 | The Wife |  |
SCENE IV.
—Another Room in the Palace.Enter Mariana and St. Pierre.
Mari.
I thank you for the story of your travels:
You make me wish to see the world, of which
Such wonders you relate. I think you said,
You were but newly come to Mantua?
You must have been in Mantua before, then,
So many seem to know you?
St. P.
I have been
Before in Mantua.
Mari.
'Tis very strange,
But when I saw thee first, I felt as if
We were of old acquaintance! have we met
Before?
St. P.
No, lady.
Mari.
It is very strange,
You never were in Switzerland?
St. P.
Oh, yes!
It is my birth-place.
Mari.
Ay! so is it mine.
'Tis a dear country! never met we there?
St. P.
No.
Mari.
No? 'Tis odd! How many years is't, since
You were in Switzerland?
St. P.
Good fifteen years.
Mari.
So long! I was an infant then—No—No!
We have not met before—'Tis odd!—At least
You are my countryman!
[Holding out her hands to him.
[Visitors have been occasionally crossing the stage during this scene, observing Mariana and St. Pierre.
Enter in the background, Antonio and Ferrardo.
Fer.
Had I been told it,
I would not have believed it.
Mari.
Switzerland
Is a dear country! Switzerland!
St. P.
It is
The land of beauty, and of grandeur, lady,
Where looks the cottage out on a domain
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And hills of forests! crystal waves that rise
'Midst mountains all of snow, and mock the sun,
Returning him his flaming beams more thick
And radiant than he sent them.—Torrents, there,
Are bounding floods! and there the tempest roams
At large, in all the terrors of its glory!
And then our valleys! Ah, they are the homes
For hearts! Our cottages, our vineyards, orchards!—
Our pastures studded with the herd and fold!
Our native strains that melt us as we sing them!
A free—a gentle—simple—honest people!
Mari.
I see them, signor,—I'm in Switzerland!
I do not stand in Mantua!—Dear country!
Except in one thing, I'm not richer, signor,
Than when I was a child in Switzerland,
And mistress only of this little cross.
[Pressing the cross to her breast.
St. P.
[anxiously].
Your pardon, lady! Pray you let me see
That cross again!
Mari.
Right willingly.
Ant.
[Coming forward.]
Hence, signor!
Mari.
Father!
Ant.
I pray your grace retire—but first
Command that libertine from the apartment!
St. P.
[Sternly surveying alternately Antonio and Ferrardo.]
I go, your reverence, of mine own accord.
[Goes out, followed by Ferrardo.
Mari.
Father, what meant you by that word which turn'd
My very blood to ice?
Ant.
Behoves your highness
To keep your eye upon your husband's honour,
If not upon your own!
Mari.
How!
Ant.
Heaven alone
Can judge the heart.—Men must decide by actions,
And yours, to-night, to all have given offence.
Mari.
Offence!
Ant.
A woman hath in every state
Most need of circumspection;—most of all
When she becomes a wife!—She is a spring
Must not be doubted; if she is, no oath
That earth can utter will so purge the stream
That men will think it pure!
Mari.
Is this to me?
Ant.
Women who play the wanton—
Mari.
Father!
Ant.
Daughter!
That look and tone of high command become
Thy state indeed—
Mari.
No, father, not my state—
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One who deserved that name I blush'd to hear—
And thou, a reverend man, shouldst blush to use—
Might fill! but though it were an empress's,
I would defy her in her breast to seat
The heart that's throned in mine! If 'tis a crime
To boast—Heaven pardon you—you have made me sin!
Ant.
Behoves us heed appearances?
Mari.
No, father,
Behoves us heed desires and thoughts, and let
Appearances be what they may be!—You
Shall never shape them so, that evil men
Will not their own construction put upon them.
Father, it was the precept of my father.
Ant.
He little knew the world.
Mari.
He knew what's better,
Heaven, and the smile of his own conscience!
What have I done?
Ant.
Given cause of scandal, daughter.
Mari.
How?
Ant.
