 | Cosmo De' Medici |  |
ACT II.
SCENE I.
A Hall in the Ducal Palace.—Enter Ippolita.Ipp.
It is scarce day-break; sure, they are not gone?
I heard but now the baying of the hounds
I' the hazy court-yard, and their keepers' voices,
With jar of chains and the shrill cry of hawks?
Giovanni has been closetted with the Duke—
I have not seen him since, nor have I slept;
But I will know the worst, whate'er it be.
Enter Giovanni, in a hunting dress.
Giov.
Ippolita!
Ipp.
Oh, I have passed a night
Of feverish thought!
Giov.
Then wherefore hast thou left
Thy couch, love! at this chill blue hour of dawn?
Ipp.
What said the Duke?—last night thy mother told me
Important matters quickened in her mind,
Touching thy future course: I could not trust
My heart to question her?
Giov.
Cosmo hath sought—
Ipp.
Sought what?
When I return thou shalt learn all,—
But Garcia waits me now beyond the gates:
My word, thou know'st, is pass'd.
Ipp.
Tell me at once!
I can bear anything but such suspense.
Giov.
Then hear the wind sigh thro' this blighted tree,
Words that will blight thee too!
Ipp.
All is explained—
Cosmo hath chosen thee some noble bride!
That fate oft rent my pillow—and I feel it
With greater anguish than a sudden blow,
Which with a stunning mitigation falls.
Giov.
The daughter of the Emperor Ferdinand.
Ipp.
Thou'rt free to do their bidding. I will retire.
Giov.
No, no—Ippolita!
Ipp.
With thee I'll leave
My heart; and for the rest, which some call “woman,”
It shall be buried in fit solitude.
Giov.
That solitude I'll share, if that the Duke
Command obedience—but he'll not command
When I shall tell him of our sea-deep love.
Ambitious as he is, he hath a feeling
That's greater than ambition,—'tis his justice,
His magnanimity, his innate grandeur
Of soul! He shall know all.
Ipp.
'Tis then my part
To act with fortitude. Oh! Prince of Florence,
Receive the thanks of a devoted woman
For thy most generous love, thus proved sincere:
Forgive my courage—do not deem it coldness—
But the poor orphan whom thy father's bounty
Hath saved from ruin, ne'er will mar his hopes
By wedding with his son. Then fare thee well!—
And all the blessings—
[Exit Ippolita.
Blessings on one who's cursed,
Alight but on a poisoned soil, and perish!
Yet shall the Duke know all; then will I prove
My best obedience, acting as he deems right.
My father is in all things great: his nature
Owns a vast soul of beauty, grace and power,
That, like the archangel's breath, might cover earth,
And give man's blood a purer atmosphere.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
Outskirts of the City.—Enter Garcia, Cornelio, Dalmasso, Cavaliers and Huntsmen; with falcons and boar-spears.Gar.
There's oft with power an equal indolence:
How somnolent the lion, or the form
Of vast Alcides pondering o'er his club,
And serious without thought!—why, dew-damp lords!
We're up before Apollo!
Cor.
Where is the prince
Giovanni?
Gar.
He's, perchance, asleep in's bed.
Has he been roused?
Dal.
He has, my lord.
Gar.
Then, doubtless,
With the first sense of the raw morning air
He has turned himself just to deliberate,
And now is dreaming of a noble chase.
Cor.
As hungry poets frame new worlds with words
I'll go and wake him.
Gar.
Cease thy cannibal wit.
Dal.
I will accompany you to 'tend the prince.
Gar.
He's here: of late he hath not used these sports,
But with Chiostro sat up half the night.
We have not waited long.
Enter Giovanni.
Giov.
Your pardon, brother—I have delayed you much.
Gar.
A minute scarcely: we are glad you're come.
The day is favourable—clear and cold:
Let's to the fields, beginning life afresh!
Gio.
I shall be glad to do so.
Dal.
Thou look'st pale:
The air, my lord, doth seem too keen for you?
Gio.
I'm not quite well; but I shall mend apace,
As my blood warms.
Gar.
(aside.)
It is his hard consent,
Gain'd by our mother, that doth make him ill:
I fear 'tis so.—Brother, be frank with me!
