University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

An Apartment in the Monastery at night.
Savelli and Gerardo.
GERARDO.
Thou wilt be abbot, ere the duke is king?
Good news—but how?

SAVELLI.
The words stick hard, Gerardo—
By that which answers for us both, man—power.

GERARDO.
We talk in riddles.

SAVELLI.
First, expound me this;
“He called me traitor to my beard, and I
“Would risk my neck to make his words prove true.”

GERARDO.
'Twas mine of Andria.

SAVELLI.
Let us both repent;
Each has been loud in folly.

GERARDO.
What I said
I hold by still—thou dost distrust me, brother.

SAVELLI.
I do.

GERARDO.
Indeed! it is unjustly then.

SAVELLI.
But wisely nevertheless. I have my scruples,
Or else—

GERARDO.
Else what?

SAVELLI.
I could suggest a thing
Fit for vexed hearts like ours, great as our need,
Bold as our wishes, easier than our fears,
Less dangerous than our present state.

GERARDO.
What is it?
Tell me what sort of thing?

SAVELLI.
Why, such an one
As twice has given the world to those who did it,
And ten times, crown and thrones. The wisest risk
All lesser things for this—to us, Gerardo,
Success were empire—if we failed, defeat
Could only leave us where we are.

GERARDO.
Come, come,
Dost think I would betray thee?

SAVELLI.
Indeed I fear it.

GERARDO.
No, by my faith, believe me.

SAVELLI.
I pray thee, give
A mortgage on thy land as well, transfer
Thy rents and lordships. Twenty years ago
That faith was lost at Milan, pledged again
In Venice, Florence, Modena—and since
Full twenty times a year, with twenty oaths,
To twenty men at least.

GERARDO.
And twenty women—
But what is that to thee?

SAVELLI.
Why, marry—'tis much.
I do not like the bond—hast nothing else?

GERARDO.
Our friendship, then, Savelli.

SAVELLI.
Thou would'st sell it
Some Friday morn in Lent to buy an egg—
I will be better conjured yet.

GERARDO.
Well, hear—
By all my services.

SAVELLI.
They must be, then,
The services to come. This charm is stronger,
And shall prevail.

GERARDO.
Be honest with me, brother.

SAVELLI.
Give me thine hand—so now I would not change thee
For Maia's child by Jupiter, or take—
Winged as he is—their servant from the gods.
Ye both are covetous though poor, expert
In fraud and falsehood; patrons both to knaves;
Furnished with twofold faces, fair in the light,
In darkness terrible—and your office is
To guide stray souls below.

GERARDO.
I wish it were,
So thy turn came the next. My mind is changed,
I will not hear thy secret—may it choke thee!

SAVELLI.
Why, you have owned all this.

GERARDO.
Then let it rest,
What need to speak it twice?

SAVELLI.
To try the baby!
Art fit to travail midst the clouds with me,
And slant their lightnings at the heads of kings?
Thou petulant splenetic ape! a lighted reed
Can make the caldron of thy bile run o'er,
Ever brimfull and boiling! thou that hast gained
The wisdom to discern men's thoughts, a tongue
Skilled to persuade and charm, a heart withal
Untrammell'd by remorse—why these, all these
Are worse than barren, for they yield thee still
Disgrace and poverty.

GERARDO.
Well, let it be so—
What thou hast more say on.

SAVELLI.
The spirit which leads thee
Provokes disaster—thou dost ever look
Beside, or else beyond thine aim, and thus
No arrow strikes.

GERARDO.
I was a god till now,
Your Joveship's Mercury.

SAVELLI.
Thou hast still, Gerardo,
Wings plumed to reach the skies, a power within
Which should uplift its owner from the crowd,
And place him on his pedestal so high
That all might see and worship. What I fear
Is less than treachery, though as bad—by fraud
Thou canst not harm me, or I would not trust thee.

GERARDO.
Either may hang the other.

SAVELLI.
Art sure of that?
Then study to be first. We have been friends,
The night has heard and hidden what day would blush at;
Strong wine has exorcised the ghost of fear—
Yet, in our mirth, there was a hand above thee,
Naples herself is slumbering in its shade.

GERARDO.
If I might ever fear—it should be thee,
I know, but do not yet.

SAVELLI.
Look—he who knows me,
Lives while he serves me—let his heart rebel,—
And arm or hide him as he may, my wrath
Shall pluck it out.

GERARDO.
Thou canst do this?

SAVELLI.
Why, thus
Valerio doubted if I could—he held
The place which thou dost now.

GERARDO.
Valerio! mercy!
Thou didst not murder him?

SAVELLI.
He did betray me.

GERARDO.
By all those stars, I never dreamed of this!
He seemed a son, a servant.

SAVELLI.
He forgot
That sons and servants should obey—so now
Awake and gaze. We both have ventured forth,
And o'er this perilous sea, whose breezes swell
To storms at last, nor ever change toward shore,
Our boat has drifted easily along—
But in so small a crew, one should have brains.
Thou, while the feast seems good, dost eat and drink
Despite the reckoning—I have cares for that:
Thou, while the abbey's purse shrank daily less,
Didst trust what I did not.

