University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A Court-yard before the Palace.
Gheraldi.
Gher.
He must not see the Duchess yet. These scenes
Of tears and quarrel but ill suit a court;
And the Duke loves decorum.—Now have I
Been confidant to father, and to son,—
To her (by virtue of my calling)—her,
And the proud Isabella. Had I not
A cowl, I fear a blush at times might tell
A story. Guido knows his love is here;
(Thus much I've written to him,) but that she
Is Duchess here, he knows not: so,—he comes.

Guido.
[without.]
Ha! ha!—well, as you please: I shall expect you.

Guido enters, and is passing over in haste.
Gher.
My lord! lord Guido!

Guido.
Ha! Gheraldi, you?
Where's Isidora? Is my father well?

Gher.
Your father bids—

Guido.
I'll see him presently:
But where's my love?

Gher.
He has commanded me—

Guido.
Not now, not now.
Where is she?

Gher.
First, hear the Duke's message; nay.

Guido.
Now by my soul, I shall be angry with you.
Say to your lord some ten,—five minutes hence,
I'll seek him in his study. You oppress me.
What do you mean that thus you shake your head
In silence—or is't sorrow?—Ha! she's dead?

Gher.
Not so, my lord.

Guido.
Why all is well then;—yet,
(What do you mean?) you seem to mock my joy,
And lay a leaden hand upon the wings
Of all my hopes.—Oh! Isidora, where,
Where are you loitering now when Guido's here?
By the bright god of love, I'll punish you,
Idler, and press your rich red lips until
The colour flies.

Gher.
My lord: nay, do not frown.
I have a story of deep interest, Sir.
It is my duty (my sad duty now,)
To break unto your ear some tidings.

Guido.
Quick!

Gher.
Your father, my dear lord, is married.

Guido.
So.—

Gher.
Reasons of state—

Guido.
Keep 'em, good Monk, I have no stomach now
For any food but love.

Gher.
Strong reasons did induce my lord ('twas when
You were reported dead) to seek a bride.
He left the common course that monarchs use,
And chose from out the land he govern'd, one
Who might have shamed the world.

Guido.
That was not well,
At least.

Gher.
I mean she was so fair, my lord.

Guido.
I mark you. Well?

Gher.
My lord your father (urged
By some state policy, and fearful lest
Your death should snap the link your friendship formed
'Tween him, and Count Navarro,)—

Guido.
Chose his daughter?

Gher.
No; not—not thus.

Guido.
How then? Speak! Is my heart
Bursting? What is't I fear? My very soul
Is sick, and full of some dismay, as tho'
Fate were upon me. If—I dare not ask:
I dare not, tho' a word would end it all.
Gheraldi! no, no, no: silence awhile:
I will not hear thee now. Oh! heaven and earth!
If it were so—it cannot be: it shall not.
Yet if it were—Oh! Isidora, you,
What you—She is as constant as the stars
That never vary, and more chaste than they.
Forgive, forgive me that I slander thee
Even in dreams. Gheraldi, now I'll listen,
And you shall tell your tale. I was a fool
Just now. Forgive me, father:—now.

Gher.
I said your father did desire a bride
From out his realm. Navarro's daughter then
Was woo'd; now she is married: but he had
Two nieces.

Guido.
Ay, I see't. My father saw
The lady Julia: yes, I see how 'twas;
It was so, was it not?

Gher.
He saw her there.

Guido.
Ay, ay: she was a pretty girl when last
I was at home: and so he married her?

Gher.
He saw them both, Sir, with a favouring eye.
The lady Isidora then in tears—

Guido.
True; they might not become her: yet she's fair.
When joy is in her eye 'tis like the light
Of Heaven: blue, deep and ethereal blue.
I would not wish a life more beautiful;
And, were she but a Saint, I'd worship her.
Sad Isidora! Did thine eyes indeed
Shower diamond drops for me? My gentle love!
*But Guido (thine) is come at last to kiss
The tears away for ever. Happiness
Looks out to find thee; shall it look in vain!

Gher.
May I proceed, my lord?

Guido.
I had forgot.
Where were we?

Gher.
I was telling that† your father
Saw Count Navarro's nieces, and preferr'd
The elder.

Guido.
You—you said he married Julia.

Gher.
No, my lord: no.

Guido.
Whom then? it cannot be.

