University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—A ROOM IN COUNT DEL' ALBANO'S HOUSE.
Enter Angiolina followed by Count del' Albano.
ALBANO.
Yet more, my daughter, I have more to say:
Thou'st wrung consent from me by tears and prayers
To this ill-omen'd union.

ANGIOLINA.
Father, hush!
Oh! do not speak 'gainst my Hippolito!
'Tis true he is not rich, nor boasts great weight
Among the rich and powerful of our land:
But he is Wealth, Power, Honour, State, and Fame,
And Sway, and Sovereignty itself to me!—

ALBANO.
Alas, my child! I fear me he is one
Too poor in principle—too light in love.
Ev'n at the eleventh hour, I bid thee pause—
Thy happiness, thy peace, are now at stake!

ANGIOLINA.
Could happiness and peace of mine be e'er
Divided from my heart's Hippolito,
Dear father, trust me, I would yield them smiling,
And take Hippolito with grief, shame, pain,
And penury, exile, slavery—death instead!

ALBANO.
But yester morning there arrived in Mantua
The noble youth whose father was my friend,—
My earliest, faithfullest, most-honour'd friend,
Di Castagnola; and to see this youth—
The high-born Giulio—husband of my child,
Has ever been my heart's most favourite wish.

ANGIOLINA.
Nay, dearest father!—What! that solemn sage!
That star-gazer—that book-worm—that pale dreamer!
His high Philosophership, as I was wont
To call him some two little years ago!—

ALBANO.
And I am told, for learning and attainments
His match is not in Mantua; more than that,
Not in all Italy—withal right gallant—

ANGIOLINA.
Nay, father; see him on a horse and die—
Unless he is much improved in that—indeed,
He might well kill us all with laughing! Ah!
To see him—

ALBANO.
I have seen him on his horse:
Whate'er he was, he's an equestrian now
That well might challenge any here or elsewhere.

ANGIOLINA.
Not my Colonna! Oh! my father, cease!
My word—my plight are given—I must be his!
Strive not to change me—it were vain—how vain!
My heart, my soul are his! Strive not to change me!
Behold these wedding presents he hath sent!
What need to send them, when he hath already
Given me the treasures worth an empire's sway—
His heart—his truth?—Oh! saints, I am too happy!
I see another world about me, smiling—
Another heaven—another earth!—Not so!
All Heaven 'tis now!—but that—even that—is made
A more magnificent and wond'rous vision!—
I am too happy!

ALBANO.
May this cloudless mood
But last—firm fix'd on good and true foundations—
And I will answer thee like any echo!
Since nought can move thee—since thy choice is made
Beyond recall, I will concede to him
Permission straight to make due preparations—
Rather, to finish those he hath commenced—
And, at his earnest instance, I will name
To-morrow for the sacred ceremonial.

ANGIOLINA.
To-morrow! Ah! too soon! One day remove it!
Just twelve hours later, and I yield consent!

ALBANO.
Nay, blushing self-deceiver! nay, sweet doubter!
I better know thy heart than thou may'st do;—
To-morrow is the day: while yet postponed,
Those nuptials—little dear to me I own—
Weigh on my mind with an unwelcome weight:
A thousand agitations shake my soul.

ANGIOLINA
(aside).
A thousand now, through mine seem thrilling fast!
Thou'rt going, dearest father? Oh! return—
Full soon return, if this indeed must be
The last loved day that I shall pass with thee!
[Exit Count.
Hippolito!—my love—my lord—my husband!
What hath delay'd thee? Oh! why com'st thou not?
(Looking at a watch.)
Just eight-and-forty hours—three minutes over,
Seven seconds and a half—(which thou, my heart,
Reckonest by ages, and by years, and months)
Hast thou been sever'd from thy true one's side!
What fools Love makes of us!—But what a Folly!
Angels might envy it, and hate their wisdom,—
Aye, the deep-knowing Cherubim!—New joy!—
[Enter Imelda.
Most sweet Imelda! thou art come now to hear
The tidings of my gladness. Know, my father
Hath given the fullest, final, best consent,—
And I shall be Colonna's bride to-morrow!
But thou—thou'rt pale and downcast! Oh! what is 't?

IMELDA.
Read thou these papers, wherewith thy Colonna
Hath charged me for thy private hand.

ANGIOLINA.
Give here!
My fond heart trembles—

IMELDA.
Nay! be reassured,—
The peril's past.