GERARDO.
Brother, it was
The common trust of both to raise and place thee
Where none dare mark its emptiness.

SAVELLI.
It was
My hope, my trust was better placed elsewhere.

GERARDO.
In what?

SAVELLI.
Dominion, wider than these walls,
Power, taken as the right of all who gain it,
The crowning gift of Nature where she loves.
I must not govern in a house like this,
So now to leave the crosier for a sword,
And climb up higher! This plethorick city groans
With lust and vanity: we have around us
The vintage of long peace o'er ripe—contempt
And splenetic restlessness, a critical tongue,
Hatred toward Spain, ambition ill-employed,
Unhonored wealth, and luxury unfed—
Large debts, much pride, licentious wants, and wishes
Which will find means. Here many, like ourselves,
Can stay no longer what they are, and some,
Though well, must change. There are of every sort—
Zealots, who build the churches' roof to Heaven,
Saints, who would lower and cleanse it—Atheists too
Who can endure no master in the skies,
Yet worship one unseen, and will obey
They know not whom—myself. I class apart
The proud, the base, the idle—not one man
Can see beyond his tribe; and, out of all,
Thou only knowest who rules them.

GERARDO.
Take my soul
With all its services! A place like this
Is level with my hopes.

SAVELLI.
We have enough
To strike the unguarded down, but after that,
Shall want a better face to meet the sun.
Some brave there are, some noble—none renowned—
The people love old names; to those who change
Opinion strengthens force. The Count Arezzi
Is loved, and might do much.

GERARDO.
The Count Arezzi!
My brother's ward!

SAVELLI.
Even such—but then he was
Savelli's pupil—he hath studied that
Which mars this guardianship. His friend Cimbelli
Is with us body and soul; we two must strive
To catch the Count. Now let us part—good night.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Chamber in the Palace.
Prince of Andria and Arezzi.
PRINCE ANDRIA.
I cannot ask it of the duke, Arezzi.

AREZZI.
Your highness judges best.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
I have good reasons.

AREZZI.
No doubt you have.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
No doubt!—then why require it?

AREZZI.
I knew not that you had till now.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
But still
You scarce believe me.

AREZZI.
I will press my suit
No farther on your highness—what I asked
Was not to serve myself.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Savelli sent you?

AREZZI.
I would not injure where I cannot help:
This is not much to crave. I pray your highness
Forget that it was I who named the friar,
And then his suit may prosper.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
How, Arezzi?
Why so, why so?

AREZZI.
My task is irksome to me.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
What task?

AREZZI.
To seek a kindness here. I lose
All credit, and with all. Who sent me to you
And saw how tardily I came, have blamed
My coldness toward my friends—your highness blames me
Because I sued too warmly—I blame myself
That I could sue at all.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Come back, Arezzi—
What dreams are these? I tell thee twice I cannot,
And more, I will not ask it.

AREZZI.
Nay, my lord,
I learnt so much at first.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
So much? how now?

AREZZI.
I give offence; your highness will excuse me—

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Come back, I say—beware of this Savelli—
Mark what you hear, young man.

AREZZI.
Savelli once
Was valued by your highness, you have praised
His learning loudly—for myself, I gained
The little that I have through him—in all
I lack, I blame myself.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
I know not which,
But one forgot his business, he to teach—
Or you to learn—obedience.

AREZZI.
Both perhaps,
Thought that the task were needless, since your Grace
Taught it so oft yourself.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Well, Heaven be praised!
Old men may yet find leisure to grow wise!
Our children will instruct us. Bacchus' smooth lip
Shall chide Olympus with its bearded gods,
Scatter blessed wisdom in the ears of Jove,
And school the bald Silenus!—Babes can tell
How best to rule the state, what each man merits,
Whose heads should wear our mitres, who should share
Our abbeys, fill our offices, and help
To guide us in our counsels!

[Enter the Duke and Duchess.
DUKE.
Chiding, cousin?
I thought to chide myself. Arezzi here,
The last to bid us welcome!

AREZZI.
But your Grace
Sees that I come too early as it is.

DUKE.
I hope not so—we will make peace between you.
What was it that his highness said?

AREZZI.
He said
That fools intrude, and children meddle rashly;
That babes would rule the state, and nurslings, men;
That scalps with hair, and chins without—like ours—
Wag at grey beards and baldness. Then the prince
Compared himself to Jove, and us to Bacchus.—
Your Grace's subjects, when your Grace is king,
Must pray that Jove will grant your Grace a beard,
And govern till it come—I say, Amen.

[Exit.
DUKE.
What children meddle? Andria call him back.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Come back, Arezzi.

DUCHESS.
Better let him go.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Your Grace shall hear—O, this would sweat a flint—
A saint in marble!—Blockhead! he came here
To plead for that Savelli—I refused,
Said that I would not name it to your Grace—

DUCHESS.
Well, well, we will forget him now, it seems
Your arrow pierced the bush, and grazed them both,
But least the bird you aimed at. Tell us next
What more of this Savelli?

