University of Virginia Library

BOOK V.

SCENE I.

A Chapel surrounded by large yew trees, near the monastery of Salvator.
Graves covered with shrubs and flowers.
Enter Schidoni from the porch.
Schid.
Years fifty-three I've traversed this dull globe,
Yet never witness'd such a storm before. [Chimes strike the quarters.
Enter the Fisherman from the porch.

Where are the keys and harp?

Fisherman.

In the porch. (Aside.)
Where should they be? 'Twas well, signor, we got here before the rain began, or the storm had drowned us; as sure as little fishes bolt in the jolt.

Schid.
What said Theresa, when she read my note?

Fisherman.

Not a word, signor. She toddled up stairs, brought down the harp and keys; gave them to me with a shrug;—yes, signor, she shrugged up her shoulders thus; shut the door; and that without saying a word; as if she took me for a thief. Ill-mannered old harridan! I didn't loike it. My old Margery could have behaved better than that.

Schid.
Insolent jade! The covering, and the harp.— [Exit Fisherman.

Now for Romano, down the valley yonder.

Re-enter Fisherman with the harp, &c.
Fisherman.

There, signor; there they are. (Aside.)
I wonder what in the name of St. Dominic, he can want these things for.

Schid.
(aside.)
These keys; this harp:—I shall disguise my form;
Darken this face;—my mother could not know me!
What—pluck the flowers, and put them in thy pouch?
What is that for?—

Fisherman.

Why, signor, you must know, that I have a poor little boy and a nice little girl, lying quietly in our church-yard, side by side; and I was thinking as

how I would take these sprigs home with me, and throw them over their graves. I think they would loike it, poor little things; they would look so pretty. That's all, signor; nothing else; nothing else in the world, signor; nothing else.

Schid.
I'd give some ducats to be like this man,
Though he 's so poor.—The monks at matins: hark!
They chant like angels; and no doubt they are such.
Haste;—hie thee home: take this, and this; no parley.
Give my regards to Margery. Five ducats.

Fisherman.

God bless thee, signor; and may thee never want a cot or a coat, a trout or a pout, a chick, a chidling, or a biddling. Aha—how my old Margery will wince! Aha—how my fish-dried old Margery will wince! She'll throw another old petticoat into the water; I warrant her.

[Exit.
Schid.
I must away. Kind walls, farewell;—farewell!
Never give shelter to a man again,
That hates all bishops, popes, and saints, as I do.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Interior of the Chapel.
Several Monks kneeling in the oratories; other Monks, passing in procession; two going before, scattering incense.

HYMN :—MATINS.

Now the silent stars, descending,
Sink behind the western wave,
We and all the world are wending
To the soft and silent grave.
Holy Virgin, save,—oh save!
Save our hearts and souls from falling;
Take our thanks for hopes to-day;
May the morning's worldly calling,
Speed us on our heavenly way.
Holy Virgin,—pray, oh pray
At night, at morn, at noon of day,
Oh may thy mercy lead, and smooth the heavenly way!
[Exeunt Monks; chanting as they move.
[Verger puts out all the lights, except those on each side the crucifix. Exit.
Enter Romano, bare-foot, bearing a tablet.
Rom.
[Takes up the hour-glass.

[Kneels beside the tomb.
[The Abbot issues from the chancel; and the Monks from the oratories.
Abbot.
Some way-worn pilgrim; barefoot and forlorn.
Respect his holy meditation;—Come.

[Exeunt Monks; the Abbot retires to the chancel.
Rom.
(rising.)
Now all is silence: hush'd is every sound.
Oh thou fair angel—may this tablet hang
A lasting monument of thy Julio's love!

[Hangs the tablet on one of the pillars.

IN. CŒLO. FRANCESCA. AMOR. ET. TRANQUILLITAS.

Enter a Monk, bearing a taper.
Rom.
Pater, O pater: miserere mei.

Monk.
Frater!—Deus noster refugium.

Rom.
In Deo speravi.
Could I hold converse with the reverend abbot?

