University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The garden. Cosmo alone.
Cos.
Why, why does nature form us so?—
Nor gird the wretch predestined to endure,
With hoops of steel,—case him in adamant,—
Buckler him some way 'gainst the cruel shafts?—
O, partial Fate! why must the generous heart
So often bleed and agonize,—transpierced
By faithless friendship, or more faithless love?—
Accursed delusion!—Twining round the soul
So gently,—binding golden link on link,—
All the while lulling us with some sweet song,
Till, giddy with enchantment, and fast bound,
She starts,—transforms into a fiend,—
Wrenches the heart-strings, and is gone for aye!
Death! what mock am I?—Is this the spot
Where, but last night, we roved?—Who then so blest—

(Enter Jacquelina, from one of the walks.)
Jacq.
What, Signor, still in sadness?

Cos.
Leave me.

Jacq.
O, speak not thus. Call up
Your noble resolution: minds heroic
Wrestle with fate itself, and spurn at trifles.
Nay, nay, my lord,—

Cos.
Is it no more?—to lose
The star that ruled and cheered my mental heaven,
And reft of which, I'm left upon life's sea
Benighted and alone.

Jacq.
I meant not so.
It is a trial; and demands of you—

Cos.
I had collected all my hopes around her;
There, there they clung, and, with her, lived or died.
Sweet, scattered blossoms! whirled away for ever!

Jacq.
Such ever was, and will be, fickle woman.

Cos.
Methinks I'm laboring in a fearful trance,—
Appalling images and horrid dangers
Glare in upon me, yet they still seem phantoms.

Jacq.
As when we weep in dreams, yet hope our grief
Will prove a dream. So yours, my lord, will prove.

Cos.
The dark cloud was behind me, and the bow
Bestrid it; all before, was lucid; flowers
Diffused their odors; birds and waters sang
Along my path, that gently seemed to wind
Through shade and sunshine, round enamelled slopes,
Down fairy vales, through opening mountains blue.
Now, like some shipwrecked desolate, I stand—

Jacq.
Why waste your sorrow on a worthless object?—
It would but furnish cruel merriment.—
Cast her away, and place your love, my lord,
On one who knows to prize it.

Cos.
Can she jest
At Cosmo's anguish, who has wept, so oft,
When only fancied ills assailed her? Oft,
Imagination harrowing up my soul
With some sad vision of her death or sufferings,
I 've, waking, found my face all bathed in tears.

Jacq.
Credit me, once for all, my gracious lord,—

Cos.
Truth, sanctitude, and maiden constancy!
Where are ye exiled? Once, ye waved round her
Your crystal arms, and made her footsteps holy.

Jacq.
I could reveal—I know a heart, as true,
As fair,—where every virtue, every grace
Abides, that honors woman.

Cos.
False, I swear.

Jacq.
And more, my lord. When night and silence woo
Even sorrow to repose, this angel breathes
The secret sigh for Cosmo.

Cos.
Peace, and begone!

Jacq.
By blessed Mary's life, 't is true.

Cos.
Thou liest;
Thou 'rt perjured;—trouble me no longer.

Jacq.
If there 's a saint in Paradise, or soul
In Purgatory, bliss for faith, or fire
For lack of 't, 't is a sacred truth. Upon
My life, and soul's salvation, it is true.

Cos.
Who?
Who mourns with hapless Cosmo? for the bond
Of sympathy shall join us!

Jacq.
O, my lord,
How the pure red would paint her cheek with shame
And anger, did she dream her secret breathed
Even to the wind.

Cos.
Being herself
Unable to conceal it, thou 'rt not bound.

Jacq.
No contumely. Remember how disdain
From one beloved has racked thy soul, and learn
Compassion.

Cos.
O, I know not what I say.

Jacq.
Perhaps I err, my lord; but thus to see
What should be life's bright morning overcast,
See her in hopeless misery pine,—I cannot;—
Despite the consequences, should she ever,
Ever suspect, I'll venture to disclose.
(Looking about her and speaking low.)
My lord,—Olivia loves you,—long has loved,—
And with the deepest, tenderest passion.

Cos.
Ha! ha!

Jacq.
(disconcerted.)
Signor,—I thought—
Can he lay claim to sympathy, who scorns
The wretched?

Cos.
She wasting with a secret passion!—
And thou believ'st it?—Why, what barefoot lass,
That follows goats over the breezy mountains,
Hath fresher roses or an eye more buxom?—
No, no, my girl; you must invent once more.

Jacq.
My lord, appearances deceive. I 've seen
A young and beauteous lady on her death-bed,
Nay, in her coffin, dressed for her last sleep,
With such a bloom yet lingering on her cheek
As flushes yonder peaks when day 's departed.

Cos.
And how learn'dst thou this precious secret?