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Plagues go with him!
I lay the whole to him. I do believe
That he perverts this coxcomb. He has shown
His teeth before the time—he will not hurt us!
Eyes, nearer than he dreams of, watch the friar,
And let me once lay hold, that plausible tongue
May fail to beg its head.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A Street.
Three Citizens.
FIRST CITIZEN.
Stand near me then, I will be first to speak,
And you must further what I say—it is
Too perilous for a single tongue, though true,
But safe divided.

SECOND CITIZEN.
We must beg our own,
And that with fear.

FIRST CITIZEN.
These friars are not like us;
They are the boldest when alone, together
They may be shamed or scared.

THIRD CITIZEN.
It were a sin
To do as many do, when one man hurts them,
Strike all his fellows for his fault—I know
Much good among these monks.

FIRST CITIZEN.
Come, take your places,
The crowd draws near.

SECOND CITIZEN.
As there is truth in Heaven,
The abbey owes me for its last year's bread—
I have not seen one crown.

THIRD CITIZEN.
My patience lived
As long again as yours.

SECOND CITIZEN.
This treasurer sings—
But not so sweetly—like his abbey's chimes,
Seven different tunes a week: if words were silver,
He would have paid me threefold.

FIRST CITIZEN.
Thou dost get
A word as something then: he will not pay
Even that to me, but flatly braves my threatenings,
Forgets his signature, abjures the debt,
And drives me out.

THIRD CITIZEN.
Some think he will be abbot.

FIRST CITIZEN.
Nay, God forbid!

THIRD CITIZEN.
The one they mourn to-day
Was meek and gracious, he has heard me speak,
But said he could not help me.

SECOND CITIZEN.
He was old;
The treasurer grew too strong for years and meekness,
And ruled a better man.

THIRD CITIZEN.
In what we do,
This single scruple chafes me—it may seem
Irreverent toward the good man's worth, that so
We meet his bones.

SECOND CITIZEN.
Neighbour, no more, I pray thee—
We do what has been done before to-day—
Look! here he comes.

FIRST CITIZEN.
Be ready at my side—
He marches with the first; come on, and face him.

THIRD CITIZEN.
Wait till their chaunt is ended—peace, sirs, hush!
We must not speak till then.

A Funeral Procession—the Dominican Monks enter two and two, bearing torches and singing.
Savelli, Gerardo, Ludovico, and Others.
Hymn.

FIRST CITIZEN.
Heaven grant its mercy to the dead—the living
Ask of its servants justice.

SAVELLI.
What are these?
Stand back there drunkards—let the bier pass on—
Who clears our way?

FIRST CITIZEN.
You know us, what we are—

THIRD CITIZEN.
And that we are not drunk.

SECOND CITIZEN.
You have not left us
Enough for gluttony.

LUDOVICO.
Be patient, brethren;
We do beseech your peace for love of him
Whose soul requires our prayers.

SECOND CITIZEN.
You should remember
How long we have been patient.

LUDOVICO.
What I ask
Is less than charity.

SAVELLI.
Brother ask nothing—
The church shall take her own.

FIRST CITIZEN.
Sirs—we have stood
With daily beggars at the abbey gate,
To crave, not alms, but dues—the treasurer knows it.

SAVELLI.
What sort of dues they were, I know—how patched
And lined with fraud. There are, beside mine own,
Lips which shall witness this.

FIRST CITIZEN.
They must be false ones.

GERARDO.
Take heed! take heed! It is a sin to use
The weight and balance of deceit, and earn
Our bread by perjuries—but worse it is
To lie against a holier brother's truth,
And wrong the just. I testify these frauds,
Who helped to search them.

FIRST CITIZEN.
Thou?

GERARDO.
Ay, I—and who
Is he that questions me?

THIRD CITIZEN.
Beware this man—
He is the prince's brother.—

SAVELLI.
They do it to bring
A scandal on the church and us.

GERARDO.
Good people
If any honor God, and love mens' souls,
Or mourn the just deceased—drive out these scorners,
Smite them, but shed no blood; be patient with them.

SECOND CITIZEN.
Hear me one word.—

SAVELLI.
Stand back, I say—will none
Remove them hence?—now bring the corpse along.

Exeunt with the procession.
CROWD.
Shame! shame! lay hold upon these knaves.

FIRST CITIZEN.
But first
Hear what we have to speak.

CROWD.
It is a sin!
Most impious sacrilege!

THIRD CITIZEN.
Grant me one word.

SOME OF THE CROWD.
Neighbours, stand still awhile—these men are honest,
And known to many here.

CROWD.
Be quiet and hear them!

OTHERS.
We know all three.

FIRST CITIZEN.
We shall desire but this,
That you will choose the gravest from yourselves—
Some six or seven of whom you will, to spend
An hour at home with us, where we will prove
More than we yet have spoken, or else confess
Our malice is of Hell.

CROWD.
It is well said!
Come on, then,—we will find good men—away.

Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

A Chamber in the Palace.
The Duke, Don Gabriel Lucerna, and Don Florez Zava.
DUKE.
You never loved him much.

DON GABRIEL.
Nor had much cause:
He never loved your Grace.

