn for his affection, has all my anger and aversion. The presence of the one is pleasing and dear to me, and fills me with joy ; but the sight of the other inspires me with secret emotions of hatred and horror. To see myself the wife of the one is all my desire ; and, rather than belong to the other, I would lose my life. But I have sufficiently de- clared my real sentiments; and languished too long under this severe torture. He whom I love must use diligence to make him whom I hate lose all hope, and deliver me, by a happy marriage, from a suffering more terrible than death. Sgan. Yes, darling, I intend to gratify your wish. A Lady's Stratagem 83 ha. It is the only way to make me happy. Sgan. You shall soon be so. ha. I know it is a shame for a young woman so openly to declare her love. Sgan. No, no. ha. But, seeing what my lot is, such liberty must be allowed me; I can without blushing, make so tender a confession to him whom I already regard as a hus- band. Sgan.- Yes, my poor child, darling of my soul ! ha. Let him think, then, how to prove his passion for me. Sgan. Yes, here, kiss my hand. ha. Let him, without more sighing, hasten a marriage which is all I desire, and accept the assurance which I give him, never to listen to the vows of another. \_She pretends to embrace SGANARELLE, and gives her hand to VALERE to kiss.'] Sgan. Oh, oh, my little pretty face, my poor little dar- ling, you shall not pine long, I promise you. \To VALERE.] There, say no more. You see I do not make her speak ; it is me alone she loves. Vol. Well, madam, well, this is a sufficient explanation, I learn by your words what you urge me to do ; I shall soon know how to rid your presence of him who so greatly offends you. ha. You could not give me greater pleasure. For, to be brief, the sight of him is intolerable. It is odious to me, and I detest it so much Sgan. Eh ! Eh ! ha. Do I offend you by speaking thus ? Sgan. Heavens ! by no means ! I do not say that. But in truth, I pity his condition ; you show your aversion too openly. ha. I cannot show it too much on such an occasion. Val. Yes, you shall be satisfied ; in three days your eyes shall no longer see the object which is odious to you. ha. That is right. Farewell. Sgan. \to VALERE]. I pity your misfortune, but . . . Val. No, you will hear no complaint from me. The 84 Love in Literature and Art lady assuredly does us both justice, and I shall endeavour to satisfy her wishes. Farewell ! Sgan. Poor fellow ! his grief is excessive. Stay, em- brace me : I am her second self. \_Embraces VALERE. (U Ecole des Marls, 1 66 1 ; trans, by Henri Van Laun, Edinburgh, A Lovers' Quarrel 85 A LOVERS' QUARREL JEAN BAETISTE MOLIERE CLEONTE, COVIELLE. LE. What ! To treat a lover thus ; and that a lover the most constant and the most passionate of all lovers ! Cov. It is a most horrible thing that they have done to us both. Cle. I display all the ardour and tenderness imaginable to a lady; I love no one on earth but her, and think of nothing but her; she is all my care, all my desire, all my joy ; I speak but of her, think but of her, dream but of her; I live but for her, my heart beats but for her, and this is the worthy reward for so much affection ! I am two days, which to me are horrible ages, without seeing her : I meet her by accident ; at the sight of her my heart feels quite elated, joy is displayed on my countenance, rapturously I fly towards her, and the faithless one averts her looks, and passes abruptly on, as if she had never seen me in her life ! Cov. I have the same story to tell. Cle. Has aught like the perfidy of this ungrateful Lucile ever been seen ? Cov. Or anything, sir, like that of that jade, Nicole ? Cle. After the many ardent sacrifices, sighs and vows which I have paid to her charms ! Cov. After such assiduous homage, attentions and serv- ices which I have rendered her in the kitchen ! Cle. The many tears I have shed at her feet ! Cov. The many buckets of water I have drawn from the well for her ! Cle. The warmth I have shown in cherishing her more than my own self! Cov. The heat I have suffered in turning the spit in her place ! Cle. She flees from me in disdain ! 