Monk.
Behold him, brother, leaning on a tomb.

Rom.
Thanks, holy father. (advancing.)
Oh the fatal sight!
Whom do I see? the excellent Father Jerome,
Once the king's priest?

Monk.
Now Abbot of Salvator.

[Exit up the chancel.
Rom.
Oh the good virgin! 'tis the reverend priest,
That gave me all I valued upon earth.
He married us; anointed us; and—wept!
He kiss'd our cheeks, and bade us live in peace,
In hope, charity, sanctity, and love.
How shall I meet him? He believes me guilty.
Yes—he believes I slew the saint, he gave me,
E'en in the sanctity of sleep. He'll spurn me.
Yet is he good, considerate, and kind,
To all men living. I will throw myself
Down at his feet, all penitent: for the crime
Of having meditated self-destruction,
Sits like a life-consumer on my soul,
And wears my heart with agony away.
Most holy Abbot!—but I dare not go.
'Tis but to court what most would wound my soul;
A good man's scorn. I will not. Yet as love
To all mankind is written on his forehead,
Perchance some portion is reserved for me.

[Rushes forward, and throws himself at his feet.
Abbot.
Peace, my good brother: why these sobs and tears?
Lean on the mercy of thy God;—thy feet
Shall yet be wash'd; thy wounds shall yet be heal'd;
Thy rags all purple; and thy spots like snow.

Rom.
Hail, holy father:—pardon, reverend abbot.
These hands of thine,—I know thee well!—bestowed
A royal virgin to mine arms.

Abbot.
Romano?
Julio Romano? Touch me not;—avaunt!
Thy hands and heart are stain'd with innocent blood;
The pure and spotless,—nay, th'angelic,—blood
Of a sweet saint, who loved thee. Ay—as if
Thou hadst been Raphael, sent express from heaven,
To guide her footsteps to th'empyreal throne.
Avaunt! Begone,—I say, begone,—begone.

Rom.
Hear me; nay, hear me, holy father;—hear me!
Heaven holds me innocent of that. But I
Yet have a crime, I burthen to confess.
Francesca dead,—and I—charged of her murder;
Robb'd of my child;—my aged mother struck
With a dumb palsy;—and my father dying
In laughing madness:—nay, respect these tears!
Ruin'd in fame, an outcast from mankind,
Forlorn, disconsolate, and desolate,
Urged too, to madness, by a horrid dream:
Last night, a friend—heaven bless him for his care!
Saw, watch'd, and saved me from myself; or I
Had thrown this worthless frame into the flood,
And never more been heard of.—Holy abbot!
All doubts dismiss of every crime but this;
And tell me truly; tell me, excellent father,
Can the same angel, that received Francesca,
Open the gates of Paradise to me?

Abbot.
The crime,—committed,—had been past all pardon.
At least, beyond an abbot's intercession.
But heaven extends benevolence to all,
Who seek by deep repentance.

Rom.
Reverend father!
Thou hast pour'd balm and balsam on my soul.
Thou givest me hope:—I could not ask for more.

Abbot.
Fly; fly. A price is set upon thy head.
Tempt heaven no farther. Rise, my son:—farewell.
Guilty or not;—my prayers!—since thy hand
I well remember,—Heaven remembers too,—
Was, in the zenith of thy fortune, ever
Free, as the flowers of summer to the bee,
To all, whom fortune frown'd on, round thy garden.

Rom.
Father,—thou bring'st such drops into mine eyes—

Abbot.
I could weep, too:—but hence;—I charge thee—hence.
How could I bear to see thy misery,
Wert thou ta'en hence; and from these sacred walls,
Led,—oh the miserable thought! and led
To close life's pilgrimage on a public scaffold?
Alas!—farewell:—I charge thee, fly: I could—
I could not bear to witness it.

Rom.
Accept
Sighs, tears, and silence, for my thanks. Farewell.

