The Lady of Lyons

Robert Bulwer Lytton

Act II, Scene I

Characters: Pauline Deschappelles, the beautiful daughter and heiress of an aspiring merchant of Lyons, France; Claude Melnotte, the gardener's son, madly in love with Pauline.

Pauline aspires to an alliance with some prince or nobleman. Melnotte in the hope of winning her uses his small inheritance in educating himself and becomes an accomplished scholar, a skillful musician, a poet, and an artist. He pours forth his worship in a poem, but his suit is rejected and he is subjected to violent insult. Stung to remorse he enters into a plot to personate a prince, woo her in that guise, and take her as a bride to his mother's cottage on their wedding night. And, in the faint hope of winning her as a prince and keeping her love as an untitled man after he has revealed his identity, Melnotte enters into a binding compact.

Scene: The garden of M. Deschappelles' house at Lyons.

Enter Melnotte as the Prince of Como, leading Pauline

Mel. You can be proud of your connection with one who owes his position to merit—not birth.

Pauline. Why, yes; but still—

Mel. Still what, Pauline?

Pauline. There is something glorious in the heritage of command. A man who has ancestors is like a representative of the past.

Mel. True; but, like other representatives, nine times out of ten he is a silent member. Ah, Pauline! not to the past, but to the future, looks true nobility, and finds its blazon in posterity.

Pauline. You say this to please me, who have no ancestors; but you, prince, must be proud of so illustrious a race!

Mel. No, no! I would not, were I fifty times a prince, be a pensioner on the dead! I honor birth and ancestry when they are regarded as the incentives to exertion, not the title-deeds to sloth! I honor the laurels that overshadow the graves of our fathers—it is our fathers I emulate, when I desire that beneath the evergreen I myself have planted my own ashes may repose! Dearest! couldst thou but see with my eyes!

Pauline. I cannot forego pride when I look on thee, and think that thou lovest me. Sweet Prince, tell me again of thy palace by the lake of Como; it is so pleasant to hear of thy splendors since thou didst swear to me that they would be desolate without Pauline; and when thou describest them, it is with a mocking lip and a noble scorn, as if custom had made thee disdain greatness.

Mel.

Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paint
The home to which, could love fulfill its prayers,
This hand would lead thee, listen! A deep vale
Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world;
Near a clear lake, margin'd by fruits of gold
And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies,
As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows,
As I would have thy fate!

Pauline.

My own dear love!

Mel.

A palace lifting to eternal summer
Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower
Of coolest foliage, musical with birds,
Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon
We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder
Why Earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens
Still left us youth and love! We'd have no friends
That were not lovers; no ambition, save
To excel them all in love; we'd read no books
That were not tales of love—that we might smile
To think how poorly eloquence of words
Translates the poetry of hearts like ours!
And when night came, amidst the breathless Heavens
We'd guess what star should be our home when love
Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light
Stole through the mist of alabaster lamps,
And every air was 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?

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 passionate 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 passion 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 passion, 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 pass!
And let me come to such most poor atonement
Yet in my power. Pauline!—

Pauline.

No, touch me not!
I know my fate. You are, by law, my tyrant;
And I—O Heaven!—a peasant's wife! I'll work—
Toil—drudge—do what thou wilt—but touch me not!
Let my wrongs make me sacred!

Mel.

Do not fear me.
Thou dost not know me, madam; at the altar
My vengeance ceased—my guilty oath expired!
Henceforth, no image of some marble saint,
Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallowed more
From the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong.
I am thy husband—nay, thou need'st not shudder!—
Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's rights.
A marriage thus unholy—unfulfill'd—
A bond of fraud—is, by the laws of France,
Made void and null. To-night sleep—sleep in peace.
To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn
I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the shrine,
Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy home.
The law shall do thee justice, and restore
Thy right to bless another with thy love.
And when them art happy, and hast half forgot
Him who so loved—so wrong'd thee, think at least
Heaven left some remnant of the angel still
In that poor peasant's nature! Ho! my mother!

Enter Widow

Conduct this lady (she is not my wife;
She is our guest—our honor'd guest, my mother)
To the poor chamber, where the sleep of virtue
Never, beneath my father's honest roof,
E'en villains dared to mar! Now, lady, now
I think thou wilt believe me.
Go, my mother!

Widow.

She is not thy wife!

Mel.

Hush, hush! for mercy's sake!
Speak not, but go.

[Exit Widow. Pauline follows, weeping—turns to look back.

All angels bless and guard her!