86 Love in Literature and Art Cov. She turns her back upon me shamelessly ! Cl'e. It is a perfidy deserving the greatest punishment. Cov. It is a treachery -that merits a thousand slaps in the face. Cl'e. Do not you, I pray, attempt ever to speak of her to me. Cov. I, sir ? Heaven forbid ! Cl'e. Do not come to excuse to me the conduct of this faithless girl. Cov. You need not fear. Cl'e. No, look you here, all your speeches in her defence will avail nothing. Cov. Who dreams of such a thing ? Cl'e. I shall nurse my spite against her, and break off all connection. Cov. You have my consent. Cl'e. This count who visits at her house excites her fancy perhaps ; and her mind I see it well enough al- lows itself to be dazzled by rank. But I am bound, for my honour's sake, to prevent the scandal of her inconstancy. I will go, as far as she goes, towards the change to which I see her hastening, and not leave to her all the glory of jilting me. Cov. That is well said ; and as far as I am concerned, I share all your sentiments. Cl'e. Assist me in my resentment, and support my reso- lution against every remainder of affection which might plead for her. Say, I entreat you, all the harm of her that you can. Give me a portrait of her which shall render her contemptible in my sight, and, to disgust me with her, point me out all the faults which you can see in her. Cov. She, sir ? a pretty mawkin, a well-shaped, preten- tious young woman, to be so much enamoured of! I see nothing in her but what is very ordinary ; and you will meet a hundred women more worthy of you. First of all, her eyes are small. Cl'e. That is true, her eyes are small ; but they are full of fire, the most brilliant, the most piercing in this world, and the tenderest which one can see. Cov. She has a large mouth. A Lovers' Quarrel 87 Cl'e. Yes ; but it has charms not to be found in other mouths ; and this very mouth, in looking at it, inspires de- sire, and is the most attractive and amorous in the world. Cov. As for her figure, she is not tall. Cl'e. No; but it is full of ease, and well shaped. Cov. She affects a carelessness in her speech and move- ments. Cl'e. It is true, but she is full of grace ; and her man- ners are engaging, and have an indefinable charm which twines round one's heart. Cov. As to her wit Cl'e. Ah ! she has that, Covielle, of the finest and of the most delicate. Cov. Her conversation Cl'e. Her conversation is charming. Cov. It is always grave. Cl'e. Would you have unrestrained liveliness, and ever profuse gaiety ! and is there anything more annoying than these women who giggle at every sally ? Cov. But, after all, she is as whimsical as any one could well be. Cl'e. Yes, she is whimsical, I agree with you there ; but everything becomes the fair sex ; one allows everything to the fair sex. 1 Cov. Since that is the case, I see plainly that you are inclined to love her always. Cl'e. I ! I would sooner die ; and I mean to hate her as much as I have loved her. Cov. But how, if you find her so perfect ? Cl'e. That is where my revenge shall prove itself all the more ; where shall I the better show her the strength of my heart to hate her, to leave her, beautiful, full of at- tractions, amiable as I may think her. Here she comes. LUCILE, NICOLE, CLEONTE, COVIELLE. NIC. \to LUCILE]. As for me, I was perfectly scan- dalized at it. 1 It is said that Moliere in delineating Lucile, described his spouse, who played the character. That may be true ; but the real passion, which is displayed in Cleonte's answers to Covelle, is, in every way, admirable. 88 Love in Literature and Art Luc. It can be nothing else, Nicole, than what I tell you. But here he is. Cl'e. [to COVIELLE]. I will not even speak to her. Cov. I will do as you do. Luc. What is it, Cleonte ? What is the matter with you ? Nic. What is the matter with you, Covielle ? Luc. What grief possesses you ? Nic. What ill-humour has got hold of you ? Luc. Are you dumb, Cleonte ? Nic. Have you lost your speech, Covielle ? Cl'e. This is villanous ! Cov. It is Judas-like ! Luc. I see clearly that the meeting just now has dis- turbed your mind. Cl'e. [to COVIELLE]. Ah ! ah ! people are finding out what they have been doing. Nic. Our reception of you this morning has made you alarmed. Cov. [to CLEONTE]. They have found out the sore. Luc. Is it not true, Cleonte, that this is the reason of your huff? Cl'e. Yes, false girl, it is that, since I am to speak ; and I must tell you that you shall not glory, as you think you shall in your faithlessness ; that I shall be the first to break with you, and that you shall not have the advantage of driving me away. It will pain me, no doubt, to conquer the love which I have for you ; it will cause me some grief; I shall suffer for some time; but I will accomplish it, and I will sooner stab myself to the heart than have the weakness to come back to you. Cov. [to NICOLE]. As says the master, so says the man. Luc. There is much ado about nothing ! I wish to tell you the reason, Cleonte, which made me avoid you this morning. Cl'e. [trying to go away from LUCILE]. I wish to listen to nothing. Nic. [to COVIELLE]. I wish to tell you