This pastime and my company suit not
Thy habits, nor thy natural bent of mind:
Clench not an odious task between thy teeth,—
In all good feeling, if thou'dst rather stay,
Say so, and take my hand before I go.
Gio.
I'll take it and go with thee. You mistake
My cause of gloom. I've much that loads my mind.
Gar.
I apprehend.
Gio.
Dost thou?
Gar.
I think I do:
(whispers.)
In love already with the Emperor's daughter?
Gio.
Let us away! I will shake off this mood!
Join then the chase with heart and hand and voice:
Echoes shall ring as in some wooded isle
Fresh peopled with the lusty savages!
Sound, clarions!—fill the empty air, and lift
The hoar grass on the heads of mountains old,
Astonished at the wood-gods come once more!
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
The Ducal Library.—Cosmo seated with a poor Scholar, who has been reading from a manuscript.Cosmo
(rising.)
I am well satisfied: thou'st writ a work,
Fit chronicle of Asian conquerors.
What gifts and fair dominions had been thine
In those barbaric days—munificent,
And oft as dangerous—were hard to tell;
But since on me devolves the grateful duty
Of worth's reward, here is the best dominion
Which I can offer thee:—behold thy subjects!
[He points to the library.
Scho.
It is a more than princely favour: it gives
My heart a principality.
Cosmo.
I'm glad of't.
But tell me, in thy course through those dark times,
Where certitude of mightiest things oft hangs
By one poor thread, hast thou not sometimes pampered
Lean facts—that trembled mid-deep in the grave—
Thus, with imagination, vivified?
Scho.
Not more, my liege, than hath Herodotus,
Strabo in's later books, the elder Pliny,
Nor should we e'er conceal the principle,
Since barren facts ne'er raised the moral world;
And history would be earthy were it not
For spiritual deductions. But where facts
Could be authenticated, I have ever
Given faithful record, and fair inference,
Rearing a superstructure on just grounds.
Cosmo.
Thou tak'st a high position; bold, yet good.
Read me once more the passage that describes
Sesostris' death.
Scho.
Your Highness, it runs thus:—
(Reads)
—Not only was Sesostris worthy of being called
the Mighty, in that his chariot rolled with intolerable
power, like unto a second sun, over the vast tracts of
Lybia and Ethiopia; in that he made the conquered
Arabs uplift his name to a superstitious height, enthroned
beside their ancient adorations; in that he made tributary
the islands of the Red Sea, shaking the far-reaching
lightning of his spears over the whole subjugated splendour
of the East. Great as were the warlike deeds thus
attributed to him, which seem at times to have dazzled
his historians—wanting a high severity of mind—into
glorious allegories and fables, where the extreme of admiration
ends in smiles; Sesostris is worthy of a more
imperishable fame. In this barbaric age he dealt mercifully
with the fallen nations; in this barbaric age he
ever strove to advance the noblest arts and sciences, and
the progress of humane philosophy.
Cosmo.
I like thine estimate of fame: proceed!
Scho.
But now Sesostris approached the last degree
of that orbit which endureth no second revolution of its
body. After so many nations conquered; so many potent
temples erected; and the periodical exuberance of Nilus
checked, mastered, and applied according to his designs;
Sesostris found himself in the presence of Old Age!
Pain was opposed to infirmity; diseases environed, and
his faculties deserted him; he would have looked abroad
for comfort and relief, but he had become blind. His
children began to conspire for his throne; his friends fled
from his bed-side to feast with them; his bodily existence
became burdensome, loathsome, and a mere sea-cave of
misery for the wreck of his mind; and with his last
energy in both, he therefore destroyed himself.
Cosmo.
Thou read'st a fearful moral to great kings.
But doth his end detract Sesostris' fame?
Scho.
With deference to your Highness, I think not.
All that had made him great was gone: moreover,
Assassination might have cut him off.
Cosmo.
We will discuss this question at our leisure.
Scho.
I hold myself your Highness' grateful debtor.
[Exit Scholar.
Cosmo.