Jacq.
The soul, my lord, is fashioned—like the lyre.
Strike one chord suddenly, and others vibrate.
Your name abruptly mentioned, casual words
Of comment on your deeds, praise from your uncle,
News from the armies, talk of your return,
A word let fall touching your youthful passion,
Suffused her cheek, called to her drooping eye
A momentary lustre, made her pulse
Leap headlong, and her bosom palpitate.
I could not long be blind, for love defies
Concealment, making every glance, and motion,
Silence, and speech a tell-tale—

Cos.
Is this all?

Jacq.
These things, though trivial of themselves, begat
Suspicion. But long months elapsed,
Ere I knew all. She had, you know, a fever.
One night, when all were weary and at rest,
I sitting by her couch, tired and o'erwatched,
Thinking she slept, suffered my lids to close.
Waked by a voice, I found her—never, Signor,
While life endures, will that scene fade from me,—
A dying lamp winked in the hearth, that cast,
And snatched the shadows. Something stood before me
In white. My flesh began to creep. I thought
I saw a spirit. It was my lady risen,
And standing in her night-robe with clasped hands,
Like one in prayer. Her pallid face displayed
Something, methought, surpassing mortal beauty.
She presently turned round, and fixed her large, wild eyes,
Brimming with tears, upon me, fetched a sigh,
As from a riven heart, and cried: “He 's dead!
But hush!—weep not,—I 've bargained for his soul,—
That 's safe in bliss!”—Demanding who was dead,
Scarce yet aware she raved, she answered quick,
Her Cosmo, her beloved; for that his ghost,
All pale and gory, thrice had passed her bed.
With that, her passion breaking loose, my lord,
She poured her lamentation forth in strains
Pathetical beyond the reach of reason.
“Gone, gone, gone to the grave, and never knew
I loved him!”—I 'd no power to speak, or move.—
I sat stone still,—a horror fell upon me.
At last, her little strength ebbed out, she sank,
And lay, as in death's arms, till morning.

Cos.
Hath she at no time spoke of this?

Jacq.
Long after, Signor, she did task me closely,
If in a certain night she had not raved.
By searching questions she drew forth the truth.

Cos.
What said she then?

Jacq.
She charged me never to divulge her shame,
Not as I loved her life, and said the secret
Should go down with her to the tomb. But I
Vowed inly, on that solemn night, if e'er
I saw, to break it to Lord Cosmo.

Cos.
Too harshly judged!—
Poor partner in misfortune!—Sayst thou so?—
While I saw life's bright seasons rolling by,
Enslaved unto the falsest, fairest phantom
That ever took Heaven's semblance to deceive!—
O! I could clasp, and weep upon her neck!

Jacq.
What! sigh and weep?
Yield her that triumph?—Hiss rather!—One bold effort—
Cast her disgraceful shackles off, and wed
A matchless lady whose whole heart is yours.

Cos.
(starting.)
Marry!

Jacq.
Why not?

Cos.
Marry Olivia?

Jacq.
Ay; marry:—show this giddy nymph her error,
Who thinks to hold you still in thraldom. Devils!
Before I 'd be her jest with Barbadeca—

Cos.
O, 't is bitter.

Jacq.
'T is plain the slippery pair exult
In your imagined anguish. Such an act
Would cloud their honey-moon.

Cos.
And that were well,—
That, that were well.

Jacq.
Besides, you gain, my lord,
A gentle, constant friend, whose soft endearments,
In time will woo you back—

Cos.
Leave me alone.—
The thought has struck me.—It would disturb their mirth.
Leave me.— (Exit Jacquelina.)
Marry!—That would sting her home!
Though a loathed reptile has with poison mixed
The springs of her affection,—though she scorns me,—
'T would grieve her pride, were I to wed another.
Beholding me kneeling beside her sister,
She may come to herself, and shake this dream
Of folly off. Her early love may gush,
Like pent-up waters, back into her heart!—
But then—then we are parted—
O, misery!—which way shall I turn?—Are these
The nuptials I have panted for? These, these,
The transports?—Heaven have mercy!—O, Demetria!
How couldst thou bury in oblivion all
Those hallowed hours, so fraught with feeling!—stoop—
But if she be not fallen past belief,
If one last spark of tenderness remain,
I'll rouse it, though the effort cost my life.
I'll watch her as I swear myself away;—
Then, if she falters,—if one gush of tears
Betray her,—I am recompensed for torture.

(Exit.)

SCENE II.

A retired part of the wood: Barbadeca and Jacquelina.
Jacq.
It helps us either way:—best, if they wed;
For then Demetria's hope lies desolate,
And she becomes more ductile to your will.
If not, the tale deceives them; when she 's seized,
It seems elopement, and averts our peril.

Barb.
How does she bear it?

