 | John of Procida ; Or, The Bridals of Messina |  |
SCENE I.
—A Bay near Messina.—The Sea.—Fishermen's Boats; in the offing a Fleet.—Moonlight.Enter John of Procida and Guiscardo.
Pro.
You look your news! 'Tis dire, but not unwelcome,
Nor out of place nor out of season, that
Men should cry “God forbid!”—That is, good men.
It is the scourging, at report of which,
Men, that rely on Heaven, upon their breasts
Will cross their arms, though shuddering, and look up,
In dread, yet gratitude. Chance has outdone
Foresight; and Preparation, looking on
With idle hands, can scarce believe its eyes
To see the work, it labour'd for, fulfill'd
Almost without its aid. Tell me again
The cause and manner of the massacre;
And leisurely. What you related now
Seems like a dream, which he that has awaked from't
Tries to recall, but finds the substance vapour,
Which in the tracing of it—vanishes!
You said, the hour of the vespers?
Guis.
Yes; that hour,
That annual hour religiously observed
In Sicily, our tyrants made a plea
For new and worse aggression. On pretence
Our act of piety might mask revolt,
Assembling in such numbers; though we held
Our warrants in our hands, our wives and children,
Which, who that loved them, would to strokes expose
From swords and knives in sudden tumult drawn,
Where rage might miss a foe and smite a friend?
Pro.
Well, upon this pretence, orders, you said,
Were pass'd to search for arms—
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O Heaven, the acts
Of an unbridled soldiery—of men
Who reckon war a game—regarding all
The charities—the tender charities
Of human life—as stakes!—Interpreting
This order by the hint of most depraved
And devilish appetite, the myrmidons
Of France presented to amazed Palermo,
O'er-acted in her streets, exposure, which
Her liberal haunts keep close—attested by
The shrieks of maids and matrons, powerless
With loathing and affright; whose friends look'd on,
Aghast with rage that knew not where to turn.
Pro.
Go on!—I see it!
Guis.
Know you one Venoni,
The son of Nicolo Venoni?
Pro.
No;
But knew his father well.
Guis.
He married lately,
And his young bride, accompanying him
To church, was thus encounter'd. Now Venoni,
That kind of spirit is endow'd with, which,
If once 'tis chafed, serves its own impulse solely,
Reckless of cost. As a high-temper'd horse
That's rashly given the spur, throws off all guidance
Save that of its own fury; spikes itself
Upon a palisade, plunges into
A flood, or dashes o'er a precipice
As soon as keep the road. With naked hand
He struck the caitiff down!
Pro.
'Twas like the son
Of his father!—'Twas well done!
Guis.
How one brave man
Showing himself will make a thousand brave
That play'd the hound before! The miscreant
At once was stoned to death. His fellows, seeing,
For the first time, how, more from habitude
Than proper power, a handful sways a crowd,
To save themselves took straight to flight. And now
The uproar!—While the guard the larum beat,
The citizens—the women and their fry
Huddling into their houses, without heed
Whether their own or neighbours', and, as freely,
Such weapons snapping up as came to hand—
Trebled in numbers from the rousing cry
Of the exploit, which ran like wildfire through
The city, shouting for Enfranchisement,
Vengeance, and Freedom, towards the citadel,
Devoted, moved—one street of waving arms!
Pro.
The sight appall'd their enemies!
Guis.
It did!
Pro.
No monster half so dire as that which meets
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Its thralls make stand against it, all at once,
While at its foot it thought them! They o'erthrew
The garrison?
Guis.
O'erthrew?—Ay, did they, sir,
As the red flood of Etna would a wall
With touching it. Then came the Massacre,
'Mid yells for quarter, answer'd by despair.
The strugglings then—the blows—the kinds of death!
Some falling by a single stroke, and some
By none at all but grasp of strangling horror.
By pieces some despatch'd—gash upon gash—
Their bodies hack'd, yet life without a wound.
