University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

The Anti-room of the Duke's Apartments.
Curio waiting.
Isab.
(entering)
Where is the Duke?

Curio.
Now in his chamber, Madam:
But he has given orders that no one
Shall have admittance.

Isab.
I must go to him.

Curio.
Madam, you know how violent is the Duke:
He bid me keep the door.

Isab.
Go in, go in, Sir,
And tell him that I wish to see him, straight,
The matter's urgent. Go, Sir.

[Curio exit.
Casti.
(Without.)
Where is Lord Guido?

Isab.
How!
Casti enters with a letter.
Well, Sir?—

Casti.
Where is he,—Guido?

Isab.
Where?

Casti.
I must
See him directly. Can you not tell me where?

Isab.
Perhaps—

Casti.
Yes, yes.

Isab.
And yet he will not walk
To-night, tho' 'tis his hour:—but he may be
In the confessor's chamber. Do you know't?

Casti.
I'll find it, Madam.

Isab.
Yet it were as well,
If you should try the terrace first.

Casti.
I'll do't.

[Exit.
Isab.
That was well thought: now we have time at least.

Guido enters.
Guido.
May I come in?

Isab.
Come in: I cannot gain
Admittance.

Guido.
I must see my father, Madam,
Let what will follow it.

Isab.
Do you know yet
What caused my brother's frenzy at the feast?
'Twas strange!

Guido.
Strange! It was madness.
Half of the ills we hoard within our hearts
Are ills because we hoard them. A fair tale
Will ever put down scandal, and the Duke
Wants but an open story. I will see him,
By Heaven!

Isab.
Be patient!

Guido.
Shall my heart be wrung
At every turn, and I know not the cause?
I were a fool indeed—Well, Sir, the Duke?

Curio re-enters.
Curio.
Madam, I dare not enter.

Guido.
Fool!—then I
Will go myself.

Isab.
No, no; I'll see him first. Trust me for once.
A woman's words—

Guido.
Then linger not.

Isab.
How's this? I've heard no noise.

Curio.
Madam, nor I
For the last hour.

Guido.
Great Heaven! what can it mean?

Isab.
Has he not spoken?

Curio.
No.

Guido.
Nor moved?

Curio.
He has not.

Guido.
I will go in, let what will happen.

Isab.
Stay!

Curio.
I'll venture since it must be so, my lord.
But may I beg you to withdraw.—This way.

Guido.
It cannot be.—Poor father!

Curio.
This way, Madam:
And I entreat your silence.

Isab.
Come: this way.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Duke's Chamber.
The Duke is sitting alone.
Curio.
[entering.]
He sleeps: Hush!—no, wide awake.
My lord! the lady Isabella is here.
My lord!—He does not answer me. My lord!
Ha! Madam, Madam, enter—Look!

Isabella enters.
Isab.
What's this?
Leave us. [Exit Curio.]
Dear brother, will you be the talk
Of your own servants? Give me your hand: how cold!
Speak!—why are you alone?

Duke.
Alone—alone.

Isab.
Nay, this
Is idle.

Duke.
Who—Ah! sister, is it you?
'Tis a cold day—dull as December.

Isab.
'Tis
Indeed a wretched day.

Duke.
Indeed? Ah! now
I recollect.—Oh! mercy! mercy!—Hear
Heaven and earth and air, if I—if I—
But no, I will not curse them: thro' the world
A curse will follow them, like the black plague
Tracking their footsteps ever,—day and night—
Morning and eve,—summer and winter,—ever,
I would not be a wretch so followed for
The wide supremacy of all the air.
I'd not be such a wretch—O Heaven! O Heaven!
Am I not worse than they are?

Isab.
Worse,—how worse?

Duke.
Oh, more—more desolate.

Isab.
Guido.

Duke.
No more.

Isab.
He asks to see you.

Duke.
We will meet hereafter:
In the world, never. In the grave perhaps—
In the dark common chamber of the dead
We'll visit, where upon his shadowy steed
(Pale as a corpse) the speechless phantom rides,
Our king and enemy: there, friends and foes
Meet without passions, and the sickly light
That glimmers thro' the populous homes of death
Will be enough to find us. We shall know
Each other there, perhaps.

Isab.
His was indeed
A grievous fault; but he may mend. He's shrewd,
And he may clear himself. Shall he come in?

Duke.
No: and when I talk thus—thus calmly, you
Know well I mean my words.

Isab.
Nay—

Duke.
Nay; I am
As firm as marble: fixed as fate: no more.
*Now, what's the day's amusement? Is't to hunt,
Or fish, or sail, or fly the falcon?—what?
Or shall we drop upon our knees and pray?†

Isab.
He says he must be heard.