[Exit; making many solemn reverences.
Abbot.
Poor man! my soul weeps drops of blood to see,
How guilt, or sorrow, has bewilder'd him;
Whiten'd his locks; and turn'd his manly cheek
Almost to wither'd age. The ways of heaven
Are silent, secret, awful and mysterious;
Yet as all had their origin in love,
So does all vegetate and end in—mercy.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

Interior court of the castle.
Enter Fracastro from a cell, which he locks, and then offers the key to Sardo, who enters from the opposite side.
Fra.
Take you the key.

Sardo.
I scorn to be a gaoler.

Fra.
Take you the key: some good, perhaps, may come. Enter Marco.

Well;—hast thou found him?

Marco.
I have not.

Fra.
'Tis strange.
See ye where chamois quaff the mountain stream,
Beneath yon rugged Alpine arch?

Sardo.
I do.

Fra.
Thither he fled. I follow'd; till he came
Close to the ledge, from which, suspending, weeps
Yon silver'd birch; that like a wizard hangs,
Dipping its leaves within the rippling wave,
And dropping pearls before the lunar ray.
Near where those cygnets, with their mother, rest,
With beaks conceal'd beneath their downy wings.
There he lean'd long in meditation; lifted,
—If by his eyes and countenance I might judge—
In silent awe before the universe.
He stood, methought, like some majestic abbey;
When 'twixt two clouds of purple and vermeil,
The soften'd lustre of the solar beams
Glows o'er its time-worn fragments; and it stands
A venerable emblem of magnificence,
Chasten'd with beauty. Then a rustling wind
Past o'er the torrent; and I look'd; when lo—
A mist arose betwixt us, and he vanish'd.
Come—we must find him ere we sleep.

Sardo.
The lady!

Fra.
Which way?—I see:—her cheeks bedew'd with tears.
I promised I would lead her to the captive.
Bring me the fruit.

Sardo.
I shall return this moment.

[Exeunt Sardo and Marco.
Enter Lavinia.
Lav.
As thou dost love thy father, mother, sister,
Brother, and friend; oh lead me to Lorenzo:
And the good deed shall pave thy path to heaven.

Fra.
Lady;—nay, fear not; I'll perform my promise. Enter Sardo, with a basket of fruit.

Take these pomegranates: they may soothe his thirst.
Why dost thou tremble? none shall harm thee here,
While I live free, and can protect thee, lady.
Open the wicket of the cell, good Sardo.

Lav.
Angels of grace—Lorenzo! and in chains?
Horrid; most horrid! (Runs to him.)
Let me break these bonds;
These wretched, execrable, bonds; or perish.

Lor.
This is a joy, I never hoped to see,
On this side heav'n.

Lav.
Lorenzo; my Lorenzo!

Lor.
Nay, do not bathe my bosom with thy tears.
Fortune may yet blush deep for these deserts.
These arms may yet sustain thee; and our love—

Lav.
Can we not break these miserable bonds?
Let us both try.

[They endeavour to break them.
Lor.
In vain: 'tis all in vain.
Not thrice the compass of such strength as ours
Could break one link. So weak is honest strength,
Unarm'd, opposed to tyranny.

Sardo.
The signor!

Enter Romano.
Rom.
Nay, how is this? I little thought to find,
Fracastro traitor to his trust.

Fra.
No traitor;
Either to thee, or to myself. Nay more:
I'm no cameleon, to adopt all colours,
Worn by the object, nearest which I stand.
I am no Proteus to assume all shapes;
Nor can I change my humour with my interest:
Mean with the great; obsequious with the vicious;
Honest in nothing. I disdain such men!
Thou art my father,—for I have no other.
Therefore, I owe thee,—as my mother's brother,
Duty, obedience, reverence, and love.
But truth and justice are beyond all ties;
Even of father, mother, master, or—sovereign.
I shall be honest.—Sir! I think, thy fame,
—But let me speak it to thyself alone— [Draws him aside.

Calls on thee loudly to redeem this wrong.
You weep for wrongs; yet act the wrong thyself!
I marvel:—nay, I blush for thee:—with blushes,
Wrung from the depth and silence of a heart,
Which hates injustice, as it hates the devil.

