University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

A STREET IN NAPLES. Maximin. Agatha.
Agatha.
(to herself).
'Twas he! 'twas father Rupert.

Maximin
(overhearing).
Well! what then?
What wouldst thou with him? thou must wait his leisure:
I have some business first with father Rupert.

Agatha
(gazing anxiously).
Can it be? can it be?

Maximin.
Have not men sins
As well as women? have not we our shrivers,
Our scourers, soderers, calkers, and equippers?

Agatha
(embracing him).
Forbear! O, for the love of God, forbear!
Heed him not, Maximin! or he will cast
Thy soul into perdition; he has mine.

Maximin.
And who art thou, good woman?

Agatha.
That fair name
Is mostly given with small courtesy,
As something tost at us indifferently
Or scornfully by higher ones. Thy sister
Was what thou callest her; and Rupert knows it.

Maximin.
My sister? how! I had but Agatha.
Agatha!

Agatha.
Maximin! we have not met
Since that foul day whose damps fell not on thee,
But fill'd our father's house while thou wert absent.
Thou, brother! brother! couldst not save my peace,
Let me save thine. He used to call me daughter,
And he may call thee son.

Maximin.
The very word!
He began fathering early: seven years old
At most was father Rupert. Holy names
Are covered ways. .

Agatha.
. . To most unholy deeds.

Maximin.
I see it; say no more: my sword is reddening
With blood that runs not yet, but soon shall run.

Agatha.
Talk not thus loud, nor thus, nor here.

Maximin.
Cross then
Over the way to that old sycamore;
The lads have left off playing at pallone.
I found out long ago his frauds, his treasons,
His murders; and he meditates a worse.
Agatha! let me look into thine eyes,
Try to be glad to see me: lift them up,
Nay, do not drop them, they are gems to me,
And make me very rich with only looking.
Thou must have been most fair, my Agatha!
And yet I am thy brother! Who would think it?

Agatha.
Nor time nor toil deforms man's countenance,
Crime only does it: 'tis not thus with ours.
Kissing the seven nails burnt in below
Thy little breast, before they well had healed,
I thought thee still more beautiful with them.

Maximin.
Those precious signs might have done better for me.

Agatha.
Only the honest are the prosperous.

Maximin.
A little too on that side hath slipt off.

Agatha.
Recover it.

Maximin.
How can I?

Agatha.
Save the innocent.

Maximin.
But whom?

Agatha.
Giovanna.

Maximin.
Is the queen in danger?

Agatha.
Knowest thou not?

Maximin.
Hide we away our knowledge;
It may do harm by daylight. I stand sentry
In many places at one time, and wink,
But am not drowsy. Trust me, she is safe.
And thou art then our Agatha! 'Twould do
Our mother good, were she alive, to find thee;
For her last words were, “Agatha, where art thou?”

Agatha.
Oh! when our parents sorrow for our crimes,
Then is the sin complete.

Maximin.
She sorrows not,
And 'tis high time that thou should'st give it over.

Agatha.
Alas! our marrow, sinews, veins, dry up,
But not our tears; they start with infancy,
Run on through life, and swell against the grave.

Maximin.
I must now see Fra Rupert. Come thou after.
He shall admit thee. Pelt him with reproaches,
Then will I . .

Agatha.
Brother! not for these came I,
But to avert one crime from his o'erladen
Devoted head. He hath returned . .

Maximin.
. . To join
Giovanna with Andrea? On with me:
We may forbid the banns a second time,
Urging perhaps a few impediments.
He hath been in some convent o'er the hill,
Doing sad penance on Calabrian rye,
How then couldst thou have heard about him? how
Find he was here in Naples?

Agatha.
There he should
And may have been: of late he was in Buda.

Maximin.
You met in Buda then?

Agatha.
Not met.

Maximin.
How know
His visit else, if he was there indeed?

