University of Virginia Library

BOOK II.

SCENE I.

Piazzas near the King's Palace.
Velutri, walking to and fro in great agitation.
Vel.
The groan he utter'd! As I hope for grace,
I would not hear another such for all
The universe contains. I left him. If the boy
Take pity, it is well. The ducats? Dust!
Not all the wealth of Italy or Spain,
Egypt or India—Would, that I had died!
What though I was beset with ills around;
Steep'd in the gulf of every deep distress;
And my loved infants famishing with want.
Better,—far better,—they had pined, till death
Had lull'd their anguish to forgetfulness,
Than that their father should allay their wants
In banquets, purchased at a rate so dear.
Out on the ducats! I will perish rather
Than touch one counter. Oh my dearest babes!
How will ye meet the' averted eyes of scorn,
With which the world will visit ye? I suspect
Another crime, another secret crime,
Even more vile and horrible than this.
I'll to the king—the only solace left!
I'll to the king, confess my crime, and perish.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Fontano (blind); sitting among precipices, down which are scattered several crosses: Floranthe (in the habit of a boy) standing at his feet.
Fon.
Are not these jarring sounds the screams of eagles?

Flor.

I think they are: indeed I'm sure they are. This seems to be the land of eagles; and of chamois too; for I never saw such a multitude in all my life. Just by the roots of that old tree, signor, are more than ten or twelve, drinking round a spring. Oh—how I should like to be a chamois! Yet no; I should not like to be a

chamois either; for I now see four or five eagles flying over their heads. Should you not like to be an eagle, signor? I should; more than any thing else in the world; for then I could fly above the clouds. Stop—I should not like to be an eagle either; for then I might be killed by the thunder and lightning.

(Sings.)

Fon.
Where learnt you that? It suits my sorrows well.

Flo.
(sings.)
Sweet are the sun-beams, the forest illuming,
Which from the hard rind a soft honey distil;
Sweet is the lily the valley perfuming;
Sweet is the sound of the murmuring mill.
But a service like mine;
And thanks such as thine;
Are sweeter, more grateful; more fortunate still!

Fon.
Thanks, my dear boy: thou dost assuage my pain.

Flo.

Now, signor, rise; and take this hand; we shall soon get to the bottom. What a cruel deed it was, signor, to rob you of your sight; and then to leave you among such horrid precipices as these.

Fon.
Almost beyond man's cruelty. Take heed.
Careful,—my child: nay, do not loose my hand.
Now lead again; I trust to heaven and thee.

Flo.

And heaven shall fail thee, signor, sooner than I will. Oh me! I'm glad enough we've got to the bottom at last.

Fon.
Have we so? Lead me, then, I charge, to Venice.
There I'll repay thee for thy friendship towards me.

Flo.
Venice? The very place I want to visit myself.

Fon.
Thither Lavinia has arrived; or Paulo
Creeps like a glow-worm o'er the midnight leaf.
(Aside.)
Alas—with me, 'tis all one midnight; cheer'd
With not one ray, but that which shines from this
Young, cheerful, arch, yet mild and delicate boy,
To guide me safely to my daughter's arms.

Flo.

The signor, who told me to lead thee to the edge of a precipice, and leave thee there, gave me a ducat. So we are rich persons. When we have spent all this, signor; may I exercise my profession?

Fon.
And what is that, my noble-minded boy?

Flo.

Boy? (Aside)
True;—I shall forget myself. The Virgin has given me a strange gift, signor. She has taught me the art of an improvisatrice; I mean, an improvisatore. So, if I see a rich cavalier, riding on the road, this is the way I shall begin, perhaps.

Fon.
Thou richest mirror of a noble heart,
What court contains a splendid soul, like thine?

Flo.

Fon.
To grant a guide, so faithful, was indeed
To grant a treasure, which I ne'er could hope
In this most weary pilgrimage. Proceed.
Hard fate! hard fortune! never to behold
Tree, flower, nor streamlet; sun, nor moon, nor stars;
My native mountains; nor the sacred form
Of her I love: my daughter. Never shall I see
My faithful daughter, my sweet blooming daughter!
Oh, my dear boy, it is a bitterness
Beyond the measure of a parent's strength!

Flo.
Yet do not sigh, my reverend lord.
What says the Virgin's sacred word?
That every sigh, unjustly riven,
Is enter'd in the book of Heaven.
Oft, too, I've heard my mother say,
The time will come, oh blissful day!
When sighs and tears are wiped away.

Fon.
Surely this earth has never yet beheld
A being like thee. Thanks, my boy; I thank thee.
Young as thou art, thou hast pour'd balm and oil
Into my wounds.

Flo.
The path is better now.

Fon.
But stay:—Romano's camp, if I mistake not,
Lies towards the west. So, lead me northward, boy.

Flo.
But who erected all these crosses, signor?

Fon.
Pilgrims and travellers; in gratitude,
For having pass'd these dangerous rocks in safety.
Take this small crucifix; and plant it where
The pious pilgrim may behold and worship.

Flo.
(taking the crucifix.)

I must add something. Oh! The chain, that fastens this dear portrait round my neck. Heaven gives us all things; therefore, we should give, in return, not what is of little, but that which is of great, value. I shall, therefore, leave this chain.

Fon.
What chain?

Flo.

Nine years ago, signor, a dark ill-looking man took me from my father's house, in some great town; I know not where: and after some time travelling, threw me on the lap of an old woman, named Theresa, who lives in a large house, not above two or three leagues from this very spot.

Fon.
Thou hast been wrong'd, I fear, and much. Go on,

Flo.