Rom.
Why, this is honest; and I love thee: yet
Pause one short moment. Hast thou felt—? thou hast not—
A bleeding martyrdom through all thy nerves,
—Head, heart, and feet,—for nine revolting years?
Hast thou sow'd fame,—an honest fame,—and reap'd
Envy and treachery, ignominy, and scorn?

Fra.
(aside.)
Why have I lived to such an hour as this?

Rom.
Hast thou lost fortune?—that is nothing;—one,
In whom life centred? Hast thou lost a daughter?
A sire thou hast lost, and a mother too;
Not as I mine!—My mother was struck dumb:
She died in horror; and my father fell,
In laughing madness, on Francesca's corse.

Fra.
(aside.)
I've struck the strings too harshly.

Rom.
When thou hast
Endured all these, for nine horrific years;
Judge me.—Behold me in my ruins!—See—
I stand like some torn fig-tree of the desert,
Shorn, shrivell'd, scorch'd; while sultry whirlwinds sweep
Along th'illuminated face of heaven,
Blasting the fertilizing strength of nature.
Was I not chain'd from head to foot? Behold—
Look at these wrists. When I behold these scars,
These miserable, blood-stain'd, scars;—I perish!
Tear but my sandals:—this will never heal.
Here was I wrung; here were the fetters lock'd;
Here was I pierced:—May vast volcanoes rise,
Flame o'er their roofs; and bury them in ashes
Sir, you are wrong,—I tell thee, thou art wrong,
To probe my wounds, and play upon me thus. [Turns suddenly to Lorenzo.

Wake, sir: no transports. Poison taints the lip
Of those, who drink before they ought. Awake!

Lav.
Wrongs have unsex'd me. Hear, thou man of blood;
Hear, whilst you may. That youth—should'st thou—!
The great Eternal will avenge his cause,
And heap more woes and ruin on thy head,
Than ever fell to one man's lot before.
What has he said? what wrong has he committed?
Let not thy passions tempt thee to a ruin,
Even more dreadful than thou know'st already.
No man acts wrong,—the mightiest monarch acts
Nothing, that's wrong, but soon repents the deed.
This hour, this awful, this horrific, hour,
Alone is thine. The next—Eternity!
And in that dread eternity, who knows
What woes, unheard of, may assail thee? Say—
What crime? what wrong? what injury? Not one!
Why then permit Revenge—the worst of passions—
Thus to disgrace and prey upon thee?—Shame!
Had he done that, which thou hast done thyself,
Thou could'st not;—nay,—what wrong has he committed?

Rom.
Did he not charge me with Francesca's murder,
With his own lips, and to my face? Deny?
The truth sits pallid on thy cheek; it speaks
In every movement:—He's condemn'd already.

Lav.
The guilt is not in saying that you did it;
But in your doing it. If you did it;—how
Came you to do it? 'Twas a deed most horrid!

Rom.
Who say, I did it? miscreants. A deed—
Then there's his father, his officious father,
Who took my judgment on himself;—'twas he,
That gave me to the myrmidons, who bound
These innocent hands. Could he—the monstrous thought!
Could he have struck the angel, that he loved?
At midnight too? when none can guard themselves!
Out, out—the charge, the ignominious charge,
Is scarce inferior to the deed itself.

Lav.
Dost thou condemn him for his father's fault?

Rom.
He is of Naples: guilt enough for any.
Have I not sworn? and shall I break an oath?

Lav.
Sworn what?

Rom.
To all the hated sons of Naples,
Bonds, stripes; nay—death.

Lav.
Oh frightful—frightful—frightful!

Rom.
Worse than condemn an innocent man unheard?

Lor.
(sarcastically.)
Innocent!

Rom.
Ay—innocent. Who dares—?

Lav.
Is the charge false then?