By a preference, so mark'd, it drew
The eyes of all upon you.
Mari.
Evil eyes,
To see defect in frank and open deeds!
The gentleman appear'd mine old acquaintance—
That drew me towards him:—I discover'd now
He was my countryman—that makes allies
Of even foes that meet in foreign lands,
Then well may couple strangers!—He discoursed
Of my dear native country, till its peaks
Began, methought, to cleave the sky, as there
They stood before me!—I was happy—pleased
With him that made me so—With what a straw
You raise a conflagration!
Ant.
You forget
You are not now the commissary's ward,
But consort to the duke of Mantua.—
You're a changed woman.
Mari.
No, i' faith, the same!
My skin is not of other texture—This,
My hand, is just the hand I knew before!
If my glass tells the truth, the face and form
I have to-day, I had to-day last year!
My mind is not an inch the taller grown
Than mellowing time hath made it in his course!
And, for my heart—it beats not in my breast,
If in the ducal chair of Mantua,
'Tis not the same I had, when I did sit
On some wild turret of my native hills,
And burn with love and gratitude to Heaven
That made a land so fair, and me its daughter!
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Hear me!—You have wrong'd your lord!
Mari.
I have wrong'd my lord!
How have I wrong'd my lord?
Ant.
By entertaining
With mark'd and special preference, a man
Until to-day a perfect stranger to you.
Mari.
Go on!
Ant.
He is a libertine!
Mari.
Go on!
Ant.
A woman who has such a friend, has nought
To do with honest men!
Mari.
Go on!
Ant.
A wife
Has done with friends!—Her heart, had it the room
Of twenty hearts, her husband ought to fill,—
A friend that leaves not space for other friends,
Save such as nature's earliest warrant have
To house there!
Mari.
You are right in that! Go on.
Ant.
A court's a place where men have need to watch
Their acts and words not only, but their looks;
For prying eyes beset them round about,
That wait on aught but thoughts of charity.
What were thy words I know not; but thy acts
Have been the comment of the court to-day;
Of eyes that gaped with marvel—groups that stood
Gazing upon thee—leaning ears to lips,
Whose whispers, were their import known to thee,
Had stunn'd thee worse than thunder!
Mari.
So! Go on.
Ant.
What if they reach thy consort?
Mari.
What!
Ant.
Ay, What?
Mari.
He'll spurn them as he ought; as I do spurn them.
For shame! for shame! Me thou shouldst not arraign,
But rather those who basely question me!
Father, the heart of innocence is bold!
Tell me how comes your court to harbour one
Whom I should blush to speak to? If its pride
Be not the bearing that looks down on vice,
What right has it to hold its head so high?
Endure, at court, what, from our cottage door,
My father would have spurn'd!—If that's your court,
I'll be nor slave nor mistress of your court!
Father, no more! E'en from thy reverend lips
I will not hear what I've no right to list to!
What!—taint my lord with question of my truth!
Could he who proved my love on grounds so broad,
As I have given my lord; on grounds so mean
Descend to harbour question of my love—
Though broke my heart in the disseverment,
He were no longer lord or aught of mine!
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Heaven does not frown!—To Heaven I turn from thee.
[Goes out.
Ant.
This confidence offends me.—Swerving virtue
Endureth not rebuke! while that, that's steadfast,
With smiling patience suns the doubt away,
Wherewith mistrust would cloud it! 'Tis not right—
An eye so firm-resentful—speech so lofty—
Mariana enters unperceived, and kneels to him.
An air of such defiance—
Mari.
Father!
Ant.
Daughter!
Mari.
I am thy daughter! O my father, bless me!
Were I the best, I were not 'bove thy charity,
Were I the worst, I should not be beneath it!
Ant.
Thou hast my blessing.
Mari.
Ere I break my fast
To-morrow, father, I'll confess to thee,
And thou shalt know how little or how much
I merit what thou givest me! so, good night!
Ant.
Good night, fair daughter. Benedicite!
[They go out severally.
| The Wife | |