A few days since, signor, a young lady came to that mansion; and, immediately on her coming, Theresa came into the garden, where I was sitting, and told me to be gone; and get my living as well as I could. Before I went, however, she tied this portrait round my neck, and bade me wear it. “It came with you, child,” said she, “and may, one day, do service: for it may lead to thy father and mother. I found it tied in thy

bosom: and the signor knows nothing whatever about it.”

Fon.
Who is the signor, whom she mentioned, boy?

Flo.

Ah! that I could never learn. On that subject old Theresa was as close as a flower, hid in a bud. Now I shall hang the chain upon the crucifix.

Fon.
Guard, that you fall not down a precipice.

Flo.

Ah! now, signor, if you could but see how beautifully those clouds roll away in the distance, I am sure you would be delighted. On that side, we have a view of Naples; on the other, Salerno, its woods, rocks, and castle; below is the gulf; and farther on is the wide, wide ocean. Oh, how I do wish, signor, that I had genius enough to be a landscape-painter!

Fon.
(aside.)
There is in this sweet, fascinating, boy,
More life, soul, genius, than in half of those,
Who bathe, unbidden, in the sacred stream,
That swells the bosom of mount Helicon.

Flo.

Merciful! Here comes a large body of hunters, carrying dead chamois, ibexes, birds, and I know not what beside. Let us get out of their way as fast as we can. Oh me! that horn sounds louder than a trumpet. Come.

[Exeunt.
Enter Fracastro bearing the hawk, Lepardo, Cerello, Marco, &c.
Fra.
Put down the birds, the ibex, and the chamois.

Lep.
Why lags the signor?

Marco.
He's not form'd for hunting.

Fra.

Lep.

I do believe, Marco, that if our friend Fracastro were hard put to it, he could make a poem out of a pig's foot.

Fra.
Well, Griffin-grooven! thou didst mount to-day,
Like a crown'd eagle from his native quarry.
Thou art a favourite with us all, good Griffin.
That's a good bird! (strokes it.)
He seems all life. Is not
This hood too close upon his lids, Cerello?

Cer.
Yes; yes; it is. Come hither, Griffin-grooven.

Fra.
Take him, and see the hood offends him not.
He's an old servant; therefore should be cherish'd.

Cer.
Go, hawk; go, hawk. You mounted well to-day.
Good boy; good boy; thou art the prince of hawks.

Fra.
Give him some food; and take him to his perch.
I saw, just now, full forty chamois; all
Feeding in flocks. One saw me, and hiss'd sharply,
With note, loud deepening towards its close. Then, stamp'd,
And hiss'd again. On which the forest echoed;
And every chamois bounded from its mate,
Like balls, rebounding on an unhewn surface.

Lep.
Here comes the signor. Talk no more of chamois.

Enter Romano, clad in a loose hunting dress, bearing his quiver; and with his bow unstrung, hanging across his shoulders. As he passes, he distributes his arrows.
Rom.
My arrows gone;—I hawk and hunt no more.
Five days we've given to the Apennines,
Mid cliffs, high towering; while the clouds beneath
Roll'd in white volumes; and the mountains rung
With many an air-struck avalanche. The folly!
Unstring thy bow; and thou—and thou—and thou.
Take my bow, Marco. Bend it; break it. Nay,
Canst thou not do it? Let Lepardo try.
Nor he?—Fracastro. None of ye? Let me.
Sure I can break, if I can bend it;—done.
Thus will I break mine enemies in twain;
And hurl their parting fragments to the winds,
As I this bow.
If, in disdain, I draw this three-edged sword,
Thus, and then thus;—what ramparts have I outlived?

Fra.
Naples.

Rom.
Thou 'rt right: and ere the full-orb'd moon
Has waned into a melancholy crescent,
Naples shall be like Nineveh;—a desert.
Wait, my good friends. A word with thee, Fracastro.
Sometimes I feel all paralyzed. My reason
Melts into dreary visions and delusions.
Clouds, mists, and tempests shield me from the past,
And doubts and fears make mystery of the present.
I gaze on heaven, the earth beneath my feet,
Yon hoary mountains, and yon distant ocean.
What seem they all? mere vapours! As I live,
This is an error of the mind. Perchance
More than an error. Tell me, for I know
Thou hast, though young, a most discerning spirit,
Dost thou perceive aught in me, that from man
Ought to be banished?

Fra.
Signor?

Rom.
If thou dost,
Tell me. I do not mean this moment. But
When I do brood, as sometimes I am wont,
Too deeply o'er my sorrows. Thou'rt my friend.
To hear the worst I fear not. Speak, then; speak;
And like a man, who venerates full well
That sacred, persecuted, saint—the truth.
Hast thou observed it? Stay! you need not speak:
Looks are more eloquent than words. Hast ever
Heard my lorn history?

Fra.
I have.

Rom.
Thou hast?
When? where?

Fra.
At Venice.

Rom.
And the true one?

Fra.
That
I cannot answer for: since truth and untruth
Oft are so blended,—in one sentence too,—
That what seems truth is nothing but a falsehood;
And what seems false is all, indeed, the truth:
Their dress being changed. A laugh, a smile, a whisper—

Rom.
Oh ye great gods! that men should speak in whispers!
Mark, my young friend; I charge thee, mark, Fracastro.
A man, that's honest, never speaks in whispers.
Why should men whisper, when they speak the truth?
Envy and jealousy, hatred and revenge,
—Clothed in deceit, hypocrisy, and craft,—
Seek ignominious safety in a—whisper!
But noble souls disdain such hangman safety.
They—are you silent?—Truth, I say, disdains
All hoods; all bonnets; all extinguishers
Of manly virtue. When you speak, speak out;
And let the unvarnish'd front of Heaven's impress
Bear honest witness to an honest deed.
Who slew my lovely angel as she slept?
That is the point on which all mystery hangs.