ANGIOLINA.
The peril! Oh! great heavens!
Though past, the shadow of such peril past
To him more frights me than the present substance
Of thousand perils to myself! (Reads.)
“Preserved
From dangers imminent by Giulio!” How!—
By Giulio?—Yes: be blessings shower'd upon him!—
“Brigands assaulted me;—but all is well;”—
Sweet Heaven, be thank'd for this amazing mercy!
Think! had I known the peril he was in,
What agonising trance of tribulation—
What spasm of sick suspense, had crush'd me down,
Almost unto the death which he escaped!—
Almost?—ah! surely quite! and he had come
Only to find a corpse, and not a bride!—
But, what! my friend! thou'rt pale and downcast still!
Foul shame on me, forgetful of the cause,
Which woman's skill discover'd—as thou know'st,
And which thou hast owned to me some time ago,
Look up, and sigh not thus. Say, dear Imelda,
Doth the Duke's coldness still the same continue?

IMELDA.
No! not the same—increasing evermore!
Alas! I reck not how I have offended!

ANGIOLINA.
I fear me 'tis his changeful nature—

IMELDA.
Changeful?
What! knowest thou—

ANGIOLINA.
Nothing! but I oft have heard
He is capricious in his loves and likings,—
By nature an Inconstant. Yet have hope;
He never can have loved one half as worthy,
As beautiful, as good, pure, dear, as thou art!

IMELDA.
Hush, flatterer! Tell me, didst thou ne'er remark
The Duke upon thyself intensely gazing?

ANGIOLINA.
On me?—Oh, no! On me?—Nay, I remember,
At Prince Martini's fête, some foolish words,
Exaggerated compliments, and praises,
That meant just nothing—were received as such;—
But never have I marked him gazing on me.

IMELDA.
Because thine eyes but look for young Colonna.

ANGIOLINA.
Nay! this is yellow Jealousy's delirium!
Be jealous, sweet, of all the world but me.
He cannot love me, who would hate his love;
He cannot love me, who so loves his loved one—
His once best-loved one,—that to change from her
Should seem to me like changing from myself!

IMELDA.
Tried friend and gentlest! honey'd consolations
Sit on thy lips, and flow from thy soft voice:
I will not give the rein unto my fears;
I will be patient—patient?—what is that?—
But still to wait on hope, and watch for peace!
A moment now to change the theme! My friend,
Remember'st thou how Castagnola loved thee,
How thou wert wont to flout him, and to mock him?—

ANGIOLINA.
Change not the theme to him! And yet—Ungrateful!
(Not for his love—I feel not there beholden!)
I ought to think on him with deepest joy—
He saved the life of my Hippolito!
For which I yet will thank him! Let me send
Forthwith, with invitation strong to him
(Couch'd in the kindliest and most friendly terms),
To greet me here—My waiting-maid—Leonora!—

IMELDA.
Nay! if he loves thee still—

ANGIOLINA.
Oh! never think it;
'Twas all a dream—a fancy!—steep'd in study,
He hath had but little time to think of love—
Love! most unnatural to his frame of mind:
Be sure his luminous mistresses above,
The shining stars, preserve his shielded heart
From any vulgarer, less exalted passion!

IMELDA.
Poor Giulio!—Well! I know not—

ANGIOLINA.
If thou'lt pity,
Pity another—one whom thou makest wretched—
Emmanuel Lorio. Never credit me,
But he doth love thee to distraction!

IMELDA.
Yes!
He loves me—he hath told me so; but hope
Grew not with love;—he knows I love another!

ANGIOLINA.
Poor youth! I pity him—

IMELDA.
Keep, Angiolina,
All thy compassion for the Castagnola!

ANGIOLINA.
Methinks he needs it not.—But I forget,
I have to send a gracious letter to him,
Nor will delay this duty farther.—What!
Who waits?—Why!—Leonora!

[Enter Leonora.
LEONORA.
Here, sweet lady!

ANGIOLINA.
Thou must be bearer of a scroll for me,
Or find a trusty messenger to be so.

LEONORA.
That can I easily;—my husband, lady—

ANGIOLINA.
Aye! I remember'd not that thou wert married.

LEONORA.
One year, three quarters, seven weeks, and a day.
Mantua ne'er saw such tender turtle-doves
As I and my Guiscardo! Such a husband!
I trust your ladyship's may but be like him!

ANGIOLINA.
Like him!—Oh, mercy!—My Hippolito!