Agatha.
While thou and Stephen Stourdza tended sheep
Together, I was in our mother's sight,
And mostly in her chamber; for ill-health
Kept her from work. Often did Father Rupert
Pray by her, often hear her long confession,
Long, because little could be thought of for it.
“Now what a comfort would it be to you,
If this poor child read better,” said the friar,
“To listen while she read how blessed saints
Have suffered, and how glorious their reward.”
My mother claspt her hands, and “What a comfort!”
Echoed from her sick bosom.
“Hath she been
Confirm'd?” he askt. “Yea, God be prais'd,” sigh'd she.
“We may begin then to infuse some salt
Into this leaven,” said the friar, well-pleas'd.
“The work is righteous: we will find spare hours.”
She wept for joy.

Maximin.
Weep then (if weep at all)
Like her.

Agatha.
Religious tracts soon tost aside,
Florentine stories and Sicilian song
Were buzz'd into my ears. The songs much pleas'd me,
The stories (these he cull'd out from the book,
He told me, as the whole was not for maids)
Pleas'd me much less; for woman's faults were there.

Maximin.
He might have left out half the pages, still
The book had been a bible in its bulk
If all were there.

Agatha.
To me this well applies,
Not to my sex.

Maximin.
Thou art the best in it.
Those who think ill of woman, hold the tongue
Thro' shame, or ignorance of what to say,
Or rifle the old ragbag for some shard
Spotted and stale. On, prythee, with thy story.

Agatha.
He taught me that soft speech, the only one
For love; he taught me to repeat the words
Most tender in it; to observe his lips
Pronouncing them; and his eyes scorcht my cheek
Into deep scarlet. With his low rich voice
He sang the sadness of the laurel'd brow,
The tears that trickle on the rocks around
Valchiusa. “None but holy men can love
As thou, Petrarca!” sighed he at the close.
Graver the work he brought me next. We read
The story of Francesca.

Maximin.
What is that?

Agatha.
Piteous, most piteous, for most guilty, passion.
Two lovers are condemn'd to one unrest
For ages. I now first knew poetry,
I had known song and sonnet long before:
I sail'd no more amid the barren isles,
Each one small self; the mighty continent
Rose and expanded; I was on its shores.
Fast fell the drops upon the page: he chided:
“And is it punishment to be whirl'd on
With our beloved thro' eternity?”
“Oh! they were too unhappy, too unhappy!”
Sobb'd I aloud: “Who could have written this?”
“Tenderest of tender maids!” cried he, and claspt me
To his hot breast. Fear seiz'd me, faintness, shame.
Be calm, my brother!

Maximin.
Tell then other tale,
And skip far on.

Agatha.
The queen Elizabeth
Heard of me at the nunnery where I served;
And the good abbess, not much loving one
Who spoke two languages and read at night,
Persuaded her that, being quick and needy,
'Twould be by far more charitable in her
To take me rather than some richer girl,
To read by her, and lace her sandals on.
I serv'd her several years, to her content.
One evening after dusk, her closet-door
Being to me at every hour unclosed,
I was just entering, when some voice like his,
Whispering, but deep, struck me: a glance sufficed:
'Twas he. They neither saw me. Now occurr'd
That lately had Elizabeth said more
And worse against Giovanna. “She might be
Guiltless, but should not hold the throne of Naples
From the sweet child her daughter: there were some
Who had strong arms, and might again do better
In cowl than fiercer spirits could in casque.”
Sleepless was I that night, afraid to meet
The wretched man, afraid to join the queen.
Early she rose, as usual; earlier I.
My sunken eyes and paleness were remarkt,
And, whence? was askt me.
“Those who have their brothers
At Naples,” I replied, “most gracious lady,
May well be sleepless; for rebellion shakes
A throne unsteady ever.”
First she paus'd,
Then said, with greater blandness than before,
“Indeed they may. But between two usurpers
What choice? Your brother may improve his fortune
By loyalty, and teaching it. You wish
To join him I see clearly, for his good;
It may be yours: it may be ours: go then,
Aid him with prudent counsel: the supply
Shall not be wanting, secrecy must not.”
She urged my parting: the same hour we parted.