If princes reason'd deeply on this life,
Its cloud-like changes and sharp accidents,
Subject as worms before the crown-pav'd paths
Where Fate with iron foot-step blind-fold strides;
Or seeing, joys to crush our misplac'd pride:
If we but measur'd glory's transient life
With the death-chamber where all earth-born power
Struggles for moments, as the breaking chain
Swings o'er Eternity; should we not haste
Our course to mend, nor dare to govern ill?
I've made my crown despotic,—was that right?
The old republic close collected now,
A ball within my hand—but thus, alone
Severe the means; the end must justify,
And spread enlarged, usurious recompense.
Since I hold rule, I must first rule myself:
Sternly I've done it—sternly will hold on;
Nor passion's self shall shake my balanc'd soul,
Thus with strong heart-felt justice counterpois'd.
Enter an Officer.
Offi.
I bring despatches for your Highness.
Cosmo.
Whence?
Offi.
Straight from the coast.
Cosmo.
Have my directions prov'd
Effective, in dispersion of the corsairs?
Offi.
My liege, not yet; but we have trac'd their chief
Up to the city.
Cosmo.
Is he then in Florence?
Offi.
He is, your Highness.
Cosmo.
'Tis some daring plan.
I thank you:—stay, sir—we have met before?
Offi.
In the Siennese wars, so please your Highness,
A small troop I commanded.
Cosmo.
Ay, and bravely!
Your merit, sir, has too long been o'erlook'd:
Accept promotion as apology,
For I have wrong'd you much.
Offi.
Your Highness' pardon:
I did not doubt your favour at fit time,
Believing I deserv'd it.
Cosmo.
Speed you well, sir.
[Exit Officer.
Now must Giovanni hasten from our court,
Soon as St Etienne's festival is o'er,
And seek the favour of the Pope in Rome,
He feigns himself a kinsman o' the Medici:
Thence to Segovia, where King Philip now
Dreams in his flower-crown'd villa. Soon my son
Will, by his talents, and his manners, fram'd
Of such sweet seriousness, his bland discourse,
And sterling worth, their best regard obtain:
Then, with those powerful friends our suit to aid,
With fitting retinue, as prince of Florence,
Unto the Emperor shall he speed to woo
His youngest daughter's hand. Where is Giovanni?
I do remember me: the Duchess' plan
To reconcile the boys, and set at rest
Their causeless variance, ere Giovanni leave
The city, is a wise and motherly thought;
Else might the canker into manhood eat
And rot affection's natural designs.
[He seats himself, with a book.
SCENE IV.
A Street.—Enter Chiostro and Macchietti.Mac.
I have primed a large palette for the occasion,
that would do St Etienne's heart good to look upon;
and I have got half a score of canvasses as tight as drums;
then, when the glorious feast is at its height—the censers
burning—the wine flowing—the noble garments
falling in redundant folds, just as happy accident disposeth
them—and the jewels raying forth from the
women's hair—I shall fix my shoulder behind a dark
Chiostro—shall I not get rare sketches?
Chi.
'Twill be an opportunity most favourable,
methinks.
Mac.
What is become of the young princes? Gone
a-hunting?—odd time to go a-hunting!—upon the eve of
such a festival?
Chi.
'Tis at the desire of the Duchess; and with the
Duke's approval. Their distance towards each other
never seems to have had any especial grounds, and 'tis
good time it should now cease for ever.
Mac.
So it is—so it is. Here come two of the seven
plagues of Egypt!
Chi.
Our wives, I opine?
Enter Berta and Christina, running.
Ber.
Oh, here they are—the old books and pictures—
our two liege night-caps!
Chi.
(aside.)
A liege night-cap! O, Learning! is
this the figure thou mak'st in thy wife's imagination?
Ber.
We so rejoice to ha' found you!
Chri.
We are so glad!
Mac.
(to Chris.)
I dread the bright quest and query
of thine eye!—dost want wherewith to buy some fresh
adornment for the outside of thy little head?
Chri.
Twenty ducats—no more.
Ber.
As for me, I want all things new!
Chi.
Spare these grey locks.
Ber.
Nay, that will I—quiet man!
Mac.
I must away to prepare!
(To Chris.)
Has't
been i' the painting-room?
Chri.
No, sir; oh no!
Mac.
Mass! you have!—I see half a fresh-painted
your drapery folds; and I, moreover, see my palette cast
on the ground, with its magic face downwards!