LEONORA.
Yes, madam, ev'n like him—my fair Guiscardo!

ANGIOLINA.
Thy fair Guiscardo!—Oh, ye gods! hear that!
His freckled skin is like a rusty sword.
His eyes have met in mortal combat, sure,
And, cowards, are flying from each other!

LEONORA.
True,
His vision is oblique; but then those eyes—
One like a fix'd star—like a comet the other—
All freely ranging—

ANGIOLINA.
Well, enough! enough!—
Call him thy fair Guiscardo if thou wilt,
But never let his name be seen or heard
Within an hundred leagues of my Colonna's!
Come with me, kind Imelda; we will sit
In mine own chamber, at our tapestry frames,
(Since I, dear idler, have got one for thee!)
And still beguile the time with sweet discourse.—
But first a line to Giulio must I pen.

[Exit Angiolina and Imelda.
LEONORA.
How she disparaged my Guiscardo!—Well!
He has some faults, and that I let him know.
But I must call him, that he may remain
In readiness to take this same despatch.
Guiscardo!—here!—my sweet Guiscardo!—haste!
[Guiscardo enters.
Indeed, my angel! you're too tedious-slow:
Would you had wings—you creep like any tortoise!

GUISCARDO.
Nay, Leonora, I made speed—

LEONORA.
There!—hear him!
Plain Leonora!—not one fondling word!

GUISCARDO
(aside).
'Tis plain Leonora, or I am not Guiscardo!—
Would I could make her pretty with such fondling!

LEONORA.
No tender epithets of blest endearment?
Surely you must forget!—we have but been wedded
One year, three quarters, seven weeks, and a day.
I look upon myself as still a bride,
And thou, love, as my gallant groom!

GUISCARDO.
Thy groom!
I' faith, thou treat'st me like one; or yet worse—
Send here and there—

LEONORA.
Now, hearken to me, pray,
Mine only love! Oh! I could hate you soundly!
I beg, when you address yourself to me,
You still would add some epithet delightful,—
My life!—my bird of beauty!—or—

GUISCARDO.
Enough!
I ne'er shall get by heart a longer string.
My bird of beauty! (I must say, Leonora,
You've flown away with your own beauty—heigh?
Or else some other bird hath, surely!)

LEONORA.
How!
Thou wretch!—I mean, thou cruel, villanous darling!—
Ugh!—I could scratch your eyes out, my delight—
My Dove!—Oh! I could pull your bushy beard
Up by its roots, until you roar'd again!
I scorn those vile insinuations, dearest!
But see, now, how thou hast flutter'd me and fever'd;
[Sobbing.
I know at last thou'lt be my death!—my life!

GUISCARDO.
Nay, never ruffle so thy farthingale,
My bird of beauty!—spare thy farthingale,
Thy scarlet wedding farthingale, fire-new.

LEONORA.
Fire-new, indeed!—A year old and three-quarters!—
Add seven weeks,—one whole day!—fire-new, indeed!
'Tis time you gave your bride a new one, troth!

GUISCARDO.
Well! but 'tis either new, or thou no bride—
An old, staid, sober, wedded wife—

LEONORA.
Shame!—shame!
How dar'st thou thus abuse me, impious man!

GUISCARDO.
Abuse, indeed!—Now listen—once for all,
I cannot spare one doit to thee at present;
So ask no more for farthingales nor mantles!

LEONORA.
Thou need'st not roar me like a lion—lamb!—
Oh! thou'rt the greatest torment—my delight!
Thou say'st this all to spite me; well, I know
Thou must have mints of monies in thy purse;
Or else, if thou'rt, indeed, so pauper-poor,
My only treasure, thou'rt a shameful spendthrift;
For I well know thy monthly wages—

GUISCARDO.
Come,
Now, I will strike a bargain with thee straight.
I will bestow on thee a piece of lace—
A venerable piece—to make a coif;
It were more seemly thou should'st wear one, too;
'Twas my old grandmother's—saints rest her soul!