Duke.
He must? Must!—Then
Bid him come in.

Isab.
You jest.

Duke.
Not I, by justice!—So— [sits]
that's well. I seem
To sit in judgment. Were the world before me—
The sinner, and the saint,—the prodigal,
And he who hoards his gold, and they who give
Not even a thought in charity,—base slaves,
Stabbers and thieves, and parricides, I'd hold
The balance firmly. Isabella, go.
Sirs, bid my son approach.

Isab.
I fear—well, well.

[Exit.
Duke.
There was a Roman who condemned his son
*To death. I'll pass a gentler sentence, tho'
I am myself the victim. It is strange;
But I do feel within me a calm glow,
As tho' the words I am about to say
Bore on their sound conviction. Can it be
That I have erred? Away, away:—if ever
I rise to hope I shall grow wild again.
Despair is better.† Hark! he comes; my blood
Is half in tumult,—yet I will be calm.

Guido enters.
Guido.
Father!

Duke.
Lord Guido, I am told you wish
An audience; is it so?

Guido.
It is.

Duke.
Speak on.
If you have suffered wrong and pray relief,
Why, you should have it.—If you have done wrong,
The church is open, and the gate of Heaven
Wide for a true repenter.

Guido.
Oh! my lord,
I beg you to cast off this garb.

Duke.
It is
The garb of justice; treat it with honour, Sir,
As you may hope to thrive. Well!

Guido.
Why is this?

Duke.
Why! have you aught to ask? if so, speak on.

Guido.
My lord, I know not how it is, but you
Who (if I must speak truth) have wrong'd me much,
Assume the injured man. What have I done?—
You will not answer?—no?

Duke.
Go on, go on.
I like your boldness,—not your spirit. Well!

Guido.
What have I done, my lord?

Duke.
What done!—but speak.

Guido.
You think me traitor, as I hear; but surely
I were a sorry knave, to plot against
The state which will be mine.

Duke.
Be not too sure.
Proceed.

Guido.
That's as you will, my lord:—but away with this.
My lord, my lord! I ask you, can I be
The same in soul as when we fought at Mantua—
Together,—side by side? I hate to name it:
But, did I not—I ask you, did I not
Once do you service?

Duke.
Yes: I own to that.
You speak it doubtfully: you saved my life.
Pray, be not sparing. I can bear it all.

Guido.
Have I deserved this, Sir? Great Heaven!

Duke.
Silence!
You have affronted Heaven; and the sad day
(Now dying) leaves a blush upon the face
Of the great sky, faint as your honour.—You
Have practised against Heaven,—against me.

Guido.
I have not, by my hopes: nay, hear me swear—
If I have done—done what? I know not what.
But if I ever gave you cause to hate me,—
If I have wronged you by myself, or e'er
Conspired with others,—plotted, writ, or thought,—
Nay, if I ever heard of foes to you
And lent them help or countenance—strike me down!
I call on you, bright Heaven! I call on all
Your terrible thunders and blue darting fires
Quickly to come upon me. If my words
Are false, strike me to nothing!

Duke.
Well, Sir, I
Have heard.

Guido.
And doubt me still?

Duke.
Doubt!
If you have said? you have: why then good even.
Now we may go and pray.

Guido.
Once more.—That ring—
(The Duchess' ring) was given me as a pledge
Of a pure friendship.

Duke.
Ha!

Guido.
Oh! my lord, do not doubt me.—Once more, Sir,
I ask you to remember what I was,
And now believe.—My lord!—Nay,—not a word?
Not one?—Then is my purpose strong. My lord,
I see that 'tis in vain to hope to stay
In quiet at Mirandola. Each hour
Would bring a host of troubles and of fears
On me,—or both, perhaps: and I've enough
Therefore, unless your highness orders that
I must remain, I purpose speedily
(To-night, indeed) to travel.

Duke.
Travel!—where?
Where do you think to travel?

Guido.
I know not where: somewhere about the world.
What matters it where I am?

Duke.
This is sudden.
Your resolution's sudden,—but 'tis wise.
You have my full consent,—my wish: what more?

Guido.
Will you not say farewell?

Duke.
[rising.]
Shall you stop first
At Naples?

Guido.
First at Rome.

Duke.
Perhaps you may hear further from me there.

Guido.
Yet say farewell.

Duke.
Farewell.

Guido.
Oh, Father, I
Am going far—for ever. This cold hand,
Which now I stretch abroad towards you,—now,
You'll never touch again.

Duke.
Farewell!—Mountains and seas
Must rise and roll between us: then, perhaps,
We may be friends again. I loved you once—
Once for your mother's sake; ay, for your own.
I had brave hopes, but you have blighted them;—
But I may write to Rome.