Gher.
My lord! I—

Guido.
Monk! speak out: Curse on my trembling.
One word—a single word. Now:—tho' your breath
Carry damnation (as I think it does)
To every hope of mine, be quick, quick.—Now.
Stun me with sorrow, lest I feel too much,
And slay thee. What's her name—my father's bride?

Gher.
'Tis Isidora.

Guido.
Thou has done't.

Gher.
My lord!
Look up, my Lord! So—there: you're very pale.
Nay, for your father's sake.

Guido.
Ha! ha! ha! ha!

Gher.
Lord Guido! I—Gheraldi—speak to you.
Oh! well: I see you know me now. Not so.
Nay, look more cheerfully.—You're better now?

Guido.
Thou—thou knew'st all my love. Thou busy priest—

Gher.
My lord.

Guido.
Thou pander to my father's wish,
(He is no father, I disown him.) Thou—
Thou busy meddling Monk.

Gher.
My lord, my lord,
This is not well!

Guido.
Away! my mother? Oh! my mother was
As pure as purity. I will not talk
Of her who is—yet oh! what pity 'tis
That one so fair should now be full of blots,
And that a face which love had breathed upon
Should now be scarred all over. Once, I thought
That in her eyes, (how beautiful they were!)
Her soul shone out.

Gher.
If you will let me speak—

Guido.
But she is grown a harlot in my sight.
What! married to my father, to my father!
What! smile upon the son, and wed the sire,
Because—there's some strange cause. What blinding spell
Is there now hung between us and the Moon,
That dims the sights of women? There's a cause:
I dare not guess: I will not.

Gher.
May I speak?

Guido.
Father Gheraldi, you have done your errand.
Tell the Duke of Mirandola, his Son
Is now at ease.—Say that the news at first
Was somewhat stirring: but that he—ay, he
Forgives—forgets; no, never, never can
That soon forgot that all his life was blighted.
Say what you will, Sir.

Gher.
But your father, now,
Expects you.

Guido.
I'm too gallant, Sir; so tell him.
I'll pay my duty to the Duchess first;
Unto my—mother, since it must be so:
And when we have discuss'd some words, why then
I'll meet him. No more words, Sir.—Now, farewell!

[Exeunt at different sides.

SCENE II.

A Hall in the Palace.
Enter Isabella, meeting Casti and Julio.
Isab.
Welcome unto Mirandola.

Casti.
Many thanks.

Isab.
Ah! Signior Julio! give you welcome, Sir.

Julio.
*I thank you, Madam, thank you heartily.
A little leisure is welcome even to me.

Isab.
You have not lost your spirits in the wars?

Julio.
No Madam, much the same; I'm still, at least,
Your servant ever.

Isab.
Oh! Sir,† we shall try
Your gallantry to-day: the Duke hath ordered
A feast in honour of his son.—Count Casti,
You've seen my brother?

Casti.
Madam?

Isab.
You are wrapt
In study, Sir: some fosse, or counterscarp,
Or siege, or ambuscade then filled your brain.

Casti.
No, Madam, none.

Isab.
Brief answer.—Have you seen
My brother yet?

Casti.
I have not.

Isab.
He will be
Rejoiced to see you. Ah!—yes, it is he.

Julio.
Faith, 'tis the Duke: he looks more young than ever.

Casti.
Now, to my mind, his eye is filled with care.

Duke enters.
Duke.
Ha! gentlemen, and friends, I'm glad to see
Such faces at Mirandola.

Casti.
My lord,
We are your son's companions.

Duke.
So I hear:
Therefore, ye are more welcome, Signior, [To Julio.]

Have heard of your good acts. Your sword is dulled
With carnage, I am told. Fair faces here
Have smiled, and gentle hearts have wished you well.

Julio.
My Lord!

Duke.
Indeed I hear 'twas so.

Isab.
'Tis true.

Duke.
Signior, your deeds have filled the mouth of fame,
And you too have admirers; none more true
Than I.

[Takes Casti's hand.
Casti.
My lord, you do me honour.

Duke.
Sir,
I do myself much honour thus to take
A good man by the hand. You are not all
Soldier, and yet enough: I do not love
All courtier: I myself, you know, was once
Something (not much) o'the soldier.

Julio.
Oh!—

Casti.
My lord,
You have fought bravely; that the world well knows.

Julio.
Your foes especially, my lord.

Duke.
Oh! no.
I drew the sword for pastime: you for right.
Shall I not see my son?

Isab.
He will be here
Speedily.

