University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—An Apartment in the Palace.
Enter Ferrardo and Florio.
Fer.
Another victory!

Florio.
So the rumour runs.

Fer.
Why Fortune plays the minion to him!—does
His wish not only, but anticipates it!
Chief after chief she thrusts aside, that he
May head the war; and, when he takes the lead,
Her moody favour, wavering before—
Alternate sun and cloud—shines fully forth
With strong and steady beam. Have many fallen?

Florio.
A host, 'tis said, on either side.

Fer.
No wound,
No hurt for him?

Florio.
'Tis so reported.

Fer.
So—

Florio.
Though twice he changed his charger—one disabled,
The second wounded, mortally!

Fer.
And he
As safe, as sitting in his ducal chair!
Why dangers, that are thorns to other men,
For him convert to flowers!

Florio.
The duchess still
Persists in her seclusion?

Fer.
There, again,
I'm baffled! Would she mingle with the court,
His home of peace might compass for me what
I vainly hope for from the field of war,—
The downfall of his rule! I know my cousin;
For thoughtless boyhood often shows the man
Which wary manhood hides. A sense he has,
That's sickly tender to the touch of shame.
I have seen him, at a slight imputed fault
Colour to flame—anon grow ashy pale—
The dew in drops upon his forehead starting,—
His tongue without its use—his mouth agape—
His universal frame, vacuity
Of action and of power,—and, anon,
The glare and din, and tossing of the tempest!
To wound his honour to the quick, would be
To sting his core of life!

Florio.
Thou couldst not hope
To wound it through his wife; whose love for him,
Gives, in his absence, all things to neglect!
Her bounding palfrey cannot woo her forth!
The palace vibrates with the dance, and still
She keeps her chamber, like a lone recluse.
Music, howe'er you try, can't tempt her from it,
She shuns its harmony as though 'twould jar!
She visits no one—no one she receives!
What chance of practising upon a wife,
Who for an only absent lord, observes
A sterner widowhood, than many hold
In honour of a dead one!—Why do you smile?

Fer.
To think, to what account a little art
Might turn a little swerving, in a case
Of self-denial, carried thus like hers
To the admired extreme! I would St. Pierre
Had kept his restless spirit more in check,
Paid to my will submission, as he used,
And not enlisted in my cousin's train,
But stopp'd in Mantua! My plans were laid,
Were sure, and long ere this had been matured,
But for his wilfulness.

Florio.
Of what avail
Had been his presence here?

Fer.
I should have found
A use for him! Ne'er knew I yet the ear
He could not keep a hold of, once he caught it.
That fellow, with his tongue, has won more hearts
Than any twenty men in Mantua,
With tongues, and forms, and faces! I had contrived
To throw him in her way!

Florio.
There were no chance—

Fer.
I know,—but I could make appearances
Supply the place of facts—especially
In her husband's absence—so that confidence,
Itself, would construe guilt where no guilt was!
So would I show her to the eyes of all,
That, though she were like snow itself, new fallen,
Men would believe her spotted!

Florio.
If 'twere true
That he it was who hither brought the news
Of this new victory—

Fer.
Saint Pierre?

Florio.
Saint Pierre.

Fer.
'Tis so reported?

Florio.
'Tis.

Fer.
Then, prove it true,
Before he is an hour in Mantua
He must be stripp'd of every ducat! Mind,
Of that must thou take care!
[Shouts.
What mean those shouts?

Florio.
They herald, doubtless, the approach of him
That's bearer of the news.

Fer.
Be it Saint Pierre,
The moment he alights away with him
To a house of play!—You are his master—Haste!
Your beckon he will answer readily,
As the game-bird his welcome challenger!

Florio.
I'll do my best.

[Goes out.
Fer.
So do.—The confessor?
[Looking out.
The cards come round to me! A score to one,
I hold the winning hand.—His reverence,
I have contrived to make at last my friend.
Your churchman dearly loves a convertite,
And he believes me his. A kindly man,
But, once confirm'd in error, positive;
And, from his calling, credulous to weakness,
Touching the proneness of the flesh to sin.
I have well examined him.
Enter Antonio.
Your blessing, father.

Ant.
Thou hast it, son.

Fer.
Whence come you now? No doubt
From the performance of some pious deed—
The shriving of some sin-oppresséd soul—
The soothing of some sorrow-stricken heart—
Or sweet relieving of some needy child
Of merciless adversity.

Ant.
No, my son,—
But from a trespasser that's, yet, unshriven;
A daughter who has swerved, and on whose soul
I had thought as soon to find the soil of sin
As tarnish upon new-refinéd gold!
A wife, who in the absence of her lord,
Lived like thy cousin's wife; with means to bless
Desires incontinent, a miracle
Of self-secluded, lonely chastity.

Fer.
He comes in the very vein! You spoke just now
Of my cousin's wife. There's news of my dear cousin,
And, with submission, I would recommend
Her grace to show herself, to-day. Methinks,
If only for her health, she keeps herself
Too much alone.

Ant.
So have I told her grace.

Fer.
Indeed! I marvel that she perseveres
In the face of your admonishment! More strict
Would she be thought, than you, a holy man,
Would counsel her to be? Forgive me, father,
If 'tis uncharitable in me, but
I never loved extremes! Your constant weather
Is still the moderate, father. Storms and calms
Are brief.

Ant.
You are right, my son.

Fer.
I had been pleased
Less had she shown her fondness for her lord.
Love, of its own fidelity assured,
Ne'er studies the display on't!

Ant.
Nay; she loves
Her lord.

Fer.
And yet 'tis the predicament
Of love to wane upon possession. Where
I note an over-acted guardedness,
I still infer a consciousness of weakness;
And look to find—and seldom look in vain—
Some sudden giving way! Besides, in passion,
Excess is sign of its decaying, rather
Than lasting. Thus the frantic widow, who
To-day would make her husband's grave her bed,
A few months hence, enjoys another bed
Beside another husband! Maids, new-wed,
Who gloried in their choices, and with reason,
Leave them for new ones, for no reason, but
Because they are new! By love of novelty
Is human happiness too oft ensnared.
Mere novelty!—the common tempting bait,
Which gives, too oft, a worth to worthless things;
Luring us to forsake the good we have
For something else, which, mostly, proves our bane!
I would not doubt my cousin's wife, but wish
She moved, like other honourable dames,
Secure in her own truth. The life she leads
Something too much, methinks, solicits note,
Not by design, but in appearance only.
Yet had she more confided in herself,
Lived like herself—appear'd among the court—
Courteous to all—particular to none,
Save those to whom, next to her lord, she owes
Her highest duty—my reliance on her
Were stronger! Is't uncharitable, father,
To say so?—speak, and frankly—Wherefore else
Put I my heart into your saintly hands?

Ant.
Nay, son—I think you speak in charity,
As one who blames through love. We'll see the duchess,
And jointly recommend to her a life
Of less severe restraint.

Fer.
I thank your reverence!
You know I owe her grace some small amends,
And trust me, father, gladly would I make them!

[Exeunt.