Rom.
False as heaven is true.
When a man stabs a hero, or a—woman!
This is the fatal, this the guilty, hand,
With which he perpetrates the deed:—the spots!
No doubt, thou'lt see the damning spots of murder.
Look at it;—judge.

Lav.
As white as snow.

Rom.
Not all,
Not all the waters of the Rhine or Danube,
Tigris, Euphrates, Ganges, Sinde, or Nile,
Congo or Zad: not e'en th'Atlantic waste,
That rolls its waters over continents,
Once the blest seats of empire, arts, and arms,
Could e'er have washed the bloody spots away,
Had I been guilty of a deed so foul,
So monstrous, and so terrible.

Lav.
Thou'rt wrong'd!
I feel as certain thou art innocent,
As if I were some messenger from heaven,
Sent to unlock the secrets of thy soul.
Thy manner proves it; and thy countenance
Wears a pure impress, that's as free from guilt,
As babes from treason.

Rom.
He is free. Those words—
Fly, fly; release him from his bonds. No thanks:
Stay not to thank me. Lead her to him, Sardo.

Fra.
Give her the key. Unlock the chains thyself.
This is the way:—observe, 'tis thus:—now fly,
And drink soft rapture from thy lover's eye.

Rom.
(to Fracastro.)
The name of heaven's pure first-born, Innocence,
Sent such a stream of rapture to my heart,
I could have hail'd her for St. Agnes; knelt;
And wept in ecstasy. Fracastro,—Raphael,
(For thou hast been a Raphael to my soul;)
I've been so torn, so lacerated, scorch'd,
By evil words,—those daggers of the tongue,
Which pierce more deeply than the scimetar—
That I have sometimes,—ay, full often,—doubted
E'en the sure evidence of my own self-knowledge;
And felt, I must be, what the world so long,
So loudly, has proclaim'd. Come hither: say—
Can Scythian winters wed Cashmerian suns?
Or fuschias vermeil 'neath the vast monsoon?
Can time strew laurels o'er the grave of guilt?
Or love shed raptures o'er the couch of scorn?
Yet may the wormwood of a friend's rebuke
Prove sweet,—nay sweeter,—than th'Hyblean hive.
Touch but this hand; my heart with pride shall glow.

Fra.
Now admiration, reverence, and love
Again command my soul. I thought thee wrong:
And,—to speak truth with reverence,—I bled,
To see thee wrong thy noble nature so.
That gave a courage to my pity.—Sire!
Pardon my fault: I'm all submission now.
See, where they come: bliss lightening in each face.

[Goes towards Lorenzo and Lavinia; takes them by the hand, and leads them to Romano.
Rom.
Kneel not, I charge. Rise instantly: 'tis I—
I ought to bend, to yield, and sue for pardon.
I ought to kneel. I've wrong'd ye both. We sin
Beyond the common measure of a crime,
When we confound the guiltless with the guilty.
Give me thy hand, sweet lady; yours, Lorenzo:
May ye be happy in each other's love.
Good Sardo,—oh the luxury of this deed!—
Lead them within; and set before them all
The fruits, we have; and do not choose, but speak
In honest praise of that delicious wine,
Lacrymæ Christi. All Anacreon wrote,
In praise of Bacchus, will be found in that.

[Exeunt Lorenzo and Lavinia, with Sardo.
Fra.
A blind old man! Fontano;—or my fancy
Rules o'er my judgment.

Rom.
Thou art right:—'tis he.
Alas—how changed from him, who once, like Theseus,
Bore on his brow the roseate tint of youth,
And tower'd, like Ajax, more a god than man.
Let us go round, and meet him at the portal.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

Platform before the portal of the Castle; with which it is connected by a draw-bridge.
In the distance stands the keep, presenting a dark, shattered, aspect, as struck by lightning. Several oak

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and sicamore trees exhibit the same appearance; while, over and along the moat, is a long line of weeping willows, mingled with mulberries and mountain ash, pines, olive and cork trees.
Enter Lepardo, leading Fontano and Floranthe; followed by the King and Vercelli, disguised as Pilgrims, and bearing pastoral staffs.
Lep.
This is the spot. Remain ye here:—I will
Return this instant. Royal sir, forgive
The poverty of the greeting; since 'tis you
Put the command upon me. I'll return
Within a moment, if the signor's here.