DUKE.
I think he did:
At least he seemed to do so.

DON GABRIEL.
Ay—he seemed—
Were all men what they seem!—

DUKE.
Arezzi is—
We must speak justly, Gabriel.—

DON GABRIEL.
Heaven forbid
That I should question what he is. I speak
More from my blood than brain—it is my nature.
I cannot do as some much wiser men,
Who wink on both sides slily; shake by the hand
Their patron's slanderer; listen with meek smiles
To all, and neutral 'twixt the wronged and wronger—
Wish that they could be friends—I cannot do it,
And what is worse, I cannot strive to do it.
My soul is with my service—Where your Grace
Loves, I love too—and where you hate, I hate.

DUKE.
Well—well—then love, Arezzi—learn to hate
When I know how to teach you. By my hopes
Now and to come, I would not harm the count—
No, not in thought, for worlds!

DON FLOREZ.
He wrongs your highness
In more than thought—in deed.

DON GABRIEL.
He thinks it safer
To pluck the beard of Jove, than touch one hair
Worn by Jove's priests. Your highness has a sword
Too sacred for the use of private strife—
And this he knows.

DON FLOREZ.
Hush! hush!—we must not say so.

DON GABRIEL.
Pasquin usurps the privilege to speak,
And he may mock the pope.—A boy! a meddler!
A child too young for love!—and he, forsooth,
Just old enough!—Don Florez, for ourselves,
We too will learn the thrift of such a trade,
And purchase love with scorn.

DON FLOREZ.
The price for honor
Once, was obedience.

DON GABRIEL.
Blockheads as we are,
We pay it still.

DUKE.
And so shall he, and all.
What profit has he made him yet from scorn?
How does it grace him, Gabriel?—come—no more.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

An Apartment in the Palace.
Duchess, Prince of Andria and Cimbelli.
PRINCE ANDRIA.
Where does he pass his hours?

DUCHESS.
And how, Cimbelli?

CIMBELLI.
Why many in the sunshine on the shore,
Where walls once stood, and weeds and briars abound—
Wherever there is room to sit and sigh in;
Where ivy roots itself on banks and stones;
Where he can watch the lizards.—For the how—
In plucking up those weeds, and from those stones,
In stripping off that ivy. He will mark
Some beetle's wanderings till the sun goes down,
From noon; has skill in reptiles—knows throughout
The courtships of a cockchafer.

DUCHESS.
And you
Are fellow to his studies?

CIMBELLI.
Yes, sometimes.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Then tell us what you learn.

CIMBELLI.
That young men's eyes,
Like old ones' spectacles of green or yellow,
Give color to the things they see, but take
Their virtues from their fancies.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Well.

CIMBELLI.
The Count
Doubts if the swarms of earth be blessed or no,
And moralizes mournfully on moths.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
And you?

CIMBELLI.
I love their Iris-tinted wings
And giddy circles; other tribes I see
Warlike and full of pride, from head to heel
Bright in their burnished panoply—and think
That all God's creatures should be blessed. Arezzi
Sits like a sea-bird on some rock retired,
Eyeing the waters—Fancy helps his sight
To sound their depths and reach all sorrowful things.—
There rots the gilded argosy, and near,
Scattered with weeds and shells, some mariner's bones,
For ever fretted with the restless tide.
He sees the ring priest-blessed, or young Love's token
Unhappy and unhallowed, like his own.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
And prithee what see you?

CIMBELLI.
My thoughts the while
Sport gaily in their amorous musings, pleased
To pave the coral grots with pearls, and light
Their jasper roofs with naphtha. From below
Some green-eyed mermaid sees me—when I smile,
She smiles, and combs the tresses from her brow:
Timorous and coy, yet captive to my prayers.
I make me friends of tritons: I can find—
Wrecked in the sands full three score years ago—
Huge butts of delicate wine. The dolphins tell
The marvels of the ocean—while they sing,
I teach my merry orks to drink—your Grace
Believes that there be mermaids?

DUCHESS.
Well, what then?

CIMBELLI.
Why then the rest is easier to believe.

DUCHESS.
And thus his hours run wastefully!

CIMBELLI.
Even thus—
Nay, sometimes worse.

DUCHESS.
How worse? I hope not worse?

CIMBELLI.
Believe me, so.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Speak plainly.

CIMBELLI.
He will sit
Fixed like some pondering river god in stone,
All but the beard—Narcissus sick at heart,
Or garden Pan regardless. I can tell
The hours, as on a dial, by his shade,
His nose the gnomon.—This is worse—to wait
Undined the while he muses.

DUCHESS.
You should speak
Good counsel to his too much thought.

CIMBELLI.
I do.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
What is it then?

CIMBELLI.
I tell him he has lost
The princess and her love, the duke's love too,—
Whose stray loves meet, and live in love together—
The favor of her highness; that your Grace
Is little satisfied withal; that soon—
As sequent to the fashion of these losses—
He must lose me.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
So, comfort comes at last!
And now what more?