the reason that made us pass so quickly. A Lovers' Quarrel 89 Cov. [also endeavouring to go, to avoid NICOLE]. I wish to hear nothing. Luc. ^following CLEONTE], You must know then, that this morning Cl'e. [moving away, without looking at LUCILE]. No, I tell you. Nic. \ following COVIELLE], Know then . . . Cov. [moving away, without looking at NICOLE]. No, you wretch ! Luc. Listen. Cl'e. Not a whit. Nic. Let me speak. Cl'e. I am deaf. Luc. Cleonte ! Cl'e. No. Nic. Covielle ! Cov. Not a bit. Luc. Stay. Cl'e. Stuff! Nic. Hear me. Cov. Nonsense ! Luc. One moment. Cl'e. Not one. Nic. A little patience. Cov. Fiddle-sticks ! Luc. Two words. Cl'e. No ; it is finished. Nic. One word. Cov. No more dealings. Luc. [stopping]. Very well then ! since you will not hear me, keep to your own opinion, and do as you please. Nic. [also stopping]. Since you act thus, take it as you will. Cl'e. [turning towards LUCILE]. Let us know, then, the reason of such a pretty welcome. Luc. [going in her turn, to avoid CLEONTE]. It no longer pleases me to tell it. Cov. [turning towards NICOLE]. Well, just let us learn this story. Nic. [also going, to avoid COVIELLE]. I will no longer tell it to you. 90 Love in Literature and Art Cl'e. [following LUCILE]. Tell me Luc. [moving away, without looking at CLEONTE]. No, I shall say nothing. Cov. \ following NICOLE]. Relate to me Nic. [moving away, without looking at COVIELLE]. No, I shall relate nothing to you. Cl'e. Pray. Luc. No, I tell you. Cov. For mercy's sake. Nic. Not a whit. Cl'e. I pray you. Luc. Leave me. Cov. I beseech you. Nic. Begone from there. Cl'e. Lucile ! Luc. No. Cov. Nicole ! Nic. Not a bit. Cl'e. In Heaven's name. Luc. I will not. Cov. Speak to me. Nic. Not at all. Cl'e. Clear up my doubts. Luc. No : I will do nothing of the kind. Cov. Ease my mind. Nic. No : I do not choose. Cl'e. Well ! since you care so little to cure my grief, and to justify yourself for the unworthy treatment which my affection has received from you, this is the last time that you shall see me, ungrateful girl ; and I shall go far away from you, to die of grief and love. Cov. [to NICOLE]. And I, I will follow his steps. Luc. [to CLEONTE, who is going\. Cleonte ! Nic. [to COVIELLE, who is about to follow his master}. Cov- ielle ! Cl'e. [stopping']. Eh ! Cov. [also stopping]. Please ? Luc. Whither are you going ? Cl'e. Where I have told you. Cov. We are going to die. A Lovers' Quarrel 91 Luc. You are going to die, Cleonte ? Cl'e. Yes, cruel one, since you will it so. Luc. I ! I wish you to die ? Cl'e. Yes, you wish it. Luc. Who says so ? Cl'e. [drawing near to LUCILE]. Is it not wishing it, when you will not clear up my suspicions ? Luc. Is it my fault ? And if you had listened to me, would I not have told you that the adventure of which you complain was caused this morning by the presence of an old aunt, who insists that merely the approach of a man dishonours a girl, who perpetually lectures us on that chap- ter, and paints us all men as devils whom we should flee from ? NIC. [to COVIELLE], That is the secret of the affair. Cl'e. Are you not deceiving me, Lucile ? Cov. \to NICOLE]. Are you not imposing upon me ? Luc. "to CLEONTE]. Nothing is more true. Nic. "to COVIELLE]. That is the affair as it is. Cov. ^to CLEONTE]. Shall we give in to this ? Cl'e. Ah ! Lucile, how quickly you appease things in my heart by a single word from your mouth, and how easily we are persuaded by those whom we love ! Cov. How easily one is wheedled by these confounded animals. MRS. JOURDAIN, CLEONTE, LUCILE, NICOLE, COVIELLE. Mrs. Jour. I am glad to see you, Cleonte ; and you are just in good time. My husband is coming; quickly choose the moment to ask him for Lucile's hand. Cl'e. Ah ! madam, how sweet these words are, and how they flatter my wishes ! Could I receive a more charming command, a more precious favour ? (Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme, l6jO ; translation by Henri van Laun^ Edinburgh, 1876.