Fra.
Horrid, most horrid, was the deed.

Rom.
Oh hell!
Oh me!—what safety have I left? On whom
Can I repose in safety, if a doubt
Lurks in the bosom of the dearest friend,
I have on earth?

Fra.
Thou dost mistake my meaning.
I said 'twas horrid. I express'd no doubt.

Rom.
Thy hand. I'm hasty; but I'm innocent.
Oh, if ye knew mine agony of soul!—
Truth, truth:—fear nought. Still dumb? Speak out.
Ye silent too? what, all? By Heaven, they're dumb,
And think me guilty still. Open, oh earth!
Open and bury me! Of all men living—

Fra.
Why rend thy mantle thus from top to bottom?
We were not silent from suspicion. Yet
How can we know—?—what secret magic have we,
On which to swear thine innocence? We hope,—
We hold thee innocent: but we cannot swear it.

Rom.
Too well, too well, I know ye cannot. That
Makes me so sensitive. If ye knew beyond
My grave assertion, my rack'd soul were tranquil,
E'en as Arabian midnights; when rich odours
Waft o'er the deep, and lull the waves to slumber.
That—it is that, which makes my heart so sore.
I feel all guilt; because ye cannot know,
Whether I'm bathed in innocence or no.
But did ye know the wrongs I have endured,
The cruel insults, heap'd upon my name,
The depth of anguish, which subdues my soul,
And wrings my heart; yes—warriors as ye are—
Did ye but know,—your hearts would melt in pity;
And tears, soft tears, would gem your generous eyelids.
Nay—e'en the rocks, on which ye are now standing,
Would almost bend in sympathy. Ye Powers,
Who scan and scrutinize the hearts of men—

Fra.
We feel, thou'rt wrong'd beyond all human strength.
Our dukes, our senates, all believe thee so;
Or we had never, never quitted Venice,
Rome, Genoa, Mantua, and Otranto,
To promise thee assistance and revenge.

Lep.
And those thou shalt have, if the gods be just.

Rom.
Yon glorious firmament—behold! It spreads
In one vast arch of azure; mild, transparent,
Pure, and magnificent:—an emblem sacred
Of man's first virtue—gratitude! Though now
All steel, all granite, to my foes; yet once
All heart I was, all life, all soul. To friends
Plastic; to enemies—I knew none.
Now 'tis far different. I am charged with murder,
Not of an enemy, a deadly enemy;
But,—'tis beyond all human language!—of
My wife, all beautiful! my hope; the sum
Of life and excellence; my paradise.
As a fond mother draws her mantle round
Her sleeping infant; clasps him to her breast;
And hangs, delighted, o'er his smiling lips:
So o'er the lineaments of her, now laid
In death's dark cell, Imagination hangs
Entranced, enamoured,—nay, enraptured! Yet
In some men's wild, horrific, estimation,
I am more savage than the pest, that drops
Hard, putrid, tears amid the reeds of Nile:
More harsh, more cruel, than Caucasian bear,
Riphean tiger, or fork'd Libyan serpent.
Say—stand I thus? Or like some hoary peak,
Which peers, gigantic, mid dark rolling clouds,
Surcharged with thunder and th'electric fluid,
O'er the vast solitudes of th'antarctic zone,
Careless, and reckless, of the piercing shrieks,
Which o'er the bosom of the boisterous main
Waft many a league; and tell to distant lands
The awful agony of some ruin'd crew,
Whelm'd in wild eddies down the angry deep?
Am I all this? Am I shrewd, cunning, heartless?
Am I regardless of another's woe?
Can I look friendship, smile, and yet—betray?
Can I, with manna, mix some deadly poison,
Which shall consume the vitals of the mind,
And thrust a deeper agony in the soul,
Than e'er was thrust on human heart before?
If I can meditate, and act, all this;
Then am I guilty of my wife's foul murder.
Have I, in fact, the lineaments of man?
I have? 'tis well! Yon battlements are those
Of that soft, cruel, and luxurious wanton,
Naples the curst.
Yes—though an outcast, a condemn'd, scorn'd, outcast,—
I will reduce her palaces, her walls,
Her towers, her arsenals, and all
Those sea-girt ships, that crowd her azure bay,
To dust so small, that e'en a summer's breeze
May waft them o'er Vesuvius. Fracastro, [Taking him aside.

In this vile frame dwell two contrasted spirits.
One, like the palm-tree, which defies the storm;
The other, trembling, like the feather'd reed,
Which bends obsequious to each passing touch.
This woos the skies; that clings to parent earth;
And each rules absolute, when the other sleeps.
I have a silent, unexampled sorrow
Gnawing this bosom like a vulture. Shall
I yield, or conquer? I've a strange temptation.
Say, say; which shall I? Thrust this dagger deep
Into my heart, and end my woes at once;
Or live a monument for the world's loud laugh?

Fra.
The laugh of worldlings and the scoff of fools
Are far beyond a wise man's notice. Live!
Live here; live here;—that thou mayst live hereafter.

Rom.
(aside.)
I was a fool to ask him such a question.
Has he been wrongfully accused? Has he
Lost, ever lost, a wife, on whom he doted?
Has he e'er felt the agony of having
A fair, mild, innocent, and blooming daughter,
Torn from his arms, and never heard of after?
How, then, can he appreciate the pangs
Of one so paralyzed? Impossible!

Fra.
What have we here? a crucifix!—a chain!