Ber.
Out on such a face!
Chri.
What a fuss it makes about its painting-place!
—would I had never entered! Marry! what a life has
been for me—sitting so oft stock-still, for the hands,
arms, legs, toes, busts and backs, of other women! An'
I had but known what it was to marry a painter!
Mac.
And I what 'twas to marry one who has no
love for the art!
Chri.
Help us!—is'nt one painter enough in the
family;—love you not enough for both of us, sir? I
want nine ducats?
Mac.
For what possible farcicality?
Chri.
For what did I marry you, think you, sir?—
Not to sit, lean, lie, or stand each day for the fingers,
toes, backs, legs, wings—
Mac.
Oh!
Chri.
Besides draperies!—Farcical, forsooth!—art
not always buying dingy old painted cobwebs, not worth
a candle, and at any price!—Sweet husband! lighten
thy heavy heart of these ducats.
Mac.
Well—I submit my purse-neck to thy execution.
Chri.
St Etienne smile on our fine arts!
Ber.
(to Chios.)
Most dear!
Chi.
(aside.)
This have I sometime expected.
Ber.
I would fain have fourteen of the same.
Chi.
Nay, I must not.
Ber.
Must not!—who saith it?—who, when your
own wife knoweth you must?
Chi.
(gravely.)
There's none so bold:—I would
there were.
Must not!—Do'st tell me this, when scarce two
days since, there was forced through the porch a square
stack of the mouldiest old tomes that ever thy rubbishmania
collected!
Chi.
(sighing.)
Mania for rubbish!
Ber.
Marry, and what else are they, I should like to
learn?
Chi.
Humph!—thereof I entertain some doubt: thou
wouldst not like to learn.
Ber.
Well, 'tis most true, I should not—'art ever so
right:—lend me fourteen ducats for a while?
Chi.
The omens are inauspicious.
Enter Luigi del Passato.
Ber.
Look you at this best-behaved gentleman—for
those who worship images—that ever entered your calm
house, and hear what he will say. Sir, could my husband
lend money to anybody so safely as to his wife?
Pass.
Of a truth not, lady: the safety is in flight.
Ber.
Hear you that conclusion?
Chi.
Socrates insinuateth the axiom that, among
women, no man can escape his destiny: I therefore
consent.
Ber.
'Art indeed a scholar now, to some purpose.
Christina! happy Festival!—see'st thou how this promise
outweighs thine? Why did'st not persist more
intemperately, sweet?
[Exit Macchietti hastily.
Chri.
Most sweet husband?—he's gone!
Pass.
It does not become a scholar to expend much
money for dresses.
Ber.
Eh!—out on these calm, cold-featured men;
you shall never know what they really think. Come
Christina!
[Exeunt Berta and Christina.
Poets often feign miseries, and eloquent writers
do commonly, for the sake of a climax in favour of the
cause they would enhance, insist upon various things as
the most destructive to man's happiness; but for a real,
practical, homefelt insurance of domestic disquiet and
misery, nothing in this world of many troubles is so
efficient as an unsympathising wife! Oh Learning! what
art thou to a yard of silk!
[Exit Chiostro.
Pass.
It is good for man to be alone.
[Exit.
SCENE V.
A thick Forest. Enter Cornelio, Dalmasso, Cavaliers, and Hunters.Dal.
It is most strange!—I know not how it chanc'd!
We've lost the princes, 'tis a full hour ago!
Cor.
Not strange, methinks, amidst our hot pursuit
Through such entangled mazes, whence look'd forth
Right many a wood-born face with blood-shot eyes,
That made us think of ourselves! 'Twas life 'gainst life;
And death's a spiteful brute, as the monks say.
Dal.
Think of your Order—be not thus profane.
Cor.
Absolve us, all good cavaliers and monks!
I'm lost in doubt—who saw the princes last?
Cav.
The boar grew furious, when from out the thicket
Where last he crouch'd, our dogs did riot him;
But still he fled.
Don Garcia, with a spear,
Press'd close upon his out-swell'd, panting flank!
Dal.
So did his noble brother; but that wolf—
Was't not a wolf that, at the moment, cross'd us?
