The Princess; a medley/Prologue
THE PRINCESS:
A MEDLEY.
PROLOGUE.
Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's dayGave his broad lawns until the set of sunUp to the people: thither flock'd at noonHis tenants, wife and child, and thither halfThe neighbouring borough with their InstituteOf which he was the patron. I was thereFrom college, visiting the son,—the sonA Walter too,—with others of our set.
And me that morning Walter show'd the house, Greek, set with busts: from vases in the hallFlowers of all heavens, and lovelier than their names,Grew side by side; and on the pavement layCarved stones of the Abbey-ruin in the park,Huge Ammonites, and the first bones of Time;And on the tables every clime and ageJumbled together; celts and calumets,Claymore and snowshoe, toys in lava, fansOf sandal, amber, ancient rosaries,Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere,The cursed Malayan crease, and battle-clubsFrom the isles of palm: and higher on the walls,Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk and deer,His own forefathers' arms and armour hung.
And 'this' he said 'was Hugh's at Agincourt;And that was old Sir Ralph's at Ascalon:A good knight he! we keep a chronicleWith all about him'—which he brought, and IDived in a hoard of tales that dealt with knights Half-legend, half-historic, counts and kingsWho laid about them at their wills and died;And mixt with these, a lady, one that arm'dHer own fair head, and sallying thro' the gate,Had beat her foes with slaughter from her walls.
And, I all rapt in this, 'Come out,' he said,'To the Abbey: there is Aunt ElizabethAnd sister Lilia with the rest.' We went(I kept the book and had my finger in it)Down thro' the park: strange was the sight to me;For all the sloping pasture murmur'd sownWith happy faces and with holiday.There moved the multitude, a thousand heads:The patient leaders of their InstituteTaught them with facts. One rear'd a font of stoneAnd drew, from butts of water on the slope,The fountain of the moment, playing nowA twisted snake, and now a rain of pearls,Or steep-up spout whereon the gilded ball Danced like a wisp: and somewhat lower downA man with knobs and wires and vials firedA cannon: Echo answer'd in her sleepFrom hollow fields: and here were telescopesFor azure views; and there a group of girlsIn circle waited, whom the electric shockDislink'd with shrieks and laughter: round the lakeA little clock-work steamer paddling pliedAnd shook the lilies: perch'd about the knollsA dozen angry models jetted steam:A petty railway ran: a fire-balloonRose gem-like up before the dusky grovesAnd dropt a fairy parachute and past:And there thro' twenty posts of telegraphThey flash'd a saucy message to and froBetween the mimic stations; so that sportWith Science hand in hand went; otherwherePure sport; a herd of boys with clamour bowl'dAnd stump'd the wicket; babies roll'd aboutLike tumbled fruit in grass; and men and maids Arranged a country dance, and flew thro' lightAnd shadow, while the twangling violinStruck up with Soldier-laddie, and overheadThe broad ambrosial aisles of lofty limeMade noise with bees and breeze from end to end.
Strange was the sight and smacking of the time;And long we gazed, but satiated at lengthCame to the ruins. High-arch'd and ivy-claspt,Of finest Gothic, lighter than a fire,Thro' one wide chasm of time and frost they gaveThe park, the crowd, the house; but all withinThe sward was trim as any garden lawn:And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth,And Lilia with the rest, and Ralph himself,A broken statue propt against the wall,As gay as any. Lilia, wild with sport,Half child half woman as she was, had woundA scarf of orange round the stony helm,And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk, That made the old warrior from his ivied nookGlow like a sunbeam: near his tomb a feastShone, silver-set; about it lay the guests,And there we join'd them: then the maiden AuntTook this fair day for text, and from it preach'dAn universal culture for the crowd,And all things great; but we, unworthier, toldOf college: he had climb'd across the spikes,And he had squeez'd himself betwixt the bars,And he had breathed the Proctor's dogs; and oneDiscuss'd his tutor, rough to common menBut honeying at the whisper of a lord;And one the Master, as a rogue in grainVeneer'd with sanctimonious theory.