How variously they met their fate—some mad,
Some as all sense were lapsed, some seeking it—
Some flying from it; and with all the signs
As the blood works in such extremity!
Some, pale as ashes; some, with face on fire;
Some, black as though with premature congealing!
Here tears; there scowls; there laughter—yes, I saw
Some that did die with laughter! Some did groan,
Some groan'd, some shriek'd. Most died with curses. Few
With prayers, and they were mix'd with imprecations.
More than one wretch, thrust through and through, that laugh'd
With simulated bravery, masking despair!
Not one encounter'd death with constancy;
But most as, to its pangs, were superadded
The sharper stings of conscience.
Pro.
Heaven have mercy
Upon their souls!
Guis.
Their wives and children, now—
Pro.
Don't tell me that again! I shudder still!
The work of slaughter should have stopp'd at them!
Woman and infancy have Nature's word
Against the blows of men, whom she made strong
For their protection! It is damage done,
Irreparable to a righteous cause;
Which, else, all men, contemporary with it,
As well as all to come, had wholly lauded.
It is a glorious page in history,
So blotted, men will say of it, hereafter,
As well as now, “Better it ne'er were written!”
Guis.
Nay, John of Procida, that friend whose zeal
Despatch'd me to you, and your trust in whom
Made him the master of your hiding-place—
For, it behoved you, being what you are,
The friend of Sicily, like a wild beast
To house!—that friend, with other thoughts than yours
Beheld the work of vengeance. In the midst
His voice was loudest, “Death to all that's French!
Spare not—nor sex—nor age!”
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I love the zeal,
But hate the excess.
Guis.
Think 'twas the lava, sir;
And had it been, what then would you have said?
But, that it was the hand of Heaven, stretch'd forth,
Most righteously. For when was mercy shown,
To us or ours, by them? To say no more,
Our sisters, wives, and daughters, with their cheeks
Burning at shames, which, thought of, drives us mad,
Cried for atonement not one tittle short
Of that which we exacted! Be prepared.
Palermo marches on Messina. Not
A minute but she's nearer, by the strides
Impatient vengeance takes, with first success,
Flush'd and invigorated! You are look'd for,
As soul and limb of the enterprise. Beware,
The fire you wish to blaze, you put not out,
By damping it. For me, my sword abstains
From nothing that owns kindred with the blood
Whose pestilent poison, worse than pestilence,
Has cursed my native land! Look to yourself,
Fernando! [Rushes out.]
Pro.
By that name they call my son!
Is he devoted? Friend!—No! Let me think!
No; better I remove him from the rage
I might in vain attempt to mitigate;
They shall depart together. Who goes there?
Francisco?
Enter Francisco [a Sailor].
Fran.
Yes.
Pro.
You keep your time. Where lies
The boat?
Fran.
In the shade of yonder jutting rock
On which the moonbeam strikes.
Pro.
'Tis well. When those,
With whom I mean to freight her, shall arrive,
I'll summon you; when they are safe bestow'd,
Pull for the fleet, right to the Admiral's ship.
Away and watch. [Francisco goes.]
Nature forebodes a shock.
She is not herself, but motionless and still,
Like one that holds his breath with strong suspense!
Etna seems dead, as though her fires were out.
At morn, I watch'd her; and, again, at noon;
At sunset, last; I could not see a reek;
No, not so much as the light gauzy wreath
Shook from the veil which vaporous night hath left,
And morning, lifting with his glowing hand,
Melts, as he touches, into viewless air!
Charybdis holds her peace and Scylla sleeps!
The welkin does not stir! A heaviness,
Stillness, and silence, all unwonted, and
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As on the eve of some dread prodigy!
Fernando and Isoline enter.
Fern.
Who is there?
Pro.
A friend.
Fern.
My father?
Pro.
Yes, my son.
You are come in time. Methinks not yet the moon
Has topp'd the hill of night. How is it, lady?
You seem to droop?
Iso.
