University of Virginia Library

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.