Jacq.
Why, as martyrs, fire.—
Speed, speed, or truth will out. Her swollen eye
And ashy cheek cannot be long unnoticed.
He, too, will melt: this angry gust o'erblown,
The natural current of his soul will set,
And sweep our schemes to nothing. Love of this sort
Is not a hasty flame lighted by fancy,
That blazes and expires. It grew with him
From early days; hope wore its hues; its tints
Are over all his retrospect; it lives
Essential with the spark of life, and death
May fail to quench it.

Barb.
When, and where,
Can we best take her?

Jacq.
Close upon the river,
Just where it turns the point of Belvederé,
Stands a pavilion, like a summer-house,
Crowned with a little spiral pinnacle—

Barb.
I know the place.

Jacq.
That is the surest, safest.—
It was their haunt, when, in their love's first bloom,
They used to steal away together. When he
Betook him to the wars, I 've heard them say
She almost made it her abode; seemed ever
Happiest when planting round it flowers; and there,
When the untroubled moon was in the Arno,
And all was dew and fragrance, oft retired,
In tender reverie, or with her lute
Recalling favorite airs of Cosmo.—Ah!
To sever hearts so knit seems heinous. Signor,
I'm taking that upon me for your sake—

Barb.
Does she frequent there still?

Jacq.
O, constantly:—
You may descry her from the farther bank.
Station your horsemen there, and dart across,
With one or two staunch followers, in a skiff.

Barb.
What hour were surest?

Jacq.
Woods have echoes, mind.—
Loup-garou may be prowling:—you best know
The peril 's in his fang.

Barb.
No more of that.
He feels me in his vitals now, and shall
In his best blood, if Fate again confront us.—
But will his jealous frenzy drive the fool
To wedlock?

Jacq.
Not if he take time to cool.
But while the transport lasts, if he address
Olivia or his uncle, he 's committed.
Then pride will force him on, consistent pride,
The stumbling-stone of honorable asses.

Barb.
Hell catch him, if he fall.

Jacq.
And keep him!—
Or, some day, you and I may rue these pranks.
No matter:—let future ills physic themselves.—
And so, my lord,—more to the present purpose,—
I think I 've been herein your humble handmaid.

Barb.
My plotter, executor, head, hand, all!
Think not thy zeal misprized, my pretty witch,
Got by the Devil, or else by Machiavelli.
There 's for thee.

(Gives her a purse.)
Jacq.
Thanks, my lord Marquis, thanks.—'T is now a year
And some odd months, since I, at your entreaty,
Left Florence, and a wealthy service.—Is it not?

Barb.
Why, thereabouts.

Jacq.
I fastened on this house, and here have toiled
For your advancement. Have I not?

Barb.
Thou look'st
Like a green widow, screwing up thy mouth
Less than a purse-ring.

Jacq.
In my zeal to serve you,
I 've wronged my conscience, taken grievous things
To my account. I scarcely dare look back.

Barb.
What! cant!—Thou? thou?

Jacq.
You smile. But I 've a soul,—
A precious soul,—and, well thou know'st, deep guilt
To be assoiled.

Barb.
Spare your preamble, holy lady Abbess,
And to the point.

Jacq.
Well then, my gracious lord,
You may remember, on a certain day,
You being downcast with your hopeless suit,
I cheered you;—counselled so and so; revived
Your spirits,—smoothed your difficulties,—
Till hope and resolution chased despair.
You took a solemn oath upon you then,
An oath most binding, if through me you ever
Attained the mastery of that froward beauty,
You would endow me with a seat you owned,
With some small lands about it, on the Ombrone.

Barb.
Ha! ha! I thought the circuit would end land-wise.
So, being conscience-laden, you 'd forswear
This wicked, wicked world, and in your snug
House on the Ombrone negotiate with Heaven?

Jacq.
If it be not too late.

Barb.
Well, when she 's won.

Jacq.
(producing a paper and an ink-horn.)
Just say that much herein.

Barb.
Thou faithless jade!

Jacq.
'T is but to sign.—You know the proverb, Signor.

Barb.
(looks over the paper, signs, and returns it.)
Art satisfied?—Now say—at what fixed hour
Shall we attempt her?

Jacq.
If the sky be fair,
Just as the ruddy evening streaks are fading,
The place I 've named is her accustomed seat:
Night, and the moon, will favor after. Now,
My lord, if all be answered, and if all
Be understood, we best had separate.

Barb.
Farewell, my girl. All 's settled, as I think.

Jacq.
How long before you venture her in Florence?

Barb.
When all her scruples vanish; when she smiles,
And treats me as a husband, and will swear
Not to betray me.

Jacq.
Bind her strongly there.—
Farewell! be watchful, and be resolute.

Barb.
When do you quit them?