Lep.
Some traveller's debt of gratitude, no doubt.

Fra.
He was no hypocrite, that placed it here:
For 'tis of gold.

Rom.
Nay, touch it not: 'tis holy.
Replace it on the crucifix; and yet—
What do I see? I pray thee, hold this helmet.
This golden chain resembles one, which I
Gave to Francesca, on the morn we married.
A strange resemblance! Take it once again;
And place it on the crucifix. Yet stay—
It is, I know, a sacrilege to take it;
Yet shall this bosom be the crucifix,
On which its venerated links shall hang.
Help me to place it round my neck.

Fra.
I will.
There;—and may hope, and liberty, and love
Bud in the links, and blossom on thy bosom.

Rom.
Nature, be sure, design'd thee for a poet.

Fra.
Ay? Dost thou think so? No! I wear rich garments.
My face,—at least the ladies tell me so,—
Is round and healthy—nay—the fair ones smile,
When I look smilingly on them. Will they
Smile on a poet? Never!

Lep.
Yes, they will.
Let him but swear, by all the gods above,
Their beauty shines more lovely than the morn;
They'll smile, I warrant them.

Fra.
No, no;—no, no!
Why, sir, a poet is all haggard, wan.
Yet I would be a poet, if I could.
Now, if I am a poet, I can turn
Each rough and unhewn stone into a gem;
And see a likeness where the world sees none.
Now, let me try. A subject? Stop:—I see one.
Yon stream reminds me of man's varied course,
From childhood, youth, and manhood, to old age.
At first, a fountain in earth's mossy lap;
A streamlet next, through wild Arcadian scenes,
Winding, through flowers, its fascinating way.
Now through vast plains, and continents of shade,
It rolls in many a wild and broken wave;
And next through empires, choked with drifting sand.
Lo! on a sudden, cliffs and mountains rise,
Belted with storms. Insinuating winds
The flood mature. The stubborn rocks give way.
Down the hoar precipice, unterrified,
The wild waves rush; the woods, remote, resound;
And mountains echo back the deafening roar.
Escaped the agitated whirlpool's reign,
Beneath deep shades, where bees secrete their wealth,
And mild dove-turtles build their hallow'd nests,
It issues wide; and rolling calmly down
The Earth's vast surface, weds, in one proud flood,
Th'attracting majesty of the boundless main.

Rom.
Nay, now, I'll swear thou art a poet.— Enter Carlo.

Joy!
She's found,—she's found! Where is she? who? say who
Found my delight;—my little charmer? where?
I saw thee clasp thine arms together thus.
When shall I clasp my little angel? when?
What is the matter? speak; I charge thee, speak.
Nay, do not curb thy lips together so;
But speak at once. You freeze my blood! nay, speak.
Art thou a father, yet delay in telling,
Whether my child, my long-lost, innocent, child,
Is, or is not, discover'd? Carlo! speak.

Carlo.
My journey has proved fruitless!

Rom.
Then the earth,
Nay, e'en the universe itself, to me
Is but a sterile, useless, parch'd-up, desert.

Carlo.
Yet I've strange news to tell thee of:—a deed—

Rom.
Does it concern my daughter?

Carlo.
No: Fontano.

Rom.
Then I've no ears to listen. I had hoped—
Ah me—what pyramids of hope does Fancy
Build in the dreary deserts of misfortune,
Wherewith to mock the mourner! I had hoped—

Carlo.
Wilt thou not hear what has befallen Fontano?

Rom.
Some other time; some other time, I tell thee.
Nay—I'll hear now:—an honourable man!
What of Fontano? Oh my dearest child!
Hear thou, Fracastro, what he has to say,
And tell me afterwards. You saw Clemento?
What did he say? Nay—all is useless. Well—
What has befall'n Fontano? Nay, you need,
Now you have told me what no man can bear
With a firm countenance—you need not pause.

Carlo.
Blind!

Rom.
What, Fontano? oh the grace of Heaven!
When was he struck? the excellent old man!
Where was he when this accident befell him?
Say—was he walking in the fields? at home?
Was he at church? Alas, how many an hour
Have he and I sat listening to the harp
Of my poor murdered sposa!

Carlo.
Not the hand
Of Heaven, or justice, did the deed: But one—

Rom.
Only one man in Naples could be found
To do a deed like that. Schidoni! He,
He was the man; and no one else. Not one
In all the city could be found—

Carlo.
'Twas he.
At least he bribed another to the deed;
Who, when 't was done, at dead of midnight, led
The sightless man, amid this wilderness.

Rom.
Did he? go seek him; you, Lepardo, you.
Convey my sacred sympathy; and incite
The injured man to take revenge with us. [Exit Lepardo.

Oh, my dear daughter! oh my dearest child!
I'll have revenge:—and thou, Fontano, too,
Shalt have revenge, deep, dark, and deadly. Ere
Another moon attracts another tide,
We'll bind Schidoni in his own vile chains,
And lay yon glittering palaces in ruins.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A thatched cottage, situate in a small garden on the lower ledge of a deep cataract.
A Fisherman and his Wife spreading their nets.
Schidoni sitting in the sun, dressing his wounds.
Schid.
Now I do miss th'affection of my mother.
Were she still living, she would bind these wounds;
And never ask me, if I frown'd, “how came they?”
She was all love, all innocence; and I— [The Fisherman and his Wife sit down near each other; and begin mending their nets.

These people, too, seem innocence; and yet,
I dare be sworn, 'tis all in seeming;—all!
This scene is what the silly world would call
Rural felicity. I make no doubt,
'Tis such felicity, as—the gods might envy!
That men should be such idiots as to marry,
Excites my wonder. Bernardine; come hither.
The air breathes autumn; are you cold? 'Tis winter.