But while they talk'd, above their heads I sawThe feudal warrior lady-clad; which broughtMy book to mind: and opening this I readOf old Sir Ralph a page or two that rangWith tilt and tourney; then the tale of her That drove her foes with slaughter from her walls,And much I prais'd her nobleness, and 'Where,'Ask'd Walter, 'lives there such a woman now?'
Quick answered Lilia 'There are thousands nowSuch women, but convention beats them down:It is but bringing up; no more than that:You men have done it: how I hate you all!O were I some great Princess, I would buildFar off from men a college of my own,And I would teach them all things: you should see.'
And one said smiling 'Pretty were the sightIf our old halls could change their sex, and flauntWith prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans,And sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair.I think they should not wear our rusty gowns,But move as rich as emperor moths, or RalphWho shines so in the corner; yet I fear,If there were many Lilias in the brood, However deep you might embower the nest,Some boy would spy it.'
At this upon the swardShe tapt her tiny silken-sandal'd foot:'That's your light way; but I would make it deathFor any male thing but to peep at us.'
Petulant she spoke, and at herself she laugh'd;A rosebud set with little wilful thorns,And sweet as English air could make her, she:But Walter hail'd a score of names upon her,And 'petty Ogress', and 'ungrateful Puss',And swore he long'd at college, only longed,All else was well, for she-society.They boated and they cricketed; they talk'dAt wine, in clubs, of art, of politics;They lost their weeks; they vext the souls of deans;They rode; they betted; made a hundred friends,And caught the blossom of the flying terms, But miss'd the mignonette of Vivian-place,The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus he spoke,Part banter, part affection.
'True,' she said'We doubt not that. O yes, you miss'd us much.I'll stake my ruby ring upon it you did.'
She held it out; and as a parrot turnsUp thro' gilt wires a crafty loving eye,And takes a lady's finger with all care,And bites it for true heart and not for harm,So he with Lilia's. Daintily she shriek'dAnd wrung it. 'Doubt my word again!' he said.'Come, listen! here is proof that you were miss'd:We seven stay'd at Christmas up to read;And seven took one tutor. Never manSo moulder'd in a sinecure as he:For while our cloisters echo'd frosty feet,And our long walks were stript as bare as brooms, We did but talk you over, pledge you allIn wassail; often, like as many girls—Sick for the hollies and the yews of home—As many little trifling Lilias—play'dCharades and riddles as at Christmas here,And what's my thought and when and where and how,And often told a tale from mouth to mouthAs here at Christmas.'
'I remember that:A pleasant game,' she said: 'I liked it moreThan magic music, forfeits, all the rest.But these—what kind of tales did men tell men,I wonder, by themselves?'
A half-disdainPerch'd on the pouted blossom of her lips:And Walter nodded at me; 'He began,The rest would follow, so we tost the ball:What kind of tales? why, such as served to killTime by the fire in winter.‘
'Kill him now! Tell one' she said: 'kill him in summer too.'And 'tell one' cried the solemn maiden aunt.'Why not a summer's as a winter's tale?A tale for summer, as befits the time;And something it should be to suit the place,Grave, moral, solemn, like the mouldering wallsAbout us.'
Walter warp'd his mouth at thisTo something so mock-solemn, that I laugh'dAnd Lilia woke with sudden-shrilling mirthAn echo, like an April woodpecker,Hid in the ruins; till the maiden aunt(A little sense of wrong had touch'd her faceWith colour) turn'd to me:'Well—as you will—Just as you will,' she said; 'be, if you will,Yourself your hero.'
'Look then' added he'Since Lilia would be princess, that you stoopNo lower than a prince.'
To which I said,'Take care then that my tale be follow'd outBy all the lieges in my royal vein:But one that really suited time and placeWere such a medley, we should have him backWho told the Winter's Tale to do it for us:A Gothic ruin, and a Grecian house,A talk of college and of ladies' rights,A feudal knight in silken masquerade,And there with shrieks and strange experiments,For which the good Sir Ralph had burnt them all,The nineteenth century gambols on the grass.No matter; we will say whatever comes:Here are we seven: if each man take his turnWe make a sevenfold story:' then began.