'Tis very sultry, sir.
I never felt the like. There's not a breath.
Pro.
No; not a breath, indeed. 'Tis a deep calm.
Wilt trust me, lady, as a friend?
Iso.
I will!
As better than a friend—a father, sir—
The father of my husband!—By that title
In a brief hour almost as much endear'd
As he who call'd me daughter all my life!
Pro.
A most sweet nature! Slaughter shall not force
The house of such a heart. Fernando!
Fern.
Sir?
Pro.
Anon a storm will burst upon Messina
More fierce than ever yet the elements
In wildest fury bred. Do you see a cloud?
Fern.
No.
Pro.
Understand me, then.
Fern.
I understand you!
Pro.
It brings no squall, no bolt, yon fleet need fear.
There you shall house to-night—your bride as well.
Fern.
My father—
Pro.
Peace!—Believe I love you, lady;
Not that I say so, but that I will show you
The deeds of love. Behoves it, though, at present,
You give me credit on my word alone,
And largely, too.
Iso.
To what amount you will.
Provided, should you fail—and that, I am sure,
Would be the shame of fortune and not yours,—
My losses only light upon myself!
Pro.
'Tis frankly answer'd. Frankly, then, thus far
Give me your confidence on trust, alone,
To change, to-night, your lodging for a berth
On board a barque that rides in yonder fleet,
Whereof the chief bears me a brother's love,
Which I, alike, return. Hard by, there waits
A boat, and he that holds your hand e'en now,
And has most right to it of all the world,
Shall go along with you.
Fern.
O father, thanks!
Iso.
For what, dear husband? Those were hearty thanks!
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What heavy debt do you and I incur
By sleeping, love, on board yon fleet to-night,
That you acknowledge it so largely?
Fern.
Nay!
Question not, sweet! but come!
Iso.
Nay; by your leave,
I'll think, a little, first. The thanks you pay
Mind me of thanks which I myself do owe
And ought to pay as well as you.—Did we lodge
With a mere friend—a friend of every day—
The common'st friend—we would not leave his house
Without “Good-bye and thank you.” I have lived
With a good friend of mine for twenty years—
One that still made me feel his house my own;
As welcome to it every bit as much
As he himself!—Should I treat such a friend
Worse than I would a friend of every day?
No, love.—I'll go.—But you and I must bid
“Good-bye and thank you” to my father first.
Pro.
[Aside.]
That note now jars the tune that late ran sweet!
Iso.
What is't offends your father, that he frowns
And moves with step disturb'd? What angers him?
I see! I see!—I must return to mine.
Fern.
It may not be!
Iso.
Nay, by your leave, it must!
And say it must, dear love! Oh, make me not
The thing I would not be—a froward wife.
'Tis time enough for that—if e'er that come,
Which, I'll be bound, 'twill never, with my will.
I would not for a thousand thousand worlds
Gainsay you, any time, and chiefly now,
Just when I have paid my freedom down for you.
Oh, be a gentle master to me, love!
Don't overtask me, lest the duty, which
'Twere sweetness to discharge, grows weariness,
And I should cast the heavy burden down
I lack the strength to bear.
Fern.
This once be ruled!
Only this once, and I'll obey you, love,
For all my life to come! Give you command,
And try to overtask me, if you will,
And see if I complain—much less, rebel.
Bear with me only now!
Iso.
I will not, love,
Unless I know the reason; and when known,
Approve of it! Husband, deal fair with me.
Is't fit I do the thing my soul condemns?
How may it fare with you? Is she a wife
Who, as a daughter, fails? She cannot be!
Duty is uniform where duty is,
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Reverse of fortune, lady, changes friends;
It turns them into strangers. What I am
I have not always been!
Julia.
Could I not name you?
Clif.
If your disdain for one, perhaps too bold
When hollow fortune call'd him favourite,—
Now by her fickleness perforce reduced
To play an humbler part, would suffer you—
Julia.
I might?