CIMBELLI.
That moneyless means witless,
And parting kindness leaves its room to hate.
That better had it been to live a beggar,
Borrowing his blushes while he lies for bread,
Than born in nobleness, feel pride a hindrance,
And blush indeed to beg. He must have hidden
Some sin from all beside—some pestilent sin
Which cleaves unto him still; for never yet
Did one so young and lovely lose such friends,
Unless his youth were blistered by disgrace,
Remorse or baseness tainted it, his lips
Were perjured at the altar—he had earned
The name of coward—traitor!

DUCHESS.
Traitor! villain?
Away thou ill-tongued idiot.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Get thee forth.

CIMBELLI.
I pray your highness hear—

DUCHESS.
Arezzi's friend!
His name was never whispered with distaste,
Till paired with thine—Cimbelli!

CIMBELLI.
Yet, your Grace—

DUCHESS.
Thou vapour from some sewer! what, perjured too!
A coward perjured! That vile scalp were honor'd
To keep the pavement chillness from his feet.—
Who waits without?

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Go, babble somewhere else.
[Exit Cimbelli.
Come, patience, hush!

DUCHESS.
Andria, I have been patient,
But will not listen to a slave like this.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
You did not understand him,—fool, or no,
His trap has caught your Grace.

DUCHESS.
And, liar or no,
Part that he said was truth—we wrong Arezzi,
And teach the rest to wrong him.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
O, God forbid!

DUCHESS.
What others think, this speaks. Who love us best
Are last to judge; we change us by the moon;
Shut goodness out; make taverns of our hearts,
Where innocence tarries but a night, and leaves
Its room for some worse guest. What has he done,
That all should thus forsake him?

PRINCE ANDRIA.
But who forsakes him?
Is it not he that flies?

DUCHESS.
And why?

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Because
We wisely hold our tongues.

DUCHESS.
Alas! this wisdom!
Our loathed old policy! while his caged spirit
Flutters tormented with its pains and fears,
We scowl the remnant of its hopes away,
And rob it of the light we gave.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
But hear me—
What have we else to do?

DUCHESS.
Speak out—and boldly
Claim our poor child as ours.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Well, let it be so.
My policy was not for me, but both.
We will not wait our answer, then, from Spain,
But bravely spurn the policy you hate,
And show our rings at once. Content—I care not!
So now—what are we? first Arezzi's parents,
Cicilia's kindred, guardians of the duke,
The king's true counsellors—yea, we do wisely
To bawl our history first in beggars' ears,
Make the Toledo ring with it; fill full
The squares, the quays, the markets, and the mole,—
Naples through all its taverns, cloisters, stalls,
From caverned wine vat, to the chimnies' top—
With wonder at this rarity—and next
Whisper our secret to the king; good now—
This is indeed to strain at policy!
While patience for a week may smooth the whole,
And set us right with all.

DUCHESS.
Do as you will.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Nay, by the holy saints! it is my will
To wrestle with my wisdom—what we do
Is your will, and so mine.

DUCHESS.
Thus it is ever—
I have my will, it seems, and you your way.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

A Public Walk.
Arezzi and Savelli.
SAVELLI.
Well well—and so it is—we must forgive—
But when? how speaks that law you cite me?
In wisdom truly! all its ends are such:
Beware lest ignorance read the text amiss!—
To see the injurious on their knees, and then
Remit the injury—this were to make
The weeds which nature scatters in mens' hearts,
A growth for Heaven! Our passions thus seem holy,
Their human crudities purged off, and love
Infused instead—but look, young man, the end
Must still be mercy.

AREZZI.
We reclaim our own
From force by force.

SAVELLI.
You might have said—from wrong
By stronger right. Spain hath oppressed us, robb'd us,
And would devour us if she could.

AREZZI.
The prince
Has guarded what I prize not much, but still
Must owe to him.

SAVELLI.
Your life? then give him back
What he does value much, his own—and thus
Pay all, with usury. But good, my son,
You must be master of it first. Who now?

AREZZI.
It is the monk his brother.

SAVELLI.
Who? Gerardo?
Hush! then—be wary—never trust that man.

[Enter Gerardo.
GERARDO.
Good thoughts to both.

SAVELLI.
With such a sparkling face
There should be such a welcome—tell us next,
What news, and whence? All men must smile who hear them.

GERARDO.
'Twere treason to look grave: my kinsman here
Will find them old.

AREZZI.
If good—believe me—no.

GERARDO.
Yourselves must judge of that—they came last night
Whence goodness ever comes, from Spain. The king
Resigns us to his son.—Content to keep
But half of this poor world, he yields two thrones—
Two of its oldest, to the duke, who reigns
An infant Jove. He will be married first,
Then crowned forthwith.

SAVELLI.
Married! to whom?

GERARDO.
His cousin.
Nay this, at least, is old enough. Men wished
An empress like Cicilia.

SAVELLI.
Here, at length
His fortune is summ'd up—on this side Heaven
There is no more to grant him.

GERARDO.
Let me confess—
Now that remembrance is the last sin left me—
Could youth with secular thoughts return—and one,
The princess, or the crown, with choice of which,
Be given myself, I should think either much,
But take the first. She looks a queen already;
I saw her at the window by his side,
Blush like Athena ere she stripp'd to Paris;
And mingle in her glance of love, the awe
Which chastens majesty—her cheeks appeared
Offended at her eyes.

