 | Mirandola |  |
45
ACT III.
SCENE I.
(The Duke pacing up and down his room—at last he stops.)Duke.
Hark! He stays long—but Isidora is
Prudent, I think,—I hope. His blood is quick,
But I will not doubt. Why should he loiter at
Vitelli's house,—that traitor's?—He stays long,
—A month ago and I was happy! No;
Not happy, yet encircled by deep joy,
Which tho' 'twas all around, I could not touch.
But it was ever thus with Happiness:
It is the gay to-morrow of the mind
That never comes.—Hark! no! 'twas but a door
That shut. And is my soul in such dismay,
That every petty whisper of the wind
Can scare me? Once—but that is passed, and now
Each sound is laden and each shadow filled
With fears: like exhalations in the dusk
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Who's there?
Curio enters.
Curio.
Lord Guido
Is now without, my lord.
Duke.
Bid him come in.
[Curio exit.
There is a strange confusion in my mind:
Perhaps my son, like a fair morning light,
May dispel all. He is here:—how pale he looks.
Guido enters.
Guido.
I am come, my lord.
Duke.
I,—I rejoice to see you. I am proud
To know my son has won so good a name.
Your honours will shame mine. Well, well, so be it.
On you has fallen now the task to lift
The fair and great name of Mirandola.
You have been absent long: too long.
Guido.
My lord!
Duke.
I am your father, Guido,
Guido.
Oh! much more:
You are the Prince.
Duke.
But still your father: nay—
Guido.
My lord, there are some things which, little used,
Soon rust: such is respect. The name of Prince
Brings to the memory of many men
What they might else forget.
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There is no cause
For this between us.
Guido.
Pardon me: for once
Give me my humour.
Duke.
As you please,—for once.
Come let us sit. What cause have you for this?
Guido.
Cause! but—but let it pass.
Duke.
Dear Guido.
Guido.
Sir!
Duke.
I do not understand—
Guido.
And yet it is
As plain as day—as the full risen day.
But let us sit: with all my heart.
[Duke sits.
Duke.
I am
Distressed, my son, to hear—
Guido.
Ha! have you heard?
Duke.
I hear the words you speak.
Guido.
But understand not.
Was it not so, my lord? You hear—
Duke.
I hear,
And see, and feel that now my only son,
And the first subject of my Dukedom, dares
To spurn his Prince,—his father; putting off
The garb of love, and—
Guido.
Right: it is a cloak;
Under whose folds, fathers as well as sons,
Do things to shame the stars.
Duke.
Guido, by Heaven!—
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I sent for you by the Confessor—
Guido.
Ay,
That you may in my ear unload your mind
Of some dark secret; what is't? Speak, my Lord.
If you have done aught that may leave a blot
On the bright annals of our house, confess,
And I will be as secret as deceit.
If you have been a tyrant, *and enslaved
The bodies or the minds of noble men,
Why, let me know it: or, if you have been
As poisonous as the serpent, or have mined,
Mole-like, your way beneath your neighbour's house,
And shook down all his happiness, confess it:
Or if, like the wilderness creature, you have prey'd
Even upon your young, I bid you still
To tell me and take comfort.†
Duke.
I have been
Silent, my son—
Guido.
Not so, not so; and yet you were in truth:
When slander came abroad, and I was absent,
You kept a politic silence; thus I've heard:
And, when I fell, you wept and kissed away
The bright warm tears from Isidora's cheek.
But I rose up again:—I rose, my lord,
Up from my bed of battle, and while the blood
Harden'd upon my wounds, I traced, with weak
And shaking fingers, a poor scrawl, reminding
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And you—you kept it from her. Speak? was't so?
There's no one to betray you: should you blush,
I'll hush your virtue, like a murder, up.
Duke.
Guido, you go too far: no more of this.
Guido.
No more?
Duke.
You'll anger me—I tell you this
For the last time. My blood is hot as your's.
Guido.
Much hotter. Noble lord, if I may speak—
Duke.
You may not, Sir. Death! shall I stand and suffer
These insolent taunts from you, my son, my slave,
My—
Guido.
Slave!
Duke.
Ay, Sir, whate'er may suit my humour.
Guido.
Your highness's humour changes, that I know.
Duke.
Sir, tho' it shift as often as the wind,
'Tis not for you to mark it. 'Tis my humour,
My spleen, my will.
Curio enters.
Curio.
Did my lord call?
Duke.
Begone.
If then another word—I said, begone.
[Curio exit.
But no, no, no: no more of this: no more.
Guido.
Then, you deny—?