LEONORA.
The foul fiend fly off with your lace and you—
My bird of Paradise! D' ye think, in sooth,
That I—a youthful, blushing, tender bride—
Would wear your old dead grandmother's cast clothes,
You avaricious, parsimonious—pet!
You need not look so sour upon me—sweet!
Nor scowl so savagely—I'll be revenged,
I do assure thee; my adored one, truly—
Thou art far too despicable to be borne with!
Old lace indeed!—a coif forsooth!—how paltry!—
Thou'rt rough and rude, uncourtly, most unpolish'd,
My Polar Star—my Planet—my Great Bear!—
Now pay me monies here, my charmer, down,
Wherewith I may, as it beseems me, buy
A sky-blue farthingale, which I much need,—
Two jackets of a rose-tinged Padusoy,—
Slash'd sleeves of purple, and a grass-green mantle,
Trimm'd round with fringes red, and knots of yellow;
Three tuckers of the very richest lace,
(Not your dead grandmother's old spider webs,
Pluck'd from her cottage corners, I'll be sworn!)
Now do be kind, my precious!—do consent,
Light of my eyes!—my Love!—my Lucifer!—

GUISCARDO.
I'll give thee leave to throttle me, or flay me,
If e'er thou'lt get such presents out of me!
Come, be not chafed, my bird of beauty, pr'ythee!
Nor cast such ugly looks at thy Guiscardo!

[Going.
LEONORA.
Was ever such a man? Stay! stop! be still!
Is not my lady waiting all this while,
For thee, Guiscardo, my devoted—

GUISCARDO.
What!
My lady waiting! why, thou chattering goose—

LEONORA.
A goose! thou barbarous, monstrous—blessed treasure!

GUISCARDO.
Well, 'tis a bird! you will be call'd a bird!
Why didst not tell me I was waited for?

LEONORA.
Because thou wert not; I in sooth forgot,
'Tis thou art waiting for my lady here;
And when she hath prepared a certain scroll,
'Tis thou must bear it to its destination;
Though well I guess thou'lt take two hours about it,
Since thou'rt a most incorrigible sloth,
My Hercules—my Heliogabalus!
Hist! hark! she calls! one word, Guiscardo, love!
Say, thou wilt give seven dollars?

GUISCARDO.
Not a doit!

LEONORA.
Why! you old Jew—that is, I mean you jewel!—
Oh! be more kind! three dollars?

GUISCARDO.
Not a rap!

LEONORA.
My angel! why, the devil take thee then!
[Exeunt both.

SCENE II.

—ANOTHER ROOM IN COUNT DEL' ALBANO'S HOUSE.
Albano alone.
ALBANO.
I tremble for my child!—I doubt Colonna:
Yet he hath, doubtless, some fair qualities,—
A reckless bravery, and a hardihood
Of soul and bearing!—Ah! I fear, of heart!—
A restless, shining, climbing, bold ambition,
A passionate ardour and a flaming zeal
In whatsoe'er he undertakes or fancies,—
At least, it seems so in his outward 'haviour!
But much I fear!—Away! I will not further
On this dissatisfying subject dwell!
How could I bear to watch my daughter drooping—
Her young health undermined day after day—
To see those eyes for ever swollen with weeping—
That cheek more pallid and more hollow grow—
My rose of beauty fading to a lily—
My lily withering to a bloomless stalk—
To hear the wisest leeches in all Mantua,
The best Mediciners from Rome and elsewhere,
Pronounce her dying of a broken heart!
Could I insist, and dig my darling's grave?
Death hath no hope! but life still yields some promise,
Howe'er may cloud its changed horizon o'er.
Fain would I think mine Angiolina's love
Must change whate'er is wrong and base in him,
And make Hippolito more like herself!
Oh! that she had but loved young Castagnola!
I do believe him all his father was—
Lo! he is here!
[Enter Giulio.
Dear son of my dear friend!
All welcome back to Mantua! I could wish
We might have met on other terms; thou know'st
It ever was my dream, and hope, and aim,
That thou should'st wed my daughter!—Thou hast heard—

GIULIO.
I have, sir, and I have but this to ask,
That thou touch not upon that hopeless subject.

ALBANO.
And thou still lov'st her! Destiny perverse!

GIULIO.
Herself hath lately sent to me a letter,
Commanding here my presence; I obey'd,
Though well I guess why thus she grants me audience;
To pour out in mine ears her gratitude—
Her gratitude—that I,—that this right arm,
Deliver'd from a threatening mortal danger
The lover she adores! for whose dear sake,
She destines me to an eternal misery,
Her lover—bridegroom—husband—Oh! my rival—
The enemy of my crush'd soul for ever!
And I obey'd, and I am come—am here—
To see her yet once more! Once more?—Sweet Heaven!
When have I ceased to see her?—night and day—
Asleep, awake—in sorrow or in joy—
At peril or at peace—i' the lonely cell,
Slave of the midnight lamp of magic knowledge,
Or 'midst the hum of human companies;
In glittering halls of state or populous streets—
In travel or at rest—in tempests—calm—
In idlesse, or 'midst occupation's movement—
Still have I seen her—seen nought else but her!
Oh! but my soul hath seen her evermore!