Fisherman.

Cold, signor? no. I'm rather warm than otherwise. But I'm glad to see thee out again. When I took thee out of the water, brought thee home, and told my wife to take care of thee, I never thought thee could get up again. But thee have; and that sooner, I warrant, than if a doctor had netted thee.

Schid.

You are my saviour. Here: one, two, three, Nay, nay, three more gold sequins. Are you paid?

Fisherman.

I wants no payment, signor;—but I thank thee, nevertheless. Six gold sequins haven't been in my pocket for many a day. There—spawn in my pocket, and grow into fishes of gold:—there's good children.

Schid.
Hast ever travell'd from this straw-roof'd cot?

Fisherman.

Travell'd? no, signor; not much. But I goes once or twice every week to Naples, to sell the fish, I catch in my nets there.

Schid.
Set off, this instant, since you know the way.
At No. 10, Street Ferdinand, there lives
A person named Velutri;—give him this.
(Aside)
I must give reasons wherefore I return not.
Mind:—No. 10, Street Ferdinand. I've told him,
To give thee fifteen florins for this journey.

Fisherman.

I'll set off this moment, signor. I'll be back before thee can think I've been there. I'll just step in to get my best coat, and tell my fish-dried old woman where I be going.

Schid.
Never mind her. Set off this moment: Haste.

Fisherman.

God bless you, signor; I would not set off without telling my wife for all the world. The sequins would burn a hole in my pocket, and a large one too. They would, signor, as sure as old Dominic looks over Naples. Wife, coom hither; and get my best coat. Look here. Look thee here.

Wife.

O gemini me! where got you them? Gold, as I hope to be saved. Do you think I'll wear such a ragged old petticoat as this? no, let it go to the fishes.

(Throws it into the water.)
There—eat it up. Nay, now you are a good-tempered old man; the best-tempered old man, I ever saw in my life. Great coat? Ay to be sure. Come in, Bernardine. I'll get your coat, and brush it too, boy, into the bargain.

[Exeunt.
Schid.
If this is not all innocence,—what is?
Money's the touchstone. Yet, I must confess,
He saved me first; and did not wait to know,
Whether reward would visit him or not.
And yet, for what good purpose am I saved?
Lorenzo victor, I'm disgraced for ever.
I shall be hooted, ridiculed, despised.
I am a hasty, headstrong, blundering, fool;
The veriest fool and guillemot, that lives!

[Re-enter Fisherman: his Wife following.
Fisherman.

With the blessing of God, signor, I hopes to be home before twelve of the sun, to-morrow.

Schid.
With the blessing of whom?

Fisherman.

With the blessing of God, signor. We can do nothing good without his blessing.

Schid.
Do you think so?

Fisherman.

Think so, signor? why, I am sure of it. And they that do not think so, too, signor; why, they

may be very clever sort of people as far as I knows; they can conjure three fishes perhaps into four; but to tell you the truth, signor, I would not trust them from one end of my net to the other.

[Exit.
Schid.
Set off; despatch. Dame Margery, bring me hither
My sword and poniard. I must say, good morrow. [Exit Wife.

These wounds are painful; but I thank dame Fortune,
They are not mortal. Mortal is the body;
Mortal the mind. Yet monks,—sweet saints!—and bishops,
Old men, old women, hermits, and the—pope!
All would persuade us, wherefore all can tell,
—To fill their cellars, butteries, and store-rooms,—
That souls shall live in happiness or pain,
Till three times twenty shall make ninety-one.
That is, for ever. Some do,—ay!—believe it;
From education, ignorance, or fear.
Fear is their god. Fear nothing is my creed;
But to be thwarted in an intended deed. [Re-enter Fisherman's Wife.

Thank thee, dame Margery. Let me buckle on
This oft-tried sword. This dagger, too, (aside)
—all poison'd!
Had I but thought of thee, Lorenzo had
Paid a sure forfeit. Thanks, my honest dame.
Good day; I thank thee for thy kind assistance.

[Exit.
Wife.

Good day, signor; you're welcome; though I do not like thee. My husband saved thee; but he did not know thee: and if I may speak my mind, when nobody hears, I think it was a pity. He might as well have left thee to the fishes. No, no; not that; for if he had, we should never have had six gold sequins. (Calling)
Good day, signor;—good day! and may you fall in the water every day in the year. That is, if my Bernardine is there to pick you up.

[Exit into the cottage.

SCENE IV.

A forest; on the west side, a fountain.
Time;—Twilight.
Enter Lavinia.
Lav.
These rocks and stones distract my labouring feet.
Which is my way to Venice, through this forest,
Deep, dark, and awful; echoing with a roar,
Like the loud tumults of the Caspian main,
Alas! I know not. Yon resounding cataract
Strikes me with dread: I dare proceed no farther.
Parch'd too with thirst! A fountain? Be my cup
The wrinkled hollow of my hand. How sweet!
Emblem—all eloquent—of the Christian's hope.
Oh what a sacred and enchanting walk,
In hope's sweet garden, does the pilgrim take;
When, as he winds along the sultry waste,
Girt with all horrors; where the serpent coils,
The adder hisses, and the lion prowls;
His soul seeks solace in the secret hope,
That every tear, he sheds upon his journey,
Flows to the fountain of eternal life!

Enter Lorenzo.
Lor.
Which way, she fled, seems magic. I have search'd
A thousand thickets and a thousand caves,
Amid these deep recesses; but can find
No traces of her footsteps. I'm bewilder'd;
And know not whither to direct my steps.
I met two stately stags amid the forest;
And heard two doves coo vespers with their young.