SAVELLI.
Arezzi!

GERARDO.
Count!
See how he reels! lay hold—how white he is!
Art sick, man, speak? Savelli! mercy on us!
Thus early drunk? fie! fie!

SAVELLI.
It is the weather.
Brother let loose.

GERARDO.
He freshens now—Heaven bless us!
Prithee stand up—hast legs, good cousin, or no?

SAVELLI.
Arezzi! speak.

GERARDO.
Where did he dine to day?

AREZZI.
Pray—pray—stand back.

GERARDO.
Thou shalt sleep off this surfeit;
A little rest in bed.

SAVELLI.
Come—lean on us.

AREZZI.
What did Gerardo say?

SAVELLI.
Peace, son, no matter—
We both will see thee hence.

AREZZI.
The day is hot,
But now I am myself again—good father—
When will the duke be crowned?

GERARDO.
I know not when—
He will be married first, they say.

SAVELLI.
Well, well,
Some better time for that.

GERARDO.
The prince my brother
Will sadden when he hears of this—to-day
He seemed himself the bridegroom, such a coupling
Is master policy! Hast ever felt
These qualms before?

AREZZI.
Sometimes—but now, adieu!

SAVELLI.
We must not leave you here.

GERARDO.
Come, walk with us.
In faith, you startled me.

AREZZI.
I want no help—
Savelli, we will meet to-morrow at noon.

GERARDO.
What! wouldst be left alone? we will not leave thee,
Sweet charity! to swoon again—perhaps die!
Take one, or both.

AREZZI.
Pray get thee hence, once more.

GERARDO.
It is not safe, nor will we go.

AREZZI.
Away—
This drives me mad.

GERARDO.
The greater need, good cousin,
Of care in us.

AREZZI.
Stand off, thou meddling knave—
Get back to Modena—the gallows there
Is nearer kin than I.

SAVELLI.
Let loose, Gerardo.

[Exit Arezzi.
GERARDO.
With all my heart! Master was this done well?
Ah! ah! sir Bounce—Orlando in his teens!
Behold the potency of two dark eyes!
How speedily the carp grew sick! a hair
Will draw your lover on his back to land—
The hook is in his gills; and if we lose him,
He yet may rise again. Come, thank me, praise me;
Have I done well, or no?

SAVELLI.
Bravely—but yet
Too much beyond your book. Where didst pick up
Those news from Spain?

GERARDO.
I found them by the way
As truths, and took them to adorn our fable.

SAVELLI.
Indeed! art sure?

GERARDO.
We have a ship from Spain,
And such a rumour with it.

SAVELLI.
Thou mightier Æsop!
He made his fables to adorn some truth;
If thou art ever honest, it must be
To grace or hide some lie. Now, I will call thee
My son and heir.

GERARDO.
There is another heirship
The which I covet more—if we shall thrive,
Promise me that beside.

SAVELLI.
What is it? I will.

GERARDO.
First, chide me not for asking thee, but think
If what I say be so. Of living things
All have their several wants and properties,
As great presiding nature grants to each—
So lambs are meek, dogs watchful, leopards fierce;
The vulture hath his taste, though not a pure one;
The wasp or asp is guiltless while it stings,
And, if we slay, we blame it not. In men
There are your lambs and leopards, asps and owls—
Now that which follows instinct seconds nature;
So he who strives with nature, is unnatural—
And such, we know, is sin. Apply we this.
My instinct moves me to abhor what hurts me;
And there is one, who, five and forty years,
Casting his shade upon my growth, has kept
Both grace and fortune off.

SAVELLI.
The prince of Andria?
These moral reasonings ever point one way!

GERARDO.
Andria must go to bliss, and quickly too.
You shall hear reasons why he must—It is
Nor you, nor I,—but wisdom, justice, safety,
The public weal—which sends him there. His breath
Would blow our new-built house about our ears—
So we must stop it.

SAVELLI.
Those who love him not,
Yet think his instinct is averse from thine,
And looks toward truth.

GERARDO.
The better fit to die!
An upright man withal! full of good deeds,
Blessed in his many charities; and thus
He ever has been. I stand next as heir,
But that he loves me not, and this sick cousin—
Who talked of Modena, and named the gallows—
Pushes himself between. That which I covet
Is plainly mine by right. The jealous Count
Must either take my substance, or depart
And leave me his—now judge between us fairly.

SAVELLI.
Wouldst send him too, Gerardo?

GERARDO.
He called me knave,
Prince Andria called me traitor—I would strive
To render back such courtesies as these.
Who taught the boy Arezzi what I was?
Prince Andria taught him. And that younger child,
Whence did he learn to gird me thus, last night?
From Andria too—my loving brother Andria—
That leaped some months before me to the sun,
Became my gracious prince, mine elder brother;
Set me at buffets with the world, and when
I played not quite so fairly, first cried shame!—
Thwarted my hopes, drove me from court and office,
And made me what I am. He reared this babe
To vex and rob me; and my father's land
Must feed an alien.