ALBANO.
Speak thou less wildly. Come, command thyself.

GIULIO.
She will command me, with her slightest word—
Her very look—her presence—her approach!
I could not pain her with my pain reveal'd—
My anguish bared unto her gentlest heart!
No! not to gain a treasure past all summing—
The heart-dear tribute of her pitying tears!

ALBANO.
Thou lovest her! would Colonna loved as well—
With such a holy fervency!

GIULIO.
What say'st thou?
Doth he not love her as the new-made mother
Her twelve-hours' child—the miser, all his store—
The monarch, all his sway—the warrior, conquest—
The exile, his native land—the enfranchised slave,
His late given liberty—the dying, life—
The sage, his theory—and the bard, his laurels!
Doth he not love her thus?—Aye, more—more—more,
Then let me hate him for his lack of love,
More than I did for all his love's presumption!

ALBANO.
Alas! Colonna!—But, I go to seek her.

[Exit Albano.
GIULIO.
Misery—strong misery!—make me all thine own;
Deaden this over-love—this over-life!
And let me suffer less,—less suffering shew her—
'Tis for her sake alone I wish it. Hark!
A sound! Be crush'd to stillness—Heart!—a step!
O thunder!—such it seems unto my heart,
Though light as dove-plumes falling!

[Enter Angiolina.
ANGIOLINA.
Oh, my lord!
I hasten to express to thee how much,
How most profoundly, I am beholden to thee!
(Aside.)
Heavens! he is pale as death! and trembling, too!
Ah! can it be, indeed, he loves me still?—
No—no, 'tis over-study hath thus changed him.
(Aloud.)
Thy gallantry no guerdon can desire—
Such reminiscences are best rewards—
Themselves are best rewards to generous natures!
Yet, as brave cavaliers have ever deign'd
From lady's hands to take some token-boon,
And wear as badge of service or of merit,
Accept, I pray, from Angiolina's hands—
Grateful to thee for her dear lover's life—
This poor remembrancer—her pictured self.

(Gives a picture.)
GIULIO.
Too much—too much—

ANGIOLINA.
A trifle—dear my lord!—

GIULIO.
Too much! Oh! agony—I cannot bear it!
(Falls on his knees.)
Start not!—thou know'st I have loved thee! To have loved thee
Must be to love thee ever!—let me speak!
That start seem'd worse than outrage to my feelings—
Enforce not pause!—I must be heard this once:—
I love thee! Well I know it is in vain;
But I have said those words! To speak those words
Heaved all my soul up to the height of heaven,
And seem'd to bind all—all life's blessedness—
All blessedness of future and of past—
All blessedness that e'er was felt on earth,
Through all its myriad hosts of generations,
In one full throb of deep heart-preciousness!
Oh! I have loved thee while my labouring mind
Climb'd the slow ladder of heaven-leading knowledge!
While I have bent me o'er the starry lore—
The old luminous Chaldean occupation—
And taught my thoughts their Titan-march to make,
My heart was up i' the heavens before them;—yea!
My heart was in the heavens before them, lo!
By love uplifted o'er the visible sky!
Where hath that ruin'd heart of death now fall'n?
Not—not—to break here at thy feet, 'twere bliss!

ANGIOLINA.
Alas! I pity—I regret—

GIULIO
(rising).
No more!
Burst from my heart the impassion'd, madd'ning truth,
Ere I could check it, like a fount of fire!
Thou pitiest!—thou regrett'st!—I pray for pardon!—
No right have I to harrow thy young heart,
So dove-like gentle, with my desperate sorrows.
Farewell, sweet—sweetest lady!—ne'er think more
On him th' unhappiest! Be the happiest thou,
Nor let another's pangs cast slightest shadow
O'er thy fair opening firmaments of joy!

[Exit Giulio.
ANGIOLINA.
I pity him! and yet, the while I pity,
I feel half angry that he dares to love me,—
So jealous of myself I now am grown,
For my Hippolito's sweet sake adored,
Scarce can I bear another should presume
To look e'en on the consecrated temple,
Sacred and dedicate to him alone!
[Exit Angiolina.