Duke.
Ah! Guido, this will bring
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Till then be silent—still.
Guido.
Oh! I will be
As silent as the grave you've dug for me.
*I'll be as wary as the fox, and subtle,
But like the adder, when I'm questioned, deaf.
And should you fall, (Princes may fall, my lord,
As the red leaves in autumn,—nay in spring;)
If your own tyranny, or others hate,
Rebels at home, or cozening friends abroad,
Or open foes should cast you down at last,—
Fear not; I will be there; close at your heart,
Just like the canker when the tree decays.†
Duke.
When you have ended,—
Guido.
I have said,—have done.
Duke.
You have; and had I not
Some of that kindly blood, which you deny,
You must have spoken less. Guido, you
Have done me shameful wrong; but I have been
Patient,—as patient as my nature might:
I have born words; such words as never prince
Yet bore before from subject, or from son.
Guido.
Perhaps,—
Duke.
Speak out.
Guido.
Perhaps, I have been warm;
But, no,—no.
Duke.
As you please. Your humour turns
Quickly as mine, it seems; but it shall be
My humour to forget. If, after this,
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—Your mother—
Guido.
Ah! indeed no more, no more.
Duke.
The Duchess of Mirandola expects
To see you. Come, I will go with you,—now.
Guido.
I—I have seen her.
Duke.
So: 'twas well.
Guido.
I bade
Gheraldi tells you that I had gone thither.
Duke.
'Tis true; he told me (I remember now,)
That you had gone to pay your duty there.
She was rejoiced to see you?
Guido.
No; not much.
Duke.
How? not rejoiced? it was not well to meet
My son, and not rejoice; but you must pardon.
She has been ill, and the full summer moon
Sways at will women's fancies.
Guido.
You are gay.
Duke.
Why not? I have my wife here, and my son
The one is beautiful, the other brave.
I have no curse that clings to me: no fear
That enemies or *friends can do me harm.
There's not a traitor in the realm could live
Now undetected.
Guido.
Traitors! there are none.
Duke.
Oh! be not sure. When first the snake puts on
His summer-skin, he looks not loathsome: 'tis
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To fear or hate him.†—But these things are not
Fit for a day like this. We should be gay.
Guido.
I'll do my best.
Duke.
Who can ask more? Come then;
*We'll speak no more of the serpent; yet it was
The circling emblem of eternity,
And in its terrible folds this world and all
Its host of strange and proud inhabitants,
With proud men at the head, was compass'd once.
If 'twere so now, it would be well, methinks,
If the lithe thing would draw its sinuous shape
Closer and closer, till—but I forget
The festival.
Guido.
You do in truth, my lord:
That was a curious fancy.
Duke.
Heed it not:
I speculate at times, as well as you.†
But you must alter. You must be gay,
In dress as looks. Now let us part. We'll meet
Presently, in the feasting room.
Guido.
I will
Be with you presently, redressed.
[Exit.
Duke.
Farewell.
Redress'd!—Now, what a querulous boy is this,
Cheating his spleen with words. Insolent words!—
Yet he's my son,—poor, poor Bianca's son.
Shall I not curb my fretful nature, when
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Not ill of him.—He bears an honest shew.
Were this a time for questioning, I'd ask
Touching those letters, and Vitelli's plots—
'Tis not;—perhaps to-morrow. If he should
Have been abused.—How much his pallid smile
Shone like Bianca's. Oh! I'll love him yet;
And he shall love me too: and yet—and yet—
Ah! thus my fiery and suspicious nature
Preys ever on itself.—I will be calm.
[Exit.
SCENE I.
A Chamber in the Palace.Isidora and Isabella enter.
Isab.
Dear sister, had your face little more mirth
How much you'd grace the feast.
Isid.
Must I then wear
A mask, my lady?
Isab.
No: no need of that.
But what has troubled you?
Isid.
O, nothing, nothing.
Isab.
Nay, now you deal not fairly with my love.
Isid.
Well, he—Lord Guido has been with me.
Isab.
Yes.
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He's full of grief: that's all. I did not weep
For that.
Isab.
He must not shew this sorrow at the feast.
To-day: The Duke is quick, and apt to doubt.
Bid him be cautious there.
Isid.
We will not meet
Again, tho' we had purposed. Guido has
Told all: one word unto his old regard
He gave, and so we parted.
Isab.
This I know.
Isid.
You know.
Isab.
Ay, my sweet sister: I have seen,—
Had you but seen him, too, and heard him sigh,
It would have moved you. When he said he had
Not even a token to remember you,
I promised—
Isid.