Guido.
I hope you will.

Duke.
If what I think is wrong: no matter, you
Shall hear from me at Rome.

Guido.
At Rome, then.

Duke.
If
My power, or my purse be wanting—ever,
(Death! I shall play the fool!)—if ever I
Can serve you, let me know, and 't shall be done.
This from my old affection will I do.
Some one has used me ill—some one has struck
And tortured me. Let me look on you.—You
Had always a brave look;—ay, from a boy.

Guido.
I wore my innocence there, and in my heart.

Duke.
Well, well; no more; you'll see the Duchess ere
You leave us.

Guido.
No, my lord.

Duke.
You'll see her? Nay—

Guido.
'Tis better not. I leave Mirandola
To-night.

Duke.
But first—

Guido.
Pray, spare me.

Duke.
Then—why then
Fare you well, Guido; for it must come to that
At last.—Farewell! yet, wheresoe'er you go,
Still do not quite forget Mirandola.
You have had happy hours and pleasant thoughts,
And I—I have had some: in infancy
I—(tho' I was a prince) would not confide
My son to hirelings. I have stood and watched
You sleeping, (then I dared not own you, for
My father lived,) while poor Bianca wept.
Oh! I have watch'd you with a cotter's care,
Thro' many and many a night:—'tis so; and now
Mountains and stormy seas will come between
Our hearts. While you are wandering, I shall be
Shut in my palace,—prisoned up,—a slave:
What else are princes ever? but I'll write
To Rome.

Guido.
I shall expect it.

Duke.
Confide in me.
I thought I had a word or two to say,
But they are gone;—the common things, perhaps,
Men say at parting: likely nothing more.
You may return: if not, why let us part
Like friends at least: hate is a galling load
To bear in absence; so—farewell. Oh! Guido!
[Embraces him.
And now, no more. Farewell!

Guido.
Once more, farewell,
Farewell!

[Exit.
Duke.
Farewell! The kindest breath of Heaven
Rest on your head and hallow it.—My son!
My only son! and is he gone for ever?
How I have loved him let these tremulous hands
Proclaim, and these my weeping woman's eyes,
Not often stained with tears.—Farewell, once more.
Son of my youth! And now I'll take one look
At the blue sky, and taste the scents which hang
Around the flowers.—Methinks I feel again
My stature princely, and still running clear
The high blood of Mirandola.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

The Apartment of the Confessor.
Gheraldi discovered at a Table, with Papers; and a Chest open, to and from which he goes.
Gher.
Now, haughty lady, now indeed thy nets
Are closing round thy victims: but thou art
Thyself within my mesh.—I want thy help,
To thrust me in the conclave; until then
I'll keep thy secrets safely,—and thy letters.
Ha! this— [Reads.]
“To Guido de Mirandola,
Naples.”—That Gaspero had an honest look;
And yet he was a knave. This—“To the Father
Gheraldi.” Signed “Thy true friend Isabella.”
This is my bill on fortune—“thy true friend.”
And here are Guido's letters to the Duke
I would not lose them for a mitre. But
There is another—Ha!

[Goes to the chest.
Casti enters suddenly.
Casti.
Is not Lord Guido here?

Gher.
Signior!—Lord Guido?

Casti.
Ay, Sir, Lord Guido.—I must see him quickly.
Why, what's the matter, Monk?

Guido.
[Within.]
In this room, say you?

Casti.
Ha! that is his voice?
Guido enters.
My dear Guido! I want
Some private words—I want to have some speech
With the lord Guido, Sir.

Gher.
With the lord Guido?

Casti.
Death!
Do you not hear? We wish to talk in private.

Guido.
You'll trust us in your room awhile, Gheraldi?

Gher.
My lord,—my papers.

Casti.
Never mind them, Monk.
How! do you think we wish to learn how well
You turn a cunning verse? leave 'em and go.

Gher.
My lord, I must—

Guido.
How!—I have spoken, Sir,
[Waves him off.
Some minutes hence you may return.

Gher.
But first—

[Seizes the papers.
Casti.
Begone!

[As Gheraldi goes, he thrusts the papers into his robe:—some fall, as Casti hurries him out.
Casti.
Now,
I have a message.

Guido.
You must say it quickly;
For I am going.

Casti.
Going—where?

Guido.
I leave
Mirandola this hour.

Casti.
For what? for what?

Guido.
My friend, the Duke and I must part. Nay, spare me:
It is determined on. I go to-night.

Casti.
To-night you must not; for the Duchess asks,—
Implores a meeting with you.—In my hand
I hold her letter: look! 'twas written with
A trembling heart.