Julio.
If I am right, I saw him talk
Just now with the confessor, old Gheraldi.
I'll bid him come to you.

Duke.
Not so: stay, Sir.
I'll wait for my son's leisure. He is tired
Perhaps, and his too sensitive nature asks
Some quiet 'ere he sees me.—You have been
With him throughout the war, Sir, have you not?

Casti.
I have, my lord.

Duke.
I mean, attached to the same
Battalion?

Casti.
'Twas so.

Duke.
Was he sad, or gay?

Casti.
He has a natural gaiety that sits
Pleasantly on him, when no ill's at hand:
But he is soon depressed and latterly—

Duke.
Well latterly—you stop?

[Isabella draws Julio aside.
Casti.
Of late,
He has been ill, (wounded you know,) and grief—
Some secret sorrow wearing down his heart,
Has paled his cheek, and thinned it: and at times,
I've seen him fretted much beyond his custom.

Duke.
Indeed! then must it be
The sun, (there is no cause beside,)—the Sun
Hath burnt these humours on him, and perhaps
Quickened the wholesome current of his blood,
'Till it outruns it's channels: *then, you know,
Come fevers, and in the abused brain
Distraction; so, before the sight diseased
Shadows will stalk, and ghosts of unreal ills:
Filling the bloated fancy 'till it bursts:
These things I know.†—But Guido—?

Casti.
Oh! he will
Grow fresh again, now that his father's arms
Are open.

Julio.
And his love's.

Duke.
True, Signior,—as you say,
I see Gheraldi—True; my arms are open.
Excuse me, Signior Casti; I shall soon
See you again. Once more I bid you welcome.
You will not fail my banquet.

Casti.
We are much
Honored, my lord.

Julio.
My lord, we—

Isab.
Come, Signior, you'll go with us;
I have some things to say.

Duke.
Why doth the Friar loiter? Sirs, farewell!

Julio.
We take our leave, my lord.

[Exeunt Isabella, Julio, and Casti.
Duke.
He motions and retires.—Well, for the present
I must shake hands with patience, and be still.
*The day is lowering. What a beaming morn
It was; (ay, so was mine,) and now the clouds
Hang round about like some fierce accident
Which comes upon us as we think to reach
Safely our home.†—Now, should this boy have been
Cheated—it cannot be; old Gaspero
When he returned to die, gave fair account
Of the delivery of my letters.—When
I see him I will look into his soul:
And yet whene'er I see him
(True son of dead Bianca,) her pale smile
And scornful eye shoot thro' my very heart.
I would that I could think he meant me fair;
Why should I think him guilty—is he not
My son? Ah! did I mean his Mother fair?
And yet my will has made him now my heir?
Passing my Sister's son.—Can he still love her?
Ha! the Monk passes. So, now for the news.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

An Apartment of the Duchess.
Isidora enters.
Isid.
He comes, he comes; and I must see him, too.
Oh! that I must.—Not yet.—I must, I must.
Hark! no, it is not he: It is my heart.
Will it not burst? My throat is full and choaking.
God! look upon me now, and save me!—Save!
He'll come and curse me—and it will be good;
For I have stolen his heart away, and flung
Mine own to ruin.—Ruin! Oh! that I
Could tell him all about my cruel lot,
And how I was betrayed, and lost for ever.
That Monk advised me—Oh! no more of that.
Ha! some one comes.

Guido enters.
Guido.
[after a pause.]
Madam, I come to pay
My duty to you.

Isid.
Welcome; you are welcome.

Guido.
I come to see how well her bridal dress
Becomes the Duchess of Mirandola.

Isid.
You have been well, I hope?

Guido.
Since when?

Isid.
Since you—
You and I parted.

Guido.
That's a long time, now.
I have forgot: how is't that you remember?

Isid.
I—I—Oh! pity me.

Guido.
Weep, lady, weep.
Tears (yet they're bitter) purify the soul,
But your's is fair?—I know they ease the heart.
Mother!

Isid.
Oh! Guido,—cruel, cruel, cruel!

Guido.
[aside.]
By Heaven, my courage begins to fail; and I
Grow womanish. Now let me wring her heart,
As she wrung mine.—Ah! there she weeps away
Almost to dissolution. How she bends,
Like one who sickens with remorse or love;
And she, perhaps, has been betrayed.—Alas!
Poor Isidora!

Isid.
Ah!—you spoke?—you spoke?

Guido.
'Twas nothing.

