Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Volume 4

Palermo. Reception-room in the Palace.

BLASCO and FERDINAND.

BLASCO.

Have you not been in Sicily before?

FERDINAND.

Never.

Bl. And, sir, what think you of Palermo? Have you as fine cities in Spain?

Fer. Your city, Approached by sea or from the roofs surveyed, Smiles back upon the gazer like a queen That hears her praise. Nearer to speak I’ll grudge not, When I may nearer know: but since we came There’s been no hour a stranger might dare shew His face in the streets.

Bl. The time is now unquiet.

Fer. Rather I’d say government given over 10 To murderous bandits, who range up and down Unchecked: to whom the king’s commissioners Were just the daintiest pricking. If I may brag Of home, our cities are more orderly.

Bl. ’Tis a hot-blooded race, sir, full of stirrings, Subject to fermentation, and like good wine Ever the better for it.

Fer. But can you tell me The real cause of these disturbances?

Bl. Nothing is easier, sir. Your viceroy, Hugo, This is the point, is plunged in disesteem. 20 He has lost the fear and won the hate of the people. Already, ere ye came, the news ye bring Of the king being dead, was buzzed. Since at his death His viceroy’s office falls to ground, our townsmen Seize on this interval, wherein they hold He hath no jurisdiction, to discredit him, Kill him maybe, if nothing else will hinder His reappointment. They but make the most Of their occasion: that is all.

Fer. But how Can a mere handful of such ruffians hold 30 The city, when the loyal troops are his?

Bl. ’Tis known to the people that their cause hath found An ear in Spain: and here among the barons Are many who wish well to the revolt. Should Hugo push to extremes he might discover Most potent enemies. Remember, sir, ’Twas a street scuffle in this very town, That drave the French from Sicily.

Fer. The thought Brings me no comfort.

Bl. Wherefore ’tis his policy To meet the present rage by such concessions 40 As may be popular, and to give forth The king is ill, not dead. ’Tis for this reason No mass is sung nor mourning liveries worn: To-night’s festivity, such as it is, Hath only this pretence.

Fer. Are the two ladies His daughters both?

Bl. The taller and the fairer, The lady Constance, is his only daughter. Your fine duke Philip, who comes now from court With such a mightiness, was once her lover.

Fer. That doth not single her.

Bl. But then it did. 50 She was his first. ’Twas when duke Philip’s father Was viceroy here; Hugo was then chief justice, And Manuel, who succeeded him, was only Young Philip’s tutor;—he succeeds moreover Now to his pupil’s leavings, and will marry The long-forgotten Constance.

Fer. ’Twas the other I asked of, in white satin, she who sat On Philip’s right at supper; who is she?

Bl. That, sir, is Margaret.

Fer. And who is Margaret?

Bl. Sister to Manuel.

Fer. She far outshines 60 Her future sister.

Bl. They that can see have thought it: And, sir, ’twill tax your better wit to add A tittle to her full accustomed homage. Your broken heart were but a pinch of pepper Sprinkled on porridge. Now for full two years Her reign hath made a melancholy madness The fashion ’mongst our youth.

Fer. I should much like To be presented.

Bl. O, sir, at your will. Judge for yourself. See, here they come. (Aside.) A moth!

Fer. (aside). A very civil fellow.