} 92 Love in Literature and Art THE PERVERSE WIDOW SIR RICHARD STEELE TN my first Description of the Company in which I pass most of my Time, it may be remembered that I men- tioned a great Affliction which my friend Sir Roger had met with in his Youth ; which was no less than a Dis- appointment in Love. It happened this Evening, that we fell into a very pleasing Walk at a Distance from his House. As soon as we came into it, " It is," quoth the good Old Man, looking round him with a Smile, " very hard that any Part of my Land should be settled upon one who has used me so ill as the perverse Widow did ; and yet I am sure I could not see a Sprig of any Bough of this whole Walk of Trees, but I should reflect upon her and her Severity. She has certainly the finest Hand of any Woman in the World. You are to know that this was the Place wherein I used to muse upon her; and by that Cus- tom I can never come into it, but the same tender Senti- ments revive in my Mind, as if I had actually walked with that Beautiful Creature under these Shades. I have been Fool enough to carve her Name on the Bark of several of these Trees; so unhappy is the Condition of Men in Love, to attempt the removing of their Passion by the Methods which serve only to imprint it deeper. She has certainly the finest Hand of any Woman in the World." Here followed a profound Silence ; and I was not dis- pleased to observe my Friend falling so naturally into a Discourse, which I had ever before taken Notice he in- dustriously avoided. After a very long Pause he entered upon an Account of this great Circumstance in his Life, with an Air which I thought raised my Idea of him above what I had ever had before ; and gave me the Picture of that cheerful Mind of his, before it received that Stroke which has ever since affected his Words and Actions. But he went o/i as follows : Terboch. THE LOVERS The Perverse If^idow 93 " I came to my Estate in my Twenty-Second Year, and resolved to follow the Steps of the most Worthy of my Ancestors who have inhabited this Spot of Earth before me, in all the Methods of Hospitality and good Neighbourhood, for the Sake of my Fame ; and in Country Sports and Recreations, for the sake of my Health. In my Twenty- Third Year I was obliged to serve as Sheriff of the County ; and in my Servants, Officers and whole Equipage, indulged the Pleasure of a young Man (who did not think ill of his own Person) in taking that publick Occasion of shewing my Figure and Behaviour to Advantage. You may easily imagine to yourself what Appearance I made, who am pretty tall, rid ' well, and was very well dressed, at the Head of a whole County, with Musick before me, a Feather in my Hat, and my Horse well Bitted. I can assure you I was not a little pleased with the Kind Looks and Glances I had from all the Balconies and Windows as I rode to the Hall where the Assizes were held. But when I came there, a Beautiful Creature in a Widow's Habit sat in Court to hear the Event of a Cause concerning her Dower. This commanding Creature (who was born for Destruction of all who behold her) put on such a Resigna- tion in her Countenance, and bore the Whispers of all around the Court with such a pretty Uneasiness, I warrant you, and then recovered herself from one Eye to another, 'till she was perfectly confused by meeting something so wistful in all she encountered, that at last, with a Murrain to her, she cast her bewitching Eye upon me. I no sooner met it, but I bowed like a great surprised Booby ; and knowing her Cause to be the first which came on, I cried, like a Captivated Calf as I was, Make way for the De- fendant's Witnesses. This sudden Partiality made all the County immediately see the Sheriff also was become a Slave to the fine Widow. During the Time her Cause was upon Trial, she behaved herself, I warrant you, with such a deep Attention to her Business, took Opportunities to have little Billets handed to her Council, then would be in such a pretty Confusion, occasioned, you must know, by acting before so much Company, that not only I but the 1 Ride. 94 Love in Literature and Art whole Court was prejudiced in her Favour ; and all that the next Heir to her Husband had to urge, was thought so groundless and frivolous, that when it came to her Council to reply, there was not half so much said as every one be- sides in the Court thought he could have urged to his Advantage. You must understand, Sir, this perverse Woman is one of those unaccountable Creatures, that secretly rejoice in the Admiration of Men, but indulge themselves in no further Consequences. Hence it is that she has ever had a Train of Admirers, and she removes from her Slaves in Town to those in the Country, accord- ing to the Seasons of the Year. She is a reading Lady, and far gone in the Pleasures of Friendship ; She is always accompanied by a Confident, who is Witness to her daily Protestations against our Sex, and consequently a Bar to her first Steps towards Love, upon the Strength of her own Maxims and Declarations. " However, I must needs say this accomplished Mistress of mine has distinguished me above the rest, and has been known to declare Sir Roger de Coverley was the Tamest and most?Human of all the Brutes in the Country. I was told she said so, by one who thought he rallied me ; but upon the Strength of this slender Encouragement, of