What?
Isab.
Be not alarmed, dear sister,
But I believe, I promised one: Indeed
Some message you should send, for if a word
(An idle word) escape by chance to-day—
The Duke is jealous.
Isid.
Ah! whom can I trust?
Isab.
True;—all about the Duke are cunning; stay—
I'll be your messenger; but you must give
The token for him: else he'll not believe.
What bauble shall it be, sister? Ha! this,—
This will be excellent.
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Not that. If you
Must have some pledge, take this: that ruby ring
Was the Duke's gift, and 'tis a favourite.
Isab.
Shame!
He will not recognize so poor a thing
As this for your's. Give me your hand; in faith
It is a white one. Now, were I a man
I'd kiss it, sister, thus.
[Takes the ring.
Isid.
Nay, nay; return
That ring to me: I pray you—do return it.
Isab.
What shall I say to him?
Isid.
Give me the ring.—
The ring.
Isab.
I'll trust then to my thoughts; and I
May strengthen your entreaties with my own.
Should he look sad on you, or smile, the Duke
Would madden with strange fears, believe't.
Isid.
Indeed,
I did not know that he—Hark! hark! who comes?
Isab.
Perhaps the Duke.
Isid.
Ha! then I'll leave you—nay, I must.
[Exit.
Isab.
Farewell. I hate her not, tho' her pale face
Reproaches me. Poor victim! she is in
My toils,—but 'tis to make my child a prince.
That base-born,—he has been preferr'd to mine,
I and my rights were trampled down—ha! now for
My message.
Guido enters.
Guido.
Must I then put on a look,
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To all that has been? Well, 'tis for her sake;
And what would I not do for her, tho' she—
She has abandoned me. Poor girl, poor girl!
It is too late to grieve.
Isab.
What study's this?
Dear Guido, are you plotting?
Guido.
How! I am
As innocent—
Isab.
Against the Duchess and the Duke? nay, nay, I know
All, Sir; your meetings, and her tears. Beware
The Duke.
Guido.
My heart's as innocent—
Isab.
I know it, but the Duke
Is jealous;—that's the word: and you must not
Awaken him. See; do you know this ring?
'Tis Isidora's.
Guido.
Ha!
Isab.
She sent it to you.
I told her of your grief—(Nay, do not chide,)
And got this—it will serve, tho' love is over,
To bind your friendship fast.
Guido.
She sends me that?
Isab.
She sends you this, and bids you smile to-night.
Guido.
I'll do't: but 'twas not needful.
Isab.
You will do
This for—
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For friendship, Madam, and no more.
Isab.
Take care'o the ring.
Hush! here comes one who need not know it. Well!—
Well, father?
Gheraldi enters.
Gher.
Madam, is the Duchess here?
Isab.
She's gone.
Gher.
The Duke is waiting, and the feast
Prepared. My lord, your friends are there already.
Guido.
I shall be with them, Sir.
Isab.
Come hither, father.
[They talk.
Guido.
A feast—for what? And yet 'tis always thus
Why do I quarrel with't? When a man dies
They feast and shout—and when a child is born:
And when a father thrusts his last pale girl
Into the arms of age (ah, death!) they feast,
Revel, and dance, and laugh, and mock the night
(The modest ear of night) with riot!—Oh!
Why should I quarrel with it? I am now
The puppet of the day—but I forget:
Now for his highness' feast—I will remember.
[To Isab.
Exit.
Isab.
I'll follow you.
Gher.
'Twas a bright star that guided you to-day?
Isab.
But should we not—Ha! let me think.
Gher.
I have
Been with the Duke; he thought himself at ease,
But with a word I started him: he tried
To laugh away his doubts, and I agreed
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Isab.
Ha! that was well.
Gher.
But he sprung up
Sternly and bade me go: and swore he was
Content: and then re-echoed my own words,
On this I essayed again, but all his spirit
Burst forth, and I was ordered straight to quit him.
Isab.
He says he's satisfied?
Gher.
Madam, his tongue
Proclaims it; but his hand and troubled eye
Give fierce denial,—there's that in his heart,
Which some day must uproot it. But for the ring?
[Music without.
Isab.
Come this way, and we'll talk: the feast is ready.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A Banquetting Room.—Nobles and Ladies assembled.Julio and Casti entering.
Julio.
This is a gallant shew.
Casti.
Indeed a fair one:
And yet, 'tis but a shew.
Julio.
How do you mean?
Casti.
Oh! nothing: merely what I say, no more.