SAVELLI.
We will think on this.

GERARDO.
As prince, I may be useful to the state.

SAVELLI.
But, then, thy vows!

GERARDO.
The church can bind and loose—
She will be easy toward a son like me.

SAVELLI.
Well, we will talk again some better time.
The men you told me of, must sup with us—
Now, prithee, good Gerardo—haste and bring them.

[Exit Gerardo.
SAVELLI
(alone.)
The good Gerardo! foh! what part have I
With such a fiend as this? the enchanter fears
His own familiar spirit. I cannot need
A devil like him—so merciless as he is—
Accursed and eminent above the damned,
And black beyond my purpose!—What I want
Is rank enough no doubt—false witness, fraud,
Perverted honor, snares for youth, abuse
Of trust and innocence, and when pressed as now,
It may be more and worse. This sin incarnate
Loaths fellowship in such a kind, and walks
The earth for blood! He would dig deep his pits
For one who fed him, clothed him, housed him, warmed him;
And while the murderer's knife is sharp and bare—
Point toward his brother's throat! He was not thus—
O! not like this at first—nor what I am
Was I—but churchmens' pleasures must be hid:
To hide costs much;—hence rapine and abuse
Of trust and truth—hence lies, hypocrisy,
A perjured tongue; and as the danger spreads,
The waste spreads daily. He is at his ease,
Does as his nature teaches, and what use
Makes pleasant to him—but for me, the while,
I do believe the things which he does not—
That life must cast its reckoning ere it end,
Or pay it tenfold afterwards.—Why should that strength
Which might have gained me as its right by nature,
Wealth, pleasure, reverence, glory, eminent place;
Nay more, a crown to come—be tasked as now
In twisting cables with the winds and flames,
And weaving webs with dust! This Ludovico
Is loved of men, shall fill the seat I covet;
And though his gifts from Heaven are small to mine,
His learning less—with that calm pace he passes
Where I, with all my jostling and my haste,
Can scarcely hope to come. For good or ill,
Who ploughs in hope, must watch and labor still;
Fix on the furrow's end both eyes and mind,
And never pause to rest or look behind.

[Exit.

SCENE VII.

Public Walk.
Arezzi and Cimbelli.
CIMBELLI.
I blame you not—we are what nature makes us.
The costliest of her vessels prove so fine
They burst in seasoning: more she forms of clay;
Mere dirt, and these last long. In men like you,
The print which Fancy leaves to mark her chosen
Shines, from the surface, through: thus love—to most
No more than flushes in the dawn of youth,
A sort of rosy-color'd brief crepuscule,
Which fades before the sun is up—to you
Becomes the daylight of the soul, and lasts
Till life itself goes out.—Even I, Cimbelli,
Could fast, and watch, and weep, and fight, and die,
For one fair woman, if there were no more—
But while the earth feeds two, and both are single,
Neither shall grieve me long.

AREZZI.
You never loved,
Yet own Love's power—wiser in this than most—
You do not reason with the crazed.

CIMBELLI.
I might;
But some men seem predestinated fools,
With sense enough to know they are. I had
A brother of this kind, in whom harsh Nature
Forced all reluctant qualities to meet.
Haughty he was, yet tender—just, though froward,
Most pitiful, most stern—a giant in wrath,
A child in love and mercy. All his soul
Was given to one who scorned it. I have seen
Impatient anguish watch that pale cold brow—
For ever gracious toward inferior fools,
Toward him unchangeable—till shame and pride
Burst and dissolved in tears. The pitiless smile
Gave life again to both—so passion rose—
Like him that strove with Hercules of old,—
In two-fold vigor from the dust. Now see
How strange a kind of two-legg'd thing is this
Which stands so totteringly, its own hard sighs
Can make it rock and stagger!—a little breath,
And that most fragrant, from a little mouth,
Not blown in wrath, but peaceful though unkind;
Nay less, a look—and that without a frown,
A blank and casual look, composed and heedless,
Can roll it bottom upwards! Mercy upon us!

AREZZI.
Most that endure, repine: hast ever heard
Such groans from me?

CIMBELLI.
Why no—you keep them down
As prudent masters rap their scholars' pates,
Commuting cries for tears. Your loveship sits
Like Æolus struggling with his subject winds,—
A sceptred king, but sore perplexed to rule.

AREZZI.
What was this brother's fortune?

CIMBELLI.
Common enough.
Be such an one as he, and live as he did
To watch his rivals laugh, hear gossips prattle,
How fond the bride, and late she lies in bed,
And when they look for issue.

AREZZI.
Hold—Cimbelli!
O! senseless, merciless, as thou art—find out
Some other way than this to make me mad.
These scorpions did not sleep before—pray go—
Let us not meet again.

CIMBELLI.
Poor babe! dear innocent!

AREZZI.
What nature wants in manhood—let the will
Excuse thus far—Though both are weak—Heaven knows!
One is not yet subdued. Wouldst prove me fool?
Convince the fool of baseness?—I am confessed
A fool half mad—a slave quite miserable:
Abject, indeed, and helpless! but I feel
One passion of a man still left—his shame.