Clif.
You might!
Julia.
Oh, Clifford! is it you?
Clif.
Your answer to my lord.
[Gives the letter.
Julia.
Your lord!
[Mechanically taking it.
Clif.
Wilt write it?
Or, will it please you send a verbal one?
I'll bear it faithfully.
Julia.
You'll bear it?
Clif.
Madam,
Your pardon, but my haste is somewhat urgent.
My lord's impatient, and to use despatch
Were his repeated orders.
Julia.
Orders? Well,
I'll read the letter, sir. 'Tis right you mind
His lordship's orders. They are paramount!
Nothing should supersede them!—stand beside them!
They merit all your care, and have it! Fit,
Most fit they should! Give me the letter, sir.
Clif.
You have it, madam.
Julia.
So! How poor a thing
I look! so lost, while he is all himself!
Have I no pride?
[She rings, the Servant enters.
Paper, and pen, and ink!
If he can freeze, 'tis time that I grow cold!
I'll read the letter.
[Opens it, and holds it as about to read it.
Mind his orders! So!
Quickly he fits his habits to his fortunes!
He serves my lord with all his will! His heart's
In his vocation. So! Is this the letter?
'Tis upside down—and here I'm poring on't!
Most fit I let him see me play the fool!
Shame. Let me be myself!
[A Servant enters with materials for writing.
A table, sir,
And chair.
[The Servant brings a table and chair, and goes out. She sits awhile, vacantly gazing on the letter—then looks at Clifford.
How plainly shows his humble suit!
It fits not him that wears it! I have wrong'd him!
He can't be happy—does not look it!—is not.
That eye which reads the ground is argument
274
And I am sitting!
[Rises, takes a chair, and approaches Clifford.
Pray you take a chair.
[He bows, as acknowledging and declining the honour. She looks at him awhile.
Clifford, why don't you speak to me?
[She weeps.
Clif.
I trust
You're happy.
Julia.
Happy! Very, very happy!
You see I weep, I am so happy! Tears
Are signs, you know, of nought but happiness!
When first I saw you, little did I look
To be so happy!—Clifford!
Clif.
Madam?
Julia.
Madam!
I call thee Clifford, and thou call'st me madam!
Clif.
Such the address my duty stints me to.
Thou art the wife elect of a proud earl,
Whose humble secretary, now, am I.
Julia.
Most right! I had forgot! I thank you, sir,
For so reminding me; and give you joy,
That what, I see, had been a burthen to you,
Is fairly off your hands.
Clif.
A burthen to me!
Mean you yourself? Are you that burthen, Julia?
Say that the sun 's a burthen to the earth!
Say that the blood 's burthen to the heart!
Say health 's a burthen, peace, contentment, joy,
Fame, riches, honours! everything that man
Desires, and gives the name of blessing to!—
E'en such a burthen, Julia were to me,
Had fortune let me wear her.
Julia.
[Aside.]
On the brink
Of what a precipice I'm standing! Back,
Back! while the faculty remains to do't!
A minute longer, not the whirlpool's self
More sure to suck me down! One effort! There!
[She returns to her seat, recovers her self-possession, takes up the letter, and reads.
To wed to-morrow night! Wed whom? A man
Whom I can never love! I should before
Have thought of that! To-morrow night! This hour
To-morrow! How I tremble! Happy bands
To which my heart such freezing welcome gives,
As sends an ague through me! At what means
Will not the desperate snatch! What's honour's price?
Nor friends, nor lovers,—no, nor life itself!
Clifford! This moment leave me!
[Clifford retires up the stage out of Julia's sight.
Is he gone!
O docile lover! Do his mistress' wish
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Than honesty with fraud. Am I not right?
Am I the guardian of your honour, love?
Ay, before any one!—before yourself!
Then, by myself, must I approve the trust,
And make fidelity my law in all things.
I'll see my father ere I seek yon fleet,
Or know the reason why I must not see him,
And find that reason right.