Lav.
Oh—my dear father—oh my dearest father!

Lor.
Whence are these sounds? By all the saints— (calls)
—Lavinia!

Lav.
Who? whence? a dream—a vision—my Lorenzo!

Lor.
Now am I blest beyond the reach of thought.
It is Lavinia; 'tis my own Lavinia!

Lav.
I have no power, Lorenzo—

Lor.
I have sought thee,
Till my lorn heart sunk spiritless. I fear'd,
When I had saved thee from Schidoni, that—

Lav.
You! was it you, who saved me from Schidoni?
Then you are wounded. Yes—I feel you are.
Where is the wound? Stay—let me bind it. Where?
Where is it?

Lor.
Thanks to Fortune, I have none.

Lav.
That is delightful; that is joy indeed.
But where's Schidoni?

Lor.
As we fought, we came
To the loose margin of a stream; when he,
All on a sudden, seized me round the waist,
And would have thrown me, headlong, in the water,
Had I not given fresh vigour to my arm,
And hurl'd him,—as a fisherman is wont
To hurl a dog, that will not take the water,—
Into the bosom of the stream. A man,
Standing agape to see the desperate struggle,
Plunged in to save him. Whether he still lives
Is yet beyond my knowledge: for the fear
Of losing thee gave feathers: and I flew,
Like a trained falcon, darting on his quarry,
In hopes of finding thee amid some copse,
Or secret thicket. Many a dingle, dell,
Valley, and glen, I traversed; and my hopes
Had almost yielded to despair; when here,
Fortune—so long mine enemy—at once
Imparadised my hopes.

Lav.
Lorenzo! words,
Yes, had I words to thank thee as I ought;
Yet were they dull and indigent. I wish,
Thou couldst but see my feelings; then my heart
Would plead, like angels, for my gratitude.

Lor.
Lovely Lavinia, thy sweet words would call
Angels to guard thee. But yon clouds,—behold;
Th'Aurora flashes, and portends a storm.
—Great is thy power, Omnipotent; and vast
The myriad wonders of thy matchless reign!—
No house, no lot, not e'en a woodman's hut,
Adorn these sterile solitudes with smoke,
Curling in peaceful volumes:—but not far,
There is a cavern, form'd of sea-green marble,
Like to those arch'd recesses, in which those
Enchanting nymphs are fabled to have lived,
Who warbled such insinuating strains,
That mariners, delighted and bewilder'd,
Dropt all their oars, forsook each sail and rudder,
Lean'd o'er their decks, and listen'd in such rapture,
That their ill-fated vessels have been drawn
Into the whirling centre of a vortex;
Thence to the bottom of the raging ocean.
Thither we'll tend:—yet no; within a valley,
Nested in mountains, hid from human eye,
Lie the vast fragments of an ancient ruin,
Which once contain'd a city in its bosom.
Thither—

Lav.
What sounds—?

Lor.
We must away.—Banditti!
Lean on this arm; no power shall force thee from me.

[Exeunt.
Enter Romano and Fracastro.
Rom.
Each movement brings us nearer to our foes.
(To those without)
Rest where ye are. (Aside)
Sweet Venice, Venice!—would,
Would, I had never left thy yellow waters!

Fra.
(Plays)

Rom.
Would mine had never! But no more; no more.
Music could once entrance my soul; but now,
Feeling no music in my heart, mine ear,
Tuneless and dull, denies its wonted office.
That air, once heard with joy unspeakable,
I hear as one, who listens to the sound
Of some dull curfew, that, in distant land,
Benumbs the night, and stuns the owl to silence.

Fra.
(aside.)
I'll play no more. The hour returns again;
And all his soul relapses into sadness.

Rom.
Hush'd are the wastes of Ethiopia; hush'd
The suffocating solitudes of Senegal;
Awfully hush'd the vast precincts of Nile.
But if the Hyads o'er the wilderness
Breathe on the midnight, and distil soft showers;
The condor, pelican, and ostrich, sip
The drops aerial, and the leopard laps.

Fra.
(aside.)
Awful it is to see him trace i' the sand,
Such forms and shapes. Alas! his soul's disorder'd.
Would I'd been born so much the mind's physician,
That, when in Greece, I had the skill to cull,
From off the mountains of the Cyclades,
That sacred plant, Nepenthe, which has power
To calm the tumults of a wounded spirit!
That med'cine now had lull'd his soul to peace.

Rom.
What late seem'd wrinkled with old age is now
Verdant and rife; and every palm-tree bends
With liquid crystal and depending gems.
So in the midnight of my grief, my soul
Wakes from its sterile palsy; when Francesca,
Rising serene in beauty to my thought,
Hallows the past, disarms th'horrific present,
Clothes hope in smiles, and whispers to my heart,
That justice, sternly virtuous, never dies,
Though oft her slumbers wear the mask of death.

Fra.
(rising.)
Why, then, build sepulchres and mausoleums,
In which to bury all thy hopes? 'Tis folly.

Rom.
(aside.)
What have I lived for?

Fra.
As I breathe,—no insult!

Rom.
What have I lived for? To be mock'd? contemn'd?
Nay, now, I'll answer this astounding question.
And when I have, do thou proclaim full loud,
If it is folly to receive a wrong,
And then complain, that justice is a sluggard.
Hither; come hither. (Aside)
I'll rehearse my story. Enter Officers.