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In faith you puzzle me: ha! what a face
Look, my dear Casti. Do you see that girl
Whose hair is bound with pearls? her cheek is like—
Pshaw!—like—like—
Casti.
Like a young rose opening slowly,
Kissed by the breath of May.
Julio.
I love a rose.
Casti.
*Sir, she was fashioned by the self-same hand,
And with more prodigal beauty than the rose;
Look at her, she will bear a closer glance.
'Tis old Cornelia's child, Camiola—
You ‘love a rose’? Kiss her, she'll taste as sweet.
Isabella enters.
Julio.
I dare not.
Casti.
Right: I am her cousin, Sir;
But I will make you known.† Lord Guido comes.
Guido enters.
Guido.
My father?
Casti.
Is not come yet. Let me touch
Your hand.
Guido.
Excellent Casti!—*Julio, look! My aunt
Has smiled for you this minute.
Julio.
I am gone.
Guido.
Am I the hero of this fête, dear Casti?
Casti.
You are, and you must honor it.
Guido.
I will:
It is the last.—Hark! hark! I hear a sound:
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Casti.
I hear nothing—nothing.
Come, be a man.
Guido.
A wretch.—Now then you hear.
Casti.
Ay, now: you're quick of ear.
Guido.
Ha! ha! a man who's flayed alive will feel
The merest touch: 'tis thus with me: my ear
Hath drunk in burning tidings; scalding words
Have been thrust near my brain.†
[Music is heard.
Casti.
Your father comes.
Julio.
Madam, the Duke is coming. Gentlemen,
His Highness.
Duke and Isidora enter.
Duke.
Sit; Oh! sit.—No more of this
Authority puts off her state to-day,
And for once, we are equal.—Where's my son?
Gentlemen! Friends! I give you all a welcome.
Where is my son?
Guido.
My lord!
Duke.
Here is an old
Acquaintance, Isidora. Give my son
Welcome. He smiles upon us.
[Aside.
Isid.
Welcome, my lord!
Guido.
Madam, I thank you.
Duke.
Ha! Count Casti! you
Are known unto my wife; is it not so.
Casti.
Slightly I have been honored.
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Welcome, Sir,
Unto Mirandola. The Duke and I
Are glad to see so kind a countenance here.
Duke.
Oh! bravely. I shall teach you soon to know
The customs of a court: but, rest you now.—
My friends! I pray ye, sit, and taste your welcome.
But how is this? There should be music here,
To greet my son after his battles.—Bid
The trumpet speak, and the fine thrilling harp
Chime in his ear, 'till every nerve is touched;
And let the flutes (like gentler voices) lend
Their pleasant tones, and the rich viols make,
With all their strings, harmonious noise to-night.
Strike forth, musicians, while the feast proceeds.
Chorus.
Welcome, welcome from afar;
This is thy own festal day.
Welcome from the toil of war,
Son of great Mirandola.
Julio.
That was a pleasant strain.
Lady.
Most pleasant Sir.
Duke.
Stir not. [Duke and Isidora rise.]
O! fair
Camiola, take heed.—You do not wear
The ring I gave you, dearest. How was this?
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The ring?
Duke.
Aye, love: the ring I chose
From out a hundred, ruby cased in gold,
Shaped like a cross; I kissed it on your hand,
And swore upon that cross to love you ever.
Where is it?—But no matter; when we feast
Again, remember it—my favorite ring.
Isid.
I will, my lord.
Duke.
Now sit.—Give me a bowl
Of wine!—There is a troubled spirit still
Hanging about my heart. Some wine—enough.
I'll drown it quickly.—What a sparkling crown
(Beaded too royally) floats on the top
Of this clear liquid now, and tempts my taste.
Guido, my son, health and fair life be yours;
Your father speaks it with an earnest voice.
Guido.
But, for the heart—
Casti.
Nay, now I disagree.
Methinks his heart is in it.
Guido.
Excellent friend,
You always teach me well.—Father, I thank you.
Duke.
There is a cordial something in that word.
Father!—'twas thus he spoke, for the first time
Since his return, I think: ‘Father!’—How lovely
My young bride looks. Beautiful, beautiful love!
How fair—how utterly without a peer
She is!—Apostate that I was to doubt:
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Is that Hypolito?
Hyp.
Yes, my dear lord.
Duke.
Oh! reveller!—
Sister, I have not noticed you; forgive't.
My heart was full of trouble and deep joy;
Strange company, you'll say for one so wise
As I am thought to be: but so it is.
Isab.
What was the matter with my sister?
Duke.
When?