Pro.
Yet more and more
It turns to discords!—Girl! your husband's life
Depends on your obeying him.
Iso.
Does mine?
Pro.
Yes.
Iso.
And my father's, too?—I'll answer—No!
I comprehend. Some storm that's gathering
Around my father, you would save me from;
And, to that end, would lead me to forsake him.
Forsake my father!—Sir, are you a father
To counsel so a child? Is this the ruin
You told me of, and would have left me to,
Fernando?—but you did not leave me!—No!—
You were mine own love still! Sir, have you rule
Over the wind that brings this thunder-cloud,
Divert it! Think how merciful is Heaven,
And copy it! My father is your foe,
But spare him—I spared you!
Pro.
I would return
Your bounty, would you let me.
Iso.
Could I let you,
On terms like yours, I were unworthy of it!
Plead for my father! Will you not, Fernando?
Do it!—He was a father, love, to you!
Pro.
Do it, and think upon your mother, boy!
Are you a man?—The boat lies round the rock;
There stands your wife; destruction is at hand.
Seize her and snatch her from it!
Iso.
If he dares!
'Twould make me hate him!—Yes, Fernando—love
Can turn to e'en as opposite a thing
As hate!—ay, in a moment!—Do not try it!
Pro.
Listen, and learn the fate that threatens you,
And I would save you from! The men that were
But yesterday the spaniels of the French,
To-day are bloodhounds that eat up their masters.
Palermo knows it! Of thy country, all,
That late drew breath in her, have proved it—Man
Woman, and Child! The rule is Massacre!
And now the dogs, mad with the game of blood,
Hark hither to repeat it.—There they are!
Iso.
Where?
Pro.
Don't you hear?
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I do!—a distant sound.
Pro.
It is their yelping as they speed along
On foam with haste and fury. Save your wife!
Iso.
Fernando, touch your wife and she's a corpse!
Make but the offer and she slays herself!
Which is the way?—Point out the way to me—
The way to my father!—Sirs, which is the way?
Pro.
They'll intercept you ere you reach the town!
Iso.
Were it the lava that came boiling on,
I'd cross it to my father!
Pro.
You forget
Your husband!
Iso.
He is safe—my father not:
I now am wife to danger!
Fern.
Isoline!
Iso.
Ha!—Yes!—There 'tis!—That light—O blessed light!
Blest though 'tis shining from a tomb!—I greet it
As never did I yet the rising sun.
[Rushes out.
Pro.
[Stopping Fernando.]
Whither, my boy?
Fern.
Father, to bring her back,
Or share her fate!
Pro.
Fernando!
Fern.
Better die
Than live—and, honour dead—nay, manhood dead—
Still bear thy name, living of all mankind
The execration! Farewell, father!
Pro.
Stop!
Embrace me ere you go!
Fern.
[Struggling with Procida.]
Nay, father!
Pro.
Nay,
But I will hold thee, boy!
Fern.
She vanishes!
I have lost sight of her!—O, loose thy hold!
Pro.
I cannot part with thee!
Fern.
She will escape me!
Pro.
What! is my strength gone from me?—Is my child
Stronger than I?—Can I believe I have dwindled
While he has grown to brawn!
Fern.
[Bursting away.]
Farewell!
Pro.
He is gone!
And I am desolate in the world again!
O, the fine nature, there, that's run to waste!
Hark!—They are near the town.—Why, Procida,
Where is thy cause?—that which was wife, son, all
On earth most dear to thee? Who roused the spirit
That leads the march of death in progress, now?
Thou!—Where thy post then?—Here, or at its head,
Directing it? Forgive me, Sicily,
Forgive me, martyr-king!—and, Liberty,
Disown me not; I ever was thy son!
Away the private care! The public cause
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And now give up again! Quail, Tyranny!
Up, Freedom!—Claim your rights—and have them, too!
[Goes off.
| John of Procida ; Or, The Bridals of Messina | |