Guido.
Poor Isidora! so
Thy young heart trembled when it wrote to me.
[Reads.]
Ha! Casti—stay, stay: how! to-night? to-night?
It cannot be: I've said—

Casti.
And I have sworn,
Upon the Duchess' hand, that you shall see her.
You must—Oh! no excusing.

Guido.
My dear friend,
There are some trials which the mind (tho' made
Ev'n hard by sorrow) cannot go through well:
Such one is this.

Casti.
She wept,—do you not hear?
She wept and bade me as I loved her honour,
Her life,—to bring you to her.

Guido.
How can I
See her? I go this hour.

Casti.
You can, you can:
Cannot you leave your horses at the inn
(The first you arrive at) near the mountains? then
You can return alone, wrapt in your cloak.
Who'll know of this? 'tis easy. Why, the night
Itself will shroud you well.

Guido.
But should the Duke—

Casti.
Do I not tell you that perhaps her life—
Her very life's at stake.

Guido.
Well!—

Casti.
Well—you must do't.

Guido.
We must be secret; yes,
We must be very secret,—but I'll do't.
There is a fate in this. *I seem to go
Calmly, yet with a melancholy step,
Onwards and onwards.—Is there not a tale
Of some man, (an Arabian as I think,)
Who sailed upon the wide sea many days,
Tossing about, the sport of winds and waters,
Until he saw an isle, towards which his ship
Turned suddenly?—there is: and he was drawn,
As by a magnet on, slowly, until
The vessel neared the isle: and then, it flew
Quick as a shooting star, and dash'd itself
To pieces. Methinks I am this man.†—But be it.
I'll go to Isidora.

Andrea and Carlo enter.
Casti.
Well!

Andrea.
My lord,
Your horses wait.

Casti.
Now?

Andrea.
In the court, my lord.

Guido.
Farewell, then: I shall see you once more.

Casti.
You
Will not deceive me?

Guido.
I will not, my friend.
I'll see you after I have seen her: now,
Farewell.

Casti.
Farewell then.—I will stay
Here; lest our parting (colder than should be
'Tween friends) give rise to doubts.

Guido.
Right.—Fare thee well!

[Exeunt Guido, Andrea and Carlo.
Casti.
Poor Guido!—I have done my task; altho'
I hate these secret meetings. What I do
I wish the sun to see; yet, I have been
A messenger to him:—Well, perhaps—So,
[takes up the papers.
What have we?—the monk's homilies, or—Ha!
What!—to Lord Guido, signed by—by the Duke?
Death! it all strikes upon me. This is not
[opens the pacquet.
A time for doubting. What is this? Ah! Heaven!

Gheraldi enters.
Gher.
I must have dropped some—Ha! Signior!
My lord, this is not well. My lord, I say!

Casti.
Begone, thou villain!—This (reads)
from Guido to
The Duke?

Gher.
Give me my letters, Sir.

Casti.
Another!—How!
Oh! mercy! thou'rt betray'd, poor friend, betray'd.
Thou avarice bitten slave!

Gher.
Give—give me but
Those letters, Sir, and you shall have—

Casti.
Insolent slave!

Gher.
Not for myself, not for myself, my lord;
But for the lady Isabella.

Casti.
Ha!

Gher.
She'll thank you—she'll reward you: you shall have—
I know not what.

Casti.
By Heaven, her writings here
To you—to you, you mean, and loathsome worm!
Ha! signed “your true friend Isabella.”

[He reads, holding the letters away from Gheraldi.
Gher.
Sir—
My lord! my lord!

[Clings to Casti.
Casti.
'Tis here, 'tis here! Begone! I see it now—
I see it all.—Oh, Guido! poor lost friend!
But it is here—thy proof! and thy proof too,
Thou double slave!—Begone!

Gher.
I'll give you all!—
I have a mighty hoard—of gold—of gems—

Casti.
Unloose me, villain!—This shall to the Duke!

Gher.
My lord, my life is in it.

Casti.
Guido's life:
His honor! but they shall be saved. Begone!

Gher.
I cannot—will not.

Casti.
Slave! Ha! villain, down!

Gher.
My lord, I'll be for ever—I will kneel—

Casti.
Hence!—Now we triumph.

Gher.
Go not!

Casti.
To the Duke:
Ay, to the Duke in triumph: Thou shalt be—
Begone!—Ha! villain!—Nay, then thus I dash
You down for ever.—Hence!—Now then, my friend,
Now victory is ours. Honor—thy father's love,
Saved, and thy princely name made clear for ever.
Now for the Duke.—Away!

[Exeunt.