Form ye in semicircle space, and listen.
My native town is Venice:—but my father,
Charm'd with the air of Naples, sojourn'd there,
With me, and others of our house, three months
In every year. Our ruin;—I anticipate!
The king,—King Ferdinand—gave a splendid banquet.
There I first saw,—I see her still!—Francesca;
Sitting, in regal splendour, by the side
Of her famed uncle, Ferdinand. She seem'd
Like one from heaven; delighting every eye.
Rich gems adorn'd her; but no gems could equal
The liquid lustre of those dark-blue eyes,
Which beam'd like Venus in the vernal heaven.
Such charms! Excuse me;—though these locks are grey,
'Tis not with age.—They open'd like the rose
Through the green fringes of its mossy woof;
Rising mid petals, that in valley hang
Their pensive heads; and from their snowy cells
Throw a rich fragrance o'er the evening air.

Fra.
(to Lepardo.)
Bleach'd are his locks;—cerulean all his soul!

Rom.
I loved her not as those do, who are lapt
In luxury, vanity, and indolence;
But as a man, who knows what sterling good
Springs ever verdant in a heart, where love
Rises and sets in purity and peace.
I saw and sigh'd in silent admiration,
Full many a day; and days with love, are ages.
This all men know, who know the force of love.
At length, one evening, I beheld her, sitting
In the king's bower, all silent and alone.
Trembling I stopt:—I knew not what to do!
I stopt! when on the pinions of the air,
Such streams of melody entranced my soul,
I could have listen'd till the doom of day;
Had I not heard, “my Julio, Julio, Julio!”
Drop from her lips;—half-smother'd with a sigh.
I stood awhile in breathless rapture: then
Stole to the bower, surprised her in her love,
Knelt at her feet, and begg'd an angel's pardon.

Fra.
Stand on this side, Lepardo. Thou'rt too eager.

Lep.
All are too eager: I correct myself.

Fra.
Stand all apart; nor crowd around him thus.

Rom.
Frowning she answer'd; would have fled; but I,
Arm'd with high rank, and heir to large possessions,
Press'd my lorn suit so earnestly, that she
Listen'd; then smiled; then gave me leave to woo;
Should the good king approve the generous choice.

Lep.
The king consented, I am certain.

Fra.
Hush!

Rom.
I sought the monarch. “A Venetian noble,
“Sprung from the noblest family in Rome,
“Claims rank with princes;” said the king. I woo'd;
The maid consented; and we married.

Fra.
Heaven—
Heaven—what a height for mortal man to fall from!

Rom.
I've stol'n an arrow,—a deep—piercing arrow—
From the wide quiver of revenge, depend on.
Six momentary years pass'd over us.
I should have told ye, that Schidoni, too,
Long had the captivating maiden loved.
She hated;—nay, she loathed him. At a banquet,
To which we bade king Ferdinand's royal court,
And to which he,—the viper! as king's chamberlain,
Was, by constraint, invited:—I deserved
A thousand deaths for such an invitation!
The banquet over, all retired to slumber.
Would it had lasted, till the death of time!
But sleep had scarcely visited these lids,
When,—such an agonizing shriek! On waking,
What was the scene my frenzied eyes beheld?
Francesca—
Oh the good gods!—am I alive to tell it?
Francesca, bleeding at my side; struck dead
With mine own dagger,—quivering in her side!
Peace,—peace; be silent: utter not one word. [Draws a circle round him with his sword.

Now, may I never from this circle move,
If I speak aught, but what the Gods might hear!
The' assassin fled in silence from my chamber;
Crept to his couch; thence issuing at the shrieks,
With which I raised the palace, he proclaim'd
Me the assassin:—jealousy of him!

Fra.
Was this Schidoni?

Rom.
Dost thou doubt it, sir?

Fra.
No man can doubt it.

Rom.
I'm a fool; an idiot,
A very stult. My left hand fain would doubt
What this, my right hand, doth.

[Bursts into tears.
Fra.
An agony like this—

Rom.
I meant no insult: by St. Mark, I meant none.
Nay, nay, forgive me:—I am sore all over!
All Naples rose! and though 'twas midnight, winter,
And rain descending in such torrents, that
It seem'd as if the last, loud, trump had sounded,
And the whole earth dissolving into nought;
Yet every street, lane, alley, terrace, court,
Garret and roof, resounded with the charge,
That I,—that I,—that I,—had stabb'd my wife,
And thrown the horrific crime upon Schidoni!

Fra.
Wretch—wretch;—a caitiff of iniquity.

Rom.
Those friends, who loved me, as they sometime swore,
More than themselves;—my well-dress'd, well-fed, friends,
All deck'd in rings, and diamond-hilted swords,
What did those friends amid my deep distress?
Forsake me like a pestilence. My servants,
Bless'd, and thrice bless'd, be every one of them!
My servants wept; and clothed themselves in mourning.
May the great Spirit give paradise to them all.

Fra.
What did the people in this trying hour?

Rom.
Throng round my palace like ten thousand hornets

Fra.
And did they seize upon thee, signor?

Rom.
Seize?
Oh my dear father—oh my sacred mother,—
That ye should live to see a night like that!
They throated me; and to the prison gates
Dragg'd me, loud hissing all the way, like serpents.
Children cried monster; women shriek'd shrill curses;
Men shouted death; and dogs were taught to howl,
Whene'er the word, Romano, cross'd their ears.
Schidoni pension'd witnesses. They swore;
Naples believed;—Romano was undone!
They would not hear one word in my defence.
They held me only as a denizen;
Rich, great, and noble;—therefore to be hated.
I was condemn'd unheard;—ruin'd; undone!
My wife, my daughter, fame, and fortune,—all—
In one short hour:—Too much for human strength!
My mind;—I'm ruin'd:—all, the world contains,
Could never recompense my soul. I'm shatter'd,
Beyond all power of medicine.

