 | Plays and Poems |  |
SCENE III.
A Room in the Castle of the Marquis di Tiburzzi. Costanza and Filippia.Filippia.
Saw him before?
Costanza.
Yes;—only once before.
Fil.
But where, and how?
Cos.
Can you not call to mind
The day our duke was welcomed by the people?
Fil.
As well as yesterday.
Cos.
Indeed, indeed!
It seems a weary age since then, to me.
Among the nobles, who rode nigh the duke,
Was one who, in all noble qualities
Of port and majesty, rode there supreme:
Clad in black velvet, for his father's death;
Yet wearing a long plume of ostrich white,
As a fit emblem of the general joy.
Fil.
Lord! you know all about him!
Cos.
Yes—why—yes.—
Surely the people talked of him alone.
Fil.
I was beside you, yet I heard them not.
Well, well, go on.
Cos.
It chanced a beggar's child,
A pretty boy—one of those nimble imps
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And under carriage-wheels—became entangled
In the unusual press; shrieked out for help;
Then, suddenly, was still for very fear.
The whole crowd held its breath, and one great heart
Beat through it all. Now there arose a cry:
Yet while the silly people did but scream,
Down from his charger leaped the cavalier,
Dashed in the throng, and, ere I cried God bless him,
The boy was laughing in his mother's arms!
Fil.
Now, I recall some little scene like that.
Cos.
'T was a great scene! The Duke stretched out his hand;
And, glorious in his dimmed and miry suit,
The hero mounted lightly on his horse.
Some nobles laughed, some sneered, some looked askance;
But all the people raised a mighty shout;
And the great sun, bursting a heavy cloud,
Shone round Juranio like a halo!
Fil.
Brave!
Yet, cousin, I saw not one half that you did.
I heard a child scream; heard some voices call;
Saw a man quickly leap down from his horse;
Heard a faint murmur; then the show went on.—
About the sun and halo I know nothing.
Cos.
'T was many a day ere I forgot the Count;
And when we met this morn, a sudden thrill
Of the old feeling stirred my memory,
And brought me back that moving scene again,—
Which much confused me.
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Ah! “Which much confused you!”
Take my word, cousin, our heroic Count,
When he caught up the beggar's little boy,
Caught up a certain lady's heart, I wot of.—
But I approve it.
Cos.
What do you approve?
Fil.
The catching up of fair Costanza's heart.
Cos.
I beg you, cousin, not to break your jests
Upon so grave a subject. Had my mother
O'erheard your heedless nonsense, this would be
A stormy day for me.
Fil.
I have a secret—
Nay, a surmise, which I have made a secret—
That casts a fearful shadow.—
Cos.
I am listening.
Fil.
I fear to speak; knowing the steadfast love
You cherish towards your parents.
Cos.
Dear Filippia,
My marriage has perplexed you sadly. Speak;
For it must be your subject. I absolve you
From your hard promises. Come, come, give tongue;
Draw off your rancor to the very dregs:
Ill words, well-purposed, have no mischief in them.
Fil.
Has not your mother an o'er-anxious care
About this marriage?
Cos.
Is it not a duty
She owes my father?
Fil.
But your father looks
So sad and moody! Then he never speaks.
There 's something in his silence.
Cos.
It reveals
The wishes that lie nearest to his heart.
He fears his choice has swayed my inclination;
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More from a sense of duty than from love:
So he withholds his counsel, leaving me
My own conclusion.
Fil.
Doubtless that might be.
I could unfold such things.—The saints forgive me!
Love, gratitude—owed, if not well repaid—
O, why do you cry out so loud against me?
She took me when a child, a helpless orphan—
When no one else would keep me—when my kin
Hawked me about, with a sour charity,
From one hand to another;—reared me so
That the most jealous eye could not detect
Wherein my training differed from her own,
Her own dear child, Costanza's; for whose sake—
But what affection pardons treachery?
Cos.
Filippia, darling, pray be plain!
Fil.
No, no;
I cannot, dare not. I have said too much.
Your mother's smile will be a long reproach
To me, who should deserve, above all others,
The never-ending smile she suns me in.
I have had thoughts, base, base, degrading thoughts,
But I will kill them, if I perish with them—
Which, but to speak, would make yon old Tiburzzi
Leap up and shudder in their frames; would shake
This ancient roof-tree on my wicked head,
And hide my shame in ruins! It were just.
Believe me not, Costanza; scorn my hints;
Cling to your mother—she is worth your love.
I, I—O, vile!—nay, do not pity me—
Am the most faithless of a high-souled race!
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What mean you? Speak!—You do not love me. Speak!—
What is this mystery? Speak!
Fil.
No; never more.
We must all wreck together; I am dumb.
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