Hunt.
It was.
Cor.
And in the fresh and fierce confusion
We've lost the princes, and our sport to boot;
For whither they are gone I cannot learn
From this oracular Muse that sings in man.
Cav.
Perchance, they're not far distant: best wait here?
Dal.
The princes seem'd most ardent in the chase,
Vying with each other—not i' the sweetest mood;
But hunting naturally excites the blood,
And makes men, for the time, wild and ferocious
As is the beast they hunt.
Cav.
Let us rest here!
Cor.
Rest is the wisdom learnt of useless action—
Oh what a devil of a thorn is here!
Dalmasso, what's the genus of a black-thorn?
Dal.
Oh, cease! cease! I've no mood.
Cor.
Pooh! pooh! they're safe.
By searching ye oft lose; by sitting still
Ye're found. My feet are sore and my joints ache:
Let's to yon tree, and seated 'neath its boughs,
Bring forth our wallets and beguile the time.
All.
Well said! well said!
Dal.
I would we had not lost them.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
Another part of the Forest. Enter Giovanni and Garcia, breathless and excited.Gio.
I say 'twas mine.
Gar.
'Twas mine, sir!
Gio.
'Twas my spear
That thro' the haunches pierc'd him!
Gar.
Where's the boar?
The savage hath escap'd us.
Gio.
I was close
When you did cross me in your headlong blindness
To make a random blow, and thus we lost him!
'Tis ever so with hot, misguiding haste!
Gar.
It was the wolf you smote.
Gio.
Mass! 'twas the boar!
Gar.
He sped this way. Look you at these moss'd trunks,
Torn white with's tusks!—and here his hoofs with rage
Have spurn'd rough trenches!—on these drooping leaves
See the rank clotted foam! But he is gone!
Gio.
I hate thus to be foil'd!—seldom I use
These idle games—and now I must be foil'd!
Gar.
I'm vex'd as you—but we may find another.
Gio.
Nay, I'm fatigued—disgusted!
Gar.
Was't my fault?
Gio.
It was—thou know'st it was—or thou shouldst know!
Gar.
Mine!—how?
Gio.
Assuredly.
Why, brother, look you here—
It was the wolf you smote, just as he sprang
Into the thicket where the boar had rush'd!
I know 'twas all confusion at the moment,
But that I saw.
Gio.
Thou seldom see'st aright.
Gar.
So long thou'st been unpractis'd in these sports,
'Tis thou whose ardour doth mislead thine aim.
'Twas much the same when, three years since, we both
Cast off our hawks: thou said'st 'twas thine that struck
The cloud-borne game,—the falconer said 'twas mine.
Thy study's lamp breeds visions in thine eyes
When i'the open air.
Gio.
'Tis vanity
And childish petulance that make thee blind!
Gar.
What made the falconer blind, then?
Gio.
Pshaw!—thy ducat.
Gar.
Thou'st learnt illiberal shifts—thy Saint's a lawyer!
Gio.
Insolent boy!
Gar.
My senses are sure vouchers.
Gio.
Thy senses!—they're as yet i' their swaddling-clothes!
Gar.
Is this the modesty you learn from books,
And women so admire?
Gio.
Go—cease thy prattle!
I'm vex'd and tir'd, and in no mood to bear it.
Gar.
Then, sir, go you!
Gio.
Do not provoke me, boy!
Gar.
The forest's wide—what care I for your mood?
Return and cool, and seek instead of books
Our mother's chamber, or Ippolita,
And of her learn to sweeten your ill-temper.
Gio.
Ippolita!—what mean you? ha! what mean you?
Dost taunt me with her name?
Taunt you!—Ah, no;
She is too dear to me—too much respected,
And too much lov'd, to use for any taunt.
Gio.
What's this!—thou lov'st her as thy foster-sister,
Or as our mother loves her, or the Duke?
Gar.
More, more!—'tis a strange moment for the avowal.
Gio.
Thou'd'st love her as a wife, then?
Gar.
Ay, most truly!—
But what is this to thee, that thus with eyes
Staring and flaming, with a stiffening mouth,
And working fingers, thou dost trembling stand?
Gio.
I love Ippolita!
Gar.
Thou!
Gio.