being thought least detestable, I made new Liveries, new paired my Coach-Horses, sent them all to Town to be bitted, and taught to throw their Legs well, and move all together, be- fore I pretended to cross the Country and wait upon her. As soon as I thought my Retinue suitable to the Character of my Fortune and Youth, I set out from hence to make my Addresses. The particular skill of this Lady has ever been to inflame your Wishes and yet command Respect. To make her Mistress of this Art, she has a greater Share of Knowledge, Wit and good Sense, than is usual even among Men of Merit. Then she is beautiful beyond the Race of Women. If you won't let her go on with a cer- tain Artifice with her Eyes, and the Skill of a Beauty, she will arm herself with her real Charms, and strike you with Admiration instead of Desire. It is certain that if you were to behold the whole Woman, there is that Dignity in her Aspect, that Composure in her Motion, that Compla- The Perverse Widow 95 cency in her Manner, that if her Form makes you hope, her Merit makes you fear. But then again, she is such a desperate Scholar, that no Country-Gentleman can approach her without being a Jest. As I was going to tell you, when I came to her House I was admitted to her Presence with great Civility ; at the same time she placed herself to be first seen by me in such an Attitude, as I think you call the Posture of a Picture, that she discovered new Charms, and I at last came towards her with such an Awe as made me Speechless. This she no sooner observed but she made her Advantage of it, and began a Discourse to me concern- ing Love and Honour, as they both are followed by Pre- tenders, and the real Votaries to them. When she [had] discussed these Points in a Discourse, which I verily be- lieve was as learned as the best Philosopher in Europe could possibly make, she asked me whether she was so happy as to fall in with my Sentiments on these important Particulars. Her Confident sat by her, and upon my being in the last Confusion and Silence, this malicious Aid of hers, turning to her, says, I am very glad to observe Sir Roger pauses upon this Subject, and seems resolved to deliver all his Sentiments upon the Matter which he pleases to speak. They both kept their Countenances, and after I had sat half an Hour meditating how to behave before such pro- found Casuists, I rose up and took my Leave. Chance has since that time thrown me very often in her Way, and she as often has directed a Discourse to me which I do not understand. This Barbarity has kept me ever at a Dis- tance from the most beautiful Object my Eyes ever beheld. It is thus also she deals with all Mankind, and you must make Love to her, as you would conquer the Sphinx, by posing her. But were she like other Women, and that there were any talking to her, how constant must the Pleas- ure of that Man be, who could converse with a Creature But, after all, you may be sure her Heart is fixed on some one or other; and yet I have been credibly informed ; but who can believe half that is said ! After she had done speaking to me, she put her Hand to her Bosom, and ad- justed her Tucker. Then she cast her Eyes a little down, upon my beholding her too earnestly. They say she sings 96 Love in Literature and Art excellently : her Voice in her ordinary Speech has some- thing in it inexpressibly sweet. You must know I dined with her at a publick Table the Day after I first saw her, and she helped me to some Tansy in the Eye of all the Gentlemen in the Country : She has certainly the finest Hand of any Woman in the World. I can assure you, Sir, were you to behold her, you would be in the same Condition ; for as her Speech is Music, her Form is An- gelick. But I find I grow irregular while I am talking of her; but indeed it would be Stupidity to be unconcerned at such Perfection. Oh the excellent Creature, she is as in- imitable to all Women, as she is inaccessible to all Men." I found my Friend begin to rave, and insensibly led him towards the House that we might be joined by some other Company ; and am convinced that the Widow is the Secret Cause of all that Inconsistency which appears in some Parts of my Friend's Discourse; tho' he has so much Command of himself as not directly to mention her, yet according to that of Martial, which one knows not how to enter in English, Dum facet bane loquitur. I shall end this Paper with that whole Epigram, which represents with much Humour my honest FYiend's Condition. " Quicquid agit Rufus nihil est nisi N&via Rufo, Si gaudet, si flet, si facet, hanc loquitur : Ccenat, propinat, poscit, negat, annuit, una est Ntevia ; Si non sit N