Isab.
Just now: she seemed to shrink.
Duke.
From me? from me?
†Oh! you mistake. More wine: fill high!
Gentlemen! a brave welcome to my son!
Guido, may discord never, never come
Between us.—Bring a goblet hither, Sirs,
And let him taste his welcome. Let the health
Pass round, and no one slight it. My dear son,
Give me your hand.—At Mantua once this—Ah!—
[He sees the ring.
Julio.
Look!—What's the matter with the Duke?
Guido.
My lord!
Hyp.
Look at my uncle, mother!
Isab.
Sir, be still!
Lord.
Come forward—How?
Isid.
My lord!—Ha!
Guido.
Father, speak,
What means this?
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Nothing. I am quiet—calm.
The heaven's are o'er us, and it may be—nothing.
It may be—Ha! begone!—Now, now, for ever
I cast aside goodness and faith and love,
No more to be put on—masks as they are,
To hide the base and villainous tricks of men.
Break up the feast! All leave us!—O bright Heaven!
Laugh you in scorn upon me! See it shines
Right through the windows, and the nodding pines
Shake their black heads and mock me.—Shall I swear
To kill?
[The guests go out.
Guido.
Father!
Duke.
That is—
Guido.
My lord!
Duke.
A lie,
Monstrous and foul, not to be said or thought.
Isid.
My gracious lord!
Duke.
False painted thing, begone!
Isab.
Nay—
Duke
Sister, will you drive me mad—outrageous?
I am abused—abused, I tell you. Ha!
Now do you start?
Isab.
Retire, sweet Isidora:
And you, dear Guido, bid Gheraldi come.
Guido.
Poor Isidora!—What a fate is thine?
[Guido and Isidora exeunt.]
Duke.
Just when I had forgiven—almost forgot
All his most insolent taunts, all, and her cold
Unwilling smiles that made—that make me mad.
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I could have bent before her from my path
And worshipped her as something holy.—Now,
O, now!—
Isab.
Dear brother!
Duke.
Still am I the Duke.
Must you too put aside respect? No matter.
I'll keep my way alone, and burn away—
Evil or good I care not, so I spread
Tremendous desolation on my road:—
I'll be remembered as huge meteors are,
From the dismay they scatter.
Gheraldi enters.
Gher.
Gracious Sir!—
Duke.
I wish to be alone.
O earth and heaven! so fair, so lovely, yet
To be a—wretch. Now for all future time
I'll hate all things which seem as they were true,
For then they're false, I know. What I am
I care not.—Father, draw yon curtain down;
Those sycophant branches with their bending leaves
Mock me: they mock my misery—my pain.
O how my heart aches!
Isab.
Brother, be composed.
Duke.
I cannot.—Will you pour upon my brain
Oblivion, or sweet balm over my heart?
No: then you jeer me when you bid me still
Be calm.—Would I were dull as Lethe is!
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For I will live to be a terror still.
Gher.
*My lord!—
Duke.
And yet,—were it not better, now,
To leave the world at once, and pass my age
In cell or forest?—this has been.†
Gher.
My lord!
Perhaps the lady Isidora—
Duke.
Slave!
That word destroys me—tears me,—heart and soul.
Cannot I dream, or sleep, but thou must be
(My black familiar) at my elbow? Monk!
I hate your fawning—(Sister, stay your speech,)
I hate your sly insinuating smiles,
Your tongue that mocks your eyes, and tells a tale
As foul as night. I will not trust that tongue;
No, nor your eye, for both may be—are false.
Audacious slave!
Isab.
Dear brother, I must speak.
Duke.
I've heard of men who in a moment have
Done deeds of blood; but I—I will not thus
Redden my memory. Leave us, Monk—Begone!
[Gheraldi exit.
Isab.
Dear brother, you—
Duke.
And you too go.
Go, Isabella:—Nay, it must be so.
Leave me to think.
Isab.
Farewell!
[Exit.
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To think—of what?
Of hell and all its horrors; for this earth,
It seems, may have a hell as full of pains,
And burning torture as was ever hid
In the dark bowels of the rolling world.
Places there are, 'tis said, where ill-starred souls
Pine amongst flames. My flames are in the heart,
And in the head—the brain, and every nerve.
And every trembling muscle of my frame.
O this hot ague! and my parching tongue
Clings close and closer still, and thro' my eyes
Run blood and fire, and—Ah!—O false, false, false!
Hush! some one comes. What! shall the Prince be jeered?
I'll fly into some corner dark as night.
[Exit.
END OF ACT THE THIRD.
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