[Exit into the castle.
King
(to Vercelli).
Wave thy hand gently.

Ver.
Sire,—the army answers.

King.
Safe then; let him be guilty as he may.

Flor.
(aside.)
I shall not now assume the owl,
For them to take me for a fool.
No; I shall take another guise;
And then, perhaps, they'll take me to be wise.

Enter Lepardo from the castle, followed by Romano and Fracastro.
Rom.
Hail, noble signor; welcome to these walls.
And you, most reverend palmers, hail;—all hail!
Ye found him in the wilderness, I'm told,
And undertook to guide his steps to Venice.
For that my thanks, as well as his. 'Tis many,
Ay, many a year,—since I have seen thee, signor.
Nine, ten, eleven;—yet I should have known
Thy form and countenance, seen thee where I might.
Alas! what crimes have we committed, sire,
That we should be thus martyrdized? What deed,
Just, generous, noble, has Schidoni done,
That he should revel in the power to make
This earth a worthless wilderness to us?

Fon.
The storm is temper'd to the guiltless head!

King.
Hence the deep sighs and sorrows of to-day
Should act as signs of comfort for the morrow.

Rom.
(aside.)
Then I'm more guilty, than I thought I was.

Flor.
(aside.)
Now I shall show them, I'm a fool no longer.

Fra.
The boy, I vow, who ran away last night.

Flo.

Rom.
A fool, a fool; I took him for a fool!

Flo.
Sweet, sweet, it is;—but far more sweet,
For children, sires, and friends, to meet;
When Fate has will'd an absence dread,
Or each believes the other dead.

Fra.
Nay, we are brothers, if thou art a poet.
Let us shake hands. Too delicate for a boy!
Dig, my young master; harrow, or keep sheep.
You'll gain no credit for such hands as those.

Flo.

Fra.
I must confess, I took thee for a fool.

Flo.
The spacious world is full of wonders. If
The wise turn fools, why may not fools turn wise?
Nay, most men's wisdom, I have heard, is nought,
But folly drest up to a worldling's liking.

Fra.
Well—I confess, I took thee for a fool!
(To Romano)
One word with thee, sir. Dost thou know—? the lady—

Rom.
Well; what of her?

Fra.
The daughter of Fontano!

Rom.
Nay now, thou wear'st the motley coat thyself.

Fra.
If she herself knows who her father is,
She is his daughter;—for she told me so.

Rom.
(to Fontano.)
Signor, with me. Come; follow; I will show thee,
What will more deeply captivate thy soul,
Than hope can indicate. Good sirs, no parley:
But come at once. The oak, all sear'd and wither'd,
Bud shall as fresh, as when its towering branches
Show'd afar off the sovereign of the forest.
Lilies shall spring, where hemlock once shed poison;
And where old ravens croak'd, young nightingales shall sing.
Thy daughter—come; I'll lead thee to her; come

Fon.
A dream;—a dream!

Rom.
Reality. Come on.
I'd give the universe to be as thou art;
Blind; ay, and lame, and indigent, and scorn'd;
The very refuse of the world; could I,
As thou wilt soon, behold a daughter's form,
And drink paternal rapture from her lips.
Nay, not one word;—the pilgrims will excuse thee.

[Exeunt Romano, Fontano, &c. &c.
King.
(to Vercelli.)
The fair Lavinia in a haunt like this?
What can this mean? I hope no treason lurks
Beneath a mask of courtesy. Yet truth
Sat on his lips, or Nature is delusive.
Come; let us trust: true confidence is Royal.
Staffs, too, of pilgrims must command some reverence.
Should it prove true, We shall rejoice as much,
As if Rome, Piedmont, Tuscany, and Venice,
All, were united to the throne of Naples.

[Exeunt.