CIMBELLI.
Set Shame to buffet Love—he is the youngest,
And almost always follows hard at hand.

AREZZI.
This I can help, Cimbelli—I will not see
Another in my place. She has been mine—
Her looks, her thoughts, affections, wishes, tears—
I earned them all—not easily, as the price
Of short and pleasant service—years have flown
In doubt, in awe, in hope, almost in worship—
Till love, though pure, grew sinful. She has been
Single in earth to me—and let me own
Far oftener in my thoughts than Heaven. These eyes
Have gazed while sickness made its mark for death,
And part belonged to each!—I will not see
That which I had, transferred.

CIMBELLI.
Now, what dost swear by?

AREZZI.
The only thing still left me—it is enough—
By all I feel of misery!

CIMBELLI.
You must learn
Either to do or suffer—be brave or patient—
Blow out Love's torch with sighs, or act the man
And take what once was given you. Let us walk.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VIII.

Part of the same Walk.
Don Gabriel Lucerna and Don Florez Zava.
DON GABRIEL.
'Twill goad him till he roar, I hope.

DON FLOREZ.
Beware—
The bull has horns.

DON GABRIEL.
Then you shall see a bull feast.
He comes this way.

DON FLOREZ.
And by his side, his calf.

DON GABRIEL.
You may take charge of him.

DON FLOREZ.
Their faces say
Our tale, though false, is old.

DON GABRIEL.
So much the better:
It will be credited the more.

[Enter Arezzi and Cimbelli.
DON GABRIEL.
Arezzi!
O! now for words to conjure with! The dreams
Which waking Love remembers, Cupid's smiles,
And Hymen's promises—the things which were,
And now are not—deep vows, warm thoughts, fond whispers—
Grant me this first request.

AREZZI.
Be brief then with it:
My patience suffers with my health to-day.

DON GABRIEL.
Do one fair service which may grace all three.
Don Florez is but slow at rhymes, and I
Have little friendship from the amorous Muse—
We lisp long prayers in prose.

CIMBELLI.
And you would have
Still less from Love, if Love had eyes or ears.

DON GABRIEL.
Now who is this?

AREZZI.
Go on.

DON GABRIEL.
More practised thou
To mingle incense with melodious verse,
Shall teach us how to charm Cicilia's couch
From grief and barrenness.

CIMBELLI.
The marquis brought
These pleasant words from Spain.

DON FLOREZ.
Be quiet! dost mark me!

CIMBELLI.
I do—most heedfully.

AREZZI.
You have talked much
Of me, and of yourself, elsewhere—Don Gabriel;
Extoll'd some happier skill that practice lends you,
And prayed a time to prove it?—Answer me this.

DON GABRIEL.
If so indeed—what then?

AREZZI.
I might have blushed
To baffle a wish so fair—and would have staked—
With one whose hopes and honors matched mine own—
The days to come: but now—go home and triumph;
I have no equal pledge, nor can I lose
More than I wish was gone.

DON GABRIEL.
Well, write instead
This epithalamium for the duke.

AREZZI.
Farewell—
Let me pass on, Lucerna—do not strike
One reeling with the plague.

CIMBELLI.
It were a sin
To send this cid-sperm back!—the Count Arezzi
Is sick to day.

DON GABRIEL.
Perhaps he loaths his company,
As I do too.

DON FLOREZ.
When thou shalt speak with nobles,
Take off the covering from that pate, and turn
(Cimbelli takes off his hat.)
The plume below. Lower—still lower, I say—
(Cimbelli throws it on the ground.)
So—that will do.

CIMBELLI.
I need it for my health;
Now go, and pick it up.

DON FLOREZ.
Your page forgets
His place and wits, Arezzi.

CIMBELLI.
By my soul
Thou shalt be fain to bring it where I stand,
And give it on thy knee with fear and reverence,
Or lie beside it. (Draws.)


DON FLOREZ.
I will draw my sword
On none like thee.

CIMBELLI.
Then make the better haste
To pick me up my hat—dost loiter, sirrah!
Let this teach diligence. (Strikes him.)


DON GABRIEL.
Florez, we will make
The calf a sacrifice. (They draw.)


CIMBELLI.
So—keep in front,
And both together if you will.

AREZZI
(drawing.)
Stand back—
Coward as thou art! didst dream my scorn was fear?
Thou leperous seven-fold liar—knave, pandar, Spaniard!
Now let us hear those boastings—mock me now—
O! that the fool which sent thee stood beside thee!
Look up—we fight for life—I will not take
Nor render mercy. (They fight, Don Gabriel falls.)


CIMBELLI.
That goes near his ribs—
Nay, do not strike him twice—enough, Arezzi—
His jests are spent to day—be quiet, and cool
The devil within! (To Florez)
Thou shouldest go help thy friend—
But I have sworn—first pick me up my hat.

DON FLOREZ.
Well, take it then

CIMBELLI.
Ay, lower—mine oath!—still lower—
So, that will do. Now let us lift him gently—
He faints—make haste Arezzi—help! some help!

[Exeunt.