And sincerely!
Nay more, she loves me better than her life—
Beyond her happiness!
Gar.
Can this be true?
But what a cruel palterer must thou be,
Knowing that thou'rt to wed another soon,
Thus to seduce her love,—thus to rob me
Of her first feelings! Oh, 'tis base!—most base!
Gio.
Rail boy, no more! I cannot, will not, bear it!
Give up thine idle thought, for she is mine!
Gar.
Thine!—idle thought!—why, what's thy studious thought?
Hie to the Emperor's court and make your way—
Strut i' the market, and there strike a bargain
To set your sanctity on stronger bones!
My idle thought!—I love her as my soul,
And as the soul of all this Heaven above us!
Gio.
Unbearable!—fear not my sword's keen edge,
But with the flat o' the blade I will chastise thee!
[Draws.
What!
Gio.
I shall beat thy words into loud cries,
Scorning thy boyhood as thine insolence!
Gar.
Thou scarlet braggart!
Gio.
Thou shalt find, I will.
Gar.
Thou'd'st best not try it!
[Draws.
Gio.
Insolent young villain!
[They fight off.
Enter Zacheo, from behind a tree.
Zach.
As fair a fight as I would wish to see!
The younger one is down!—ah! up again?
His sword is broken—half of it remains,
And makes a fiery circle round both heads!
'Sdeath! 'tis a desperate bout!—here they come reeling!
I'll have no share in it.
[Zacheo retreats.
Re-enter Garcia, with Giovanni, who staggers, and leans upon his sword.
Gar.
What hast thou done?
Gio.
(faintly).
Wrong, Garcia—wrong—and death must be the atonement.
Gar.
Death!—no, no! thou art not wounded deeply?
Gio.
Mortally!
Gar.
No!—it cannot, cannot be?
[Supports him.
Gio.
I feel my life fast flowing into the grave—
The grass looks red and hazy—all's confused—
And a sick atmosphere envelopes me—
A general shroud!
[Sinks down.
Gar.
'Tis but a passing faintness—
Gio.
It will pass—
And I—with it. List to my parting words.—
[Garcia kneels beside him.
Thus full of mine eternity:—thou'lt do it?
Gar.
I will—I will do anything—merciful God!
Gio.
If thou shouldst marry her—be kind and loving—
And tell our father—tell him from me, dear Garcia,
That this unworthy end was the worst crime—
If crime can be where thought was absent—lost—
Wherewith my conscience is oppress'd: farewell!
[Dies.
Gar.
He is not dead!—he is not surely dead?
Giovanni, speak to me—speak but one word!
Make some faint sign—the least—that I may know
A thread of life remains!—save me from madness!
[After a pause.]
Yes—he is surely dead—he must be dead!
No sleep was e'er like this—no trance—no fainting!
Those white and rigid lips—those dreadful eye-balls,
Turning me all to stone;—all but my soul—
Would that were stone too!—God! make me a stone,
Or make him animate!—these unnatural limbs—
These root-cold fingers—fallen jaw—this hair
Steaming the grass—all prove that Death is here;
For every vital thing i' the universe
Is quite unlike it! Where—where shall I go!
[Exit, wildly.
Zacheo, coming forward.
Zach.
A mortal fight—a very desperate fight,
And a right grievous one it seems to ha' been!
In all my time I ne'er felt thus before!
Death I can bear—but who can bear remorse,
Or such despair as shakes that boy to the soul?
I hate to see it—death is nothing to it!
I had a mind, just at the height o' the fray,
But prudence held me: 'troth! I've always found
Meddling for good of others hurts one's self,
And no thanks gain'd beside. Hist!—I'll steal off
From my old forest bed-chamber to the city,
Lest I be found and question'd of this deed;
Which e'en might lead to many other questions.
(Listening, and looking round.)
How sharp the wind sings thro' the dead man's teeth!
And jars mine, too, as coldly! Evening shades
Creep o'er the quivering leaves. I almost fancy
I see strange forms like Afrits and pale Gouls,
Dodge round the dark trunks, while the air seems filling
With faces of men slain at sea, and those
Who sand-graves found ashore! Away! 'twas written!
[Exit.
| Cosmo De' Medici | |