Fra.
No, no!

Rom.
Would I could think so. Yes, my mind is ruin'd.
They took my child;—I know not whither! Never
From that sad moment have I heard of her.
My mother—dumb-struck!—died in speechless horror.
My father saw me, like a felon, dragg'd
Through a loud, hissing, populace, to my prison.
Then sought the bloody death-bed chamber; where
—Th'horrific scene!—his raven hair turn'd grey;
Wild palsy seized his venerable frame;
Down sunk he on the clotted bed; and died,
In laughing madness, on Francesca's corse.
The good, the wise, the excellent old man!

[Hides his face in his robe.
Lep.
Save, or he falls!

Fra.
Such labyrinths of woe
Would bend the stoutest of mankind: Lean here.

Rom.
Not so: a monument of agony
Shall prove a pyramid of strength. (Hysterically.)
Whoo-loo!

Lep.
Well, as I live, I never heard aught like it!

Rom.
Amid these mountains once a hermit lived.
His food dry berries, and his drink the dews,
Distill'd from leaves of olives. He—; but stay;
My mind is wandering in the clouds:—my tale?
Where left I? I'm bewilder'd! where, where left I?
Schidoni pension'd witnesses, I say.
All, all, believed. Amid the senseless town,
One man alone, except my faithful servants,
One man alone was found with mind to doubt,
And heart to pity. He believed me wrong'd.
He was my gaoler, and a wonder. He—
I saved his brother, when a boy, from drowning.
Ah me—ye weep. I thank, I thank ye, brothers.

Fra.
We need not blush to shed a tear at this.

Rom.
He was, I say, a wonder:—he was grateful!
Applied the balm of comfort to my heart,
And ope'd his gates in secrecy. I fled!
The court sent messengers to Venice, Rome,
Milan, and all the states of Italy,
With threats against their senates, should they screen me.
In this extremity, for years I lived,
Amid these mountains, where the sun shines never,
Hopeless, nay desolate; agonized with wrong,
Accusing man, and almost doubting heaven.
At length, I heard my best and earliest friend
Is chos'n to fill the ducal chair of Venice.
Then I applied for succour and revenge.
This is my tale of injury. For this,
I've sworn eternal vengeance to Schidoni;
And for believing his enormous charge,
And hearing not one word in my defence,
Have I vow'd death to all the sons of Naples.

Fra.
And we'll assist thee in thy just revenge.

Rom.
My heart's all gratitude.

Fra.
Remember—one
Rich consolation thou hast still. Schidoni
Groans 'neath a mass of wickedness; while you—

Rom.
Ay:—if he felt his wickedness, his thoughts
Were far more terrible, than tongue could speak,
Or fancy picture. But he does not. He—?
The fiend exults in wickedness.

Fra.
He has
As many dark, and life-consuming sins,
As zebra stripes, or panting leopard spots.
His breath's a mildew, and his blood flows yellow.

Rom.
A living leprosy;—a pangolin,
Safe at all points: invulnerate! a vampire,
Which, while she sucks an Indian in the shade,
Fans him, unconscious, to his last, last, sleep.
I would, I were embalm'd amid the stars,
In rude Arcturus, or Cassiope,
Orion's girdle, or the northern wane!
—This night, we'll hold a banquet 'mid the ruins
Of that vast castle—but ye know not of it.
One rich autumnal morning, as I roved
Over these mountains, suddenly I came
To the cragg'd margin of a precipice.
My head turn'd giddy: yet I look'd below:
And there beheld, upon a promontory,
Screen'd from the fury of wild mountain-storms,
By woods, fantastic, towering up the glen,
In many a fold, a ruin'd castle: built,
No doubt, by some crusader: for the walls,
Sections, or elevations, rose, surcharg'd
With Saracenic ornaments. I stood,
Awhile admiring. Down, at length, I bounded
Like to an ibex. 'Twas a pile gigantic!
Shatter'd in fragments; dark, but magnificent.
Silence and solitude and secrecy
Reign'd there in holy brotherhood. No trace
Ev'n of a wandering shepherd! Nothing whisper'd
Aught of mankind, but as a monument.
Men seem to have shunn'd it, as a haunt of spirits;
Which, by the star-light, cheat their wandering steps,
And lure them on to misery and ruin.
Therefore it lies remote from human search,
As if amid the mountains of Imaus.
Until our messengers return, revenge demands
A secret refuge. Let us march: and there
Safety shall wait on silence and discretion.
Heard ye not thunder 'mid the distant mountains?

Fra.
Scarcely an hour glides over us, but we see
Deep torrents rushing from the clouds; huge oaks,
Whirling in eddies from the cliffs; and rocks,
All rent asunder, tumbling down t'the vale.

Rom.
It is indeed a wilderness, where Nature
Seems to be proud in trying of her strength.
But who moves yonder? By St. Mark—a youth,
Bearing a fine-form'd woman in his arms!

[Lorenzo, bearing Lavinia, is seen in the distance, climbing one of the precipices.
Fra.
He must move cautiously. The cliff impends
O'er a deep precipice; and one treacherous stone
May steep them, helpless, in the gulf below.

Rom.
Nine years have roll'd their melancholy round,
Since last I saw the figure of a woman.
How acts the vision on my shatter'd soul?
Like Venus, glittering in an azure heaven,
'Twixt two dark volumes, charged with angry tempests.
Hasten;—the wanderers! Bring them to us: follow:
Who knows what deed may wait upon the morrow?

[Exeunt.