Jacq.
O, I cannot tell:
Not till the tumult 's over. So, adieu!
(Exit Barbadeca.)
Not till our compact 's sure.—If Cosmo wed her
I have her—sealed; and by the vengeful gods
I pin her to the bond, or that divulge,
Shall sink her lower than her eyes dare look.
All hail the day, invoked, deferred so long!
Freed from the abject lot imposed upon me
By faithless, perjured man,—enriched,—revenged,—
I'll shrive, do penance,—peradventure deck
Some shrine, and feed the holy candlesticks,
Till virgin wax hath cancelled virgin shame.

(Exit.)

SCENE III.

Count Amerigo alone in his apartment.
Count.
Had she been spared to me, the golden sheaf
Of my domestic joys had now been perfect.
But favoring Heaven yet promises my age
A liberal harvest; I dare breathe no murmur;
Vouchsafed a counterpart of her I lost,
So near, so dear, that her pure spirit seems
Abiding with me. Soul of gentleness!
Dear image of thy mother! so thou 'rt happy,
Peace harbours yet with old Amerigo.
Methought, to-day, her cheek was wan, her eyes
Looked red with weeping. Every gracious influence
Defend and nourish thee, for thou 'rt a plant
Too tender for the nipping blasts of sorrow.
Often, and earnestly, her mother wished
That hers and Cosmo's kindred natures—

(Enter Cosmo.)
Cos.
God bless thee, uncle.

Count.
Thanks, my son.

Cos.
If you 're at leisure, I would crave a moment.

Count.
Sit down; I'll hear thee gladly.—But thou art pale,
Nay, very pale.

Cos.
(seating himself.)
I'm well, Sir,—never better.—
'T is now ten years since I was left an orphan;—
You took me home,—have been a father to me,—
Had my own lived, he could not have done more,
But yet—yet—there 's a boon—one boon—

Count.
My son,
Demand with confidence, for I'll deny
Nothing to thee.

Cos.
My lord,—you have a daughter—
Give me—bless me, I mean—

Count.
Your suit is granted.
I have indeed a daughter, dear to me
Above all price; but to your proven honor
I dare entrust her.

Cos.
Thanks, uncle—thanks—O, thanks—

Count.
O, Cosmo, but one like her ever lived!—
Like a chance violet, that springs ere frosts
Are over, whose brief date each one foretells,
She ever seemed; yet she survives, and blooms.
O cherish her with tenderest sympathy,
Watch o'er her peace with soft solicitude;
So shall she flourish and adorn thy fortunes.
Neglect would kill her. Now forgive my plainness.—
I see thou 'rt moved—forgive—I'll say no more.
Nay, nay, my son— (Taking his hand affectionately.)


Cos.
Perhaps—perhaps—

Count.
I greet thee as my son,—my chosen son,—
And tell thee frankly, I know not another
In the world's range to whom I would commit her.
This has Heaven's seal:—her mother blesses ye:—
My heart is now at rest.

Cos.
Praise Heaven, then, uncle,—
A quiet bosom 's—O! 't is priceless, priceless—
None knows its value but the wretch who 's lost it.—
But you are doubly blest, my lord.

Count.
What says my son?

Cos.
You 've two fair daughters.

Count.
And virtuous too,
As well as fair.

Cos.
No doubt. And, now, my lord,
Strengthen a mother's with a father's blessing:—
Make Cosmo and Olivia rich indeed.

Count.
(rising, in surprise.)
Olivia!

Cos.
Sir, your blessing.

Count.
Olivia?

Cos.
What means my lord?

Count.
Was it Olivia's hand?

Cos.
The same, my lord.

Count.
Ha!—but, Cosmo,—
Know'st thou—art thou aware—
(Tenderly, and irresolutely.)
Surely, my son,
It was my younger child.

Cos.
(suppressing emotion.)
You much mistook me.

Count.
I labored in a grievous error, Cosmo,—
My thoughts were on Demetria.

Cos.
Still dost thou grant Olivia to my love?

Count.
(after a pause.)
If Cosmo ask it.

Cos.
I do. And, prithee, no delays,
For I must leave ye.

Count.
Leave us!

Cos.
Bellona 's loose:—
The trumpet brays again:—my regiment
Is summoned, or soon will be. I have seen
The rescript. Furious Achmet swears to leave
Belgrade as level as the Oman desert,
And light Vienna with more moons than stars.
Farewell, my lord: you 've done me honor.

(Exit.)
Count.
Amazement!—
I thought he meant to dwell in peace among us!—
What change is this?—Alas! I fear, I fear
Her soul is set on him.—I, too, have helped it:—
Still must I dwell on him and magnify
His virtues. Whence can such mischance—He loved her—
He surely loved her,—every act proclaimed it.—
Ah me! who'll break these tidings?—Who can answer 't?—
Great God! this is a stroke I had not looked for.

(Exit.)