University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

—The Interior of the Ducal Palace.
Enter Leonora, the Duke, Count Beltran, Sanzio, and Fiametta.
DUKE.
Well, Count, since duty is so obstinate,
And presses you away, I leave you to
A better oracle. Let her towards whom
That duty flows, e'en moderate its current.
The Princess must decide it.

BELTRAN.
Sir, your highness,
In every thing too good, shall pardon me;
For that I have a duty paramount
To what I owe even to your condescension.
My noble and all-gracious mistress may,
And can dispose of me, even with a breath,
As best may suit her will and dignity.

DUKE.
Why, then, most dutiful Lord Conservator,
You, and the Princess, and my boy Ignatio,
Shall argue it; but two to one, Lord Viceroy—
Your province has a longer carnival—
You'll go not hence these ten days. Save you, sir.
[Exit Duke.

BELTRAN.
Your highness's servant.—
(Aside.)
She looks haughtily.
No matter.—May it please your highness, madam,
To ratify now my departure hence?

LEONORA.
Methinks you're anxious, sir, to leave us; and
If so, we give good-morrow either way
To guests who come or go.

BELTRAN.
Pardon me, madam,
If my anxiety to discharge that trust
With which the Prince, your husband, and yourself,
Have honour'd me, shall make me seem too careless
Of aught besides that trust. I do beseech you,
Misconstrue me no further. In all things,
Without exception or reserve, I wait
Your highness' pleasure; and my zeal, if hasty,
Is tractable. I kiss your highness' hand,
Either to go or stay; so please you, madam.

LEONORA.
Why, stay, then, sir. I'll wager half your province
Against a ducat, it shall suffer nothing,
Though you, its ruler, shall be festive here
Some moons to come. Make yourself easy, Count;
Though, from your cloudy brow and backward tongue,
That be perhaps no easy task. To-night
We'll have you look more like a reveller.

BELTRAN.
(Aside.)
Perchance I may; and more than you expect.
—It shall go hard but I obey you, madam;
And if, henceforth, I feel anxiety,
(For there are times on which we cannot choose,)
It is but that such happiness may last.

LEONORA.
You're wondrous thoughtful, Count; this boding care
Is sudden in its growth, methinks.

BELTRAN.
True, madam,
It may, perhaps; but say it be, what then?
Say I've had proof, almost within the hour,
How few are what they seem; how many should be;
That not a sun that shines but smiles on falsehood;
That not a darkling nook but holds a traitor;
How wayward is the course of human fates,
E'en to the greatest; on what false foundations,
What treach'rous sand, what hollow buttresses,
The happiness e'en of princes is constructed,—
'Tis not less true for that.

LEONORA.
This moralizing
I understand not; nor, to say the truth,
Shall take much pains to try—'tis oddly timed.
If you're ambitious to turn preacher, Count,
Pray keep your sermon for the Mask to-night;
It must be useful one way or the other;
If not ta'en seriously, 'twill sure be laugh'd at;
So on both sides there's gain.

BELTRAN.
You are merry, madam;
Long may your highness be so!

LEONORA.
Thank you, Count;
The longer that you'll doff that ominous face,
And look like other people and yourself.

BELTRAN.
May others ne'er have cause to look like me.
I cry your highness mercy—I am merry,
Since you will have it so.

LEONORA.
Why, you do best,
And take my thanks; 'tis recompence enough,
Is it not, Count, for being as you should,
Without such bribery? Nay, bethink you, coz—
A soldier and a gallant look so grave!
Methought you'd surely seen a ghost last night,
And durst not keep your lodging. Now, believe me,
I'd almost ask'd you if your hair was grey;
Men planet-struck, they say, will oft be so.
Come, we must have none mope when we are smiling.—
Fiametta, know you where my lord is gone?

FIAMETTA.
To the terrace by the river's side, your highness,
With the Signor Giovanni, as I think.

LEONORA.
We'll join them there.

BELTRAN.
I shall attend your highness.

[Exeunt Leonora, Beltran, and Fiametta.
Sanzio
comes forward.
Ay, that way shines the sun of fortune now!
What would I give yond gallant were my patron?
For I grow cold in zeal, even as my service
Itself grows cold. I have done and known too much;
And how are such reguerdon'd? Are they not
Turn'd out o' the way politely—made to stuff
Some dirty crevice, call'd a distant Post,
Lest they should prate or crave; or else kick'd down,
As most men do the ladders which they climb by?—
I am a tool, whose use is past; nor would
The artist have me seen. I can mark well
That the grave Don, Giovanni, likes me not;
I note the deep suspicion of his eye,
Although his tongue keeps tune. If he have done
With me, I've done with him. He is fool,
Who, cogg'd by the smooth word called gratitude,
Which all men have i' their mouth, and few elsewhere,
Starts when convenience whispers in his ear
To put off his old master for a new.

[Exit.