Isid.
Nothing? It was all to me.
'Twas happiness—no, that is gone: 'twas Hope:
'Twas pardon. Oh! my lord, (Guido no more,)
What have I done that you can use me thus?
I would not for the world, for all the world,
Put you to such great sorrow.

Guido.
Shall I tell you?

Isid.
Yes.

Guido.
Listen to me, then. When you were young—
You are young still, and fair; the more's the pity:
But in the time I speak of, you were just
Bursting from childhood—with a face as fair
As tho' you had look'd in Paradise, and caught
It's early beauty: then, your smile was soft,
As Innocence before it learns to love.
And yet a woman's passion dwelt within
Your heart, as warm as Love.—But I am wrong?

Isid.
Oh! no. I loved—

Guido.
Indeed?

Isid.
Indeed, indeed.

Guido.
Well!—There was one who loved you too. He said
That every hope he had rested on you.
He worshipped you, as Idols are adored
In countries near the sun. He gave his heart
So absolutely up, that had he thought
Then, that you would desert him, he'd have slain
Himself before you. You were his home, his heaven,
His wealth, his light, his mind, and life substantial.
But then he went away to the fierce wars,
(His honor was pledged for it,) and he left
You with an oath upon your soul behind.
'Twas said he died—

Isid.
One said he saw you fall.

Guido.
'Twas said he died, and that she grieved awhile,
In virgin widowhood for him. At last,
A Duke—a reigning Duke, with wintry hair,
And subtle spirit, and—without a heart,
Came wooing to her, and so—you do not heed me—
And so she dried her tears, and (tho' the youth
Wrote that he lived,) she laugh'd, and left the son,
To marry with the father.

Isid.
And you wrote
To me?

Guido.
To you, and him.

Isid.
I feared 'twas so.
*Now Heaven help me; for I'm wound about
By their strong toils, and there is no escaping.
Oh! I am worn, and broken down by grief.†
I dare not hope that you'll believe me, yet
That letter, Guido—Oh, I never knew it;
I had no letter—saw no letter.

Guido.
What!
I wrote to you from Naples: from my bed
Where I lay languishing, by Gaspero,
My father's servant. Why, I wrote—(has there
Been cozening here!)—unto my father: he
Will not deny't. Where is that slave?

Isid.
Gaspero? He is dead.

Guido.
He was my father's servant. Could he be
Unfaithful? No.

Isid.
Your father prized him much.
Oh! it is too clear: we are both undone.

Guido.
It may be;—nay, it is. But, 'ere I sink,
I will be righted some way, or revenged.
What! does he think to cheat me now, and wear
His prize abroad so boldly.—before me?
I'll have revenge.

Isid.
He is your father, Guido.
Nay—

Guido.
I disown him. He has lost his son.
Some parents shut their children from their homes,
(Young boys and gentle girls) but I abjure
My father in his age: let him go down
Into his grave alone.

Isid.
Do not incense him.

Guido.
Whom?

Isid.
The Duke.

Guido.
You're right.
Call him no more my father. No; I'll talk
As one man with his equal; or, perhaps,
I may wear something of superior scorn,
And drop a word or two of charity;
But that will be for thy sake, my poor girl!
Nay, dry your tears: and let us part awhile.

Isid.
Farewell.

Guido.
Oh! not farewell yet. I but go
To see the Duke. When shall we meet again?

Isid.
We must not; yet—

Guido.
We will, we will, once more.

Isid.
Hark!—hush! your father comes.

Guido.
Why, that is well.
We will (I'm glad of't) say at once good morrow,
Without more ceremony.

Isid.
No; not now,
Not now, I cannot bear it.—Nay, for me.

Guido.
That is a charm I cannot disobey.

Isid.
Quick, quick, he comes!

Guido.
We'll meet again. Remember!
[Isid. exit.
Curio enters.
Well, Sir?

Curio.
My lord; his highness waits for you.

Guido.
Where is he?

Curio.
In his private chamber, Sir.

Guido.
Tell him, I come.
[Curio exit.
Now, thou false Fortune, am I still thy fool?
Shall I see him, and, like a cheated child,
Believe each word he utters?—He was kind
Once, amidst all his pride, to me: but now
He has (has he not?)—robbed me—stolen away
The gem I love beyond the whole vast world,
And with a selfish vanity, here, before
My very eyes, he wears it to my shame—
His shame, and my deep sorrow. Now, my heart,
I have known thee firm in danger, droop not now!

[Exit.