 | The Virgin Widow ; or, A Sicilian Summer |  |
Scene V.
—The Castle of Malespina.—Fiordeliza and Mariana.Fiordeliza.
Not if he came back to you weeping, and
went on his knees to be forgiven?
Mariana.
No, my Lady; if Giovanni were to do so by
me, I should say, once gone and gone for ever.
Fiordeliza.
'Twere to be of a most unchristian spirit, if
he were truly penitent and you should not forgive him.
Mariana.
I would forgive him: but I would kill him
first.
Fiordeliza.
That were indeed to temper justice with
mercy; only the justice should be sharp and the mercy
something tardy. Come, Mariana; you are in the bud
still,—green and hard. I remember, I, too, when I was
young ...
Mariana.
Why, my Lady, eighteen is not old.
Fiordeliza.
When I was young I was of your way of
thinking; I used to say to myself, You and I, my good
Fiordeliza, will not trouble our hearts about mankind,
unless they should cling to us and cleave to us and lick
the dust from our feet: but change grows out of time as
a plant grows out of the earth, and in a year or two we
are no more like what we were than the blade is like the
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seed. Adversity tames us, Mariana, as winter tames the
birds. Do I look pale and sick?
Mariana.
No, my Lady; a little pale, it may be, but
not sick.
Fiordeliza.
That is not as it should be; the Conjurer
will not believe me, and he will be here anon. Shut out
the light a little. Now go fetch me my scarf, to muffle
me up.
I'm but the mimic of my former self,
And wretchedly I do the imitation!
Ruggiero! oh Ruggiero! bitterer tears
Than tenderer women weep I weep for thee;
And thou, with all thine insight, never saw'st
Their source, it lies so secret and so deep.
Oh, much I wrong'd thee! many a time and oft
I wounded thee through petulance and pride,
And love's delight in sporting with its prey,
And wayward wilfulness; but though a child
In frowardness and mischief, I was still
A woman in my love—and, oh, compare
Man's love with that, and see how thin the thread,
How frail the tissue! Me nor wounds nor slights,
Insults nor injuries, nor life nor death,
Could e'er have sunder'd. Yes, 'tis gone, 'tis past,—
Past and he knows not and will never know
What treasures of the mine were hidden beneath
The wild-flowers and the weeds! For ever gone!
Methinks that I could weep no less for him
Than for myself, that he should lose my love,
It is so great and deep. But what cares he?
He has Lisana's. Had he been but cold
I could have borne it—but so false, so false!
And wretchedly I do the imitation!
Ruggiero! oh Ruggiero! bitterer tears
Than tenderer women weep I weep for thee;
And thou, with all thine insight, never saw'st
Their source, it lies so secret and so deep.
Oh, much I wrong'd thee! many a time and oft
I wounded thee through petulance and pride,
And love's delight in sporting with its prey,
And wayward wilfulness; but though a child
In frowardness and mischief, I was still
A woman in my love—and, oh, compare
Man's love with that, and see how thin the thread,
How frail the tissue! Me nor wounds nor slights,
Insults nor injuries, nor life nor death,
Could e'er have sunder'd. Yes, 'tis gone, 'tis past,—
Past and he knows not and will never know
What treasures of the mine were hidden beneath
The wild-flowers and the weeds! For ever gone!
Methinks that I could weep no less for him
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It is so great and deep. But what cares he?
He has Lisana's. Had he been but cold
I could have borne it—but so false, so false!
Re-enter Mariana.
Mariana.
The Conjurer has come.
Fiordeliza.
Oh, has he? Here—
Look—wrap this round me; so,—now bring him in.
[Exit Mariana.
If he should prove a soothsayer indeed
He'll draw the curtain from this mystery
And tell me both what present harbour holds
Ruggiero, and what fate the future breeds
For him and me. I trust it is no sin
Seeking to soothsayers in such straits as mine;
But if it be, I must. Yet I shall blush
To question him. I'll turn away my face
And seem to be, what verily I believe
I shall be soon, by mortal sickness seized.
Then, after, I'll revive.
[Lies down on a Couch.
Enter Ruggiero.
Ruggiero.
Softly, she sleeps.
Oh, blessed Sleep! what art can vie with thine
In healing of the sick! oh, pious Sleep,
Sister of mercy! nurse her back to health.
She stirs! Have I awaken'd her?
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Some spell
Of wondrous potency he mutters now;
For at his voice there comes a gushing up
Of twenty bubbling springs that fill my breast
With joys of other days.—Sir, if your art
Can track diseases to their caves, I pray you
Pronounce of mine, and whether in the mind
It kennels or the body; for the print
Might either way incline me.
Ruggiero.
Fiordeliza!
Fiordeliza.
Who calls me? Now I know that I am mad.
What voice is that?
Ruggiero.
The voice of one who once
Could please you, and though that may no more be,
Would still bestead you.
Fiordeliza.
'Tis his voice! Ruggiero!
Ruggiero.
Forgive me, Fiordeliza, if the charm
Of some deceitful hours too quickly past,
Too slowly parted with, misled my steps
To haunt your whereabout. Forgive me, you;
I, should I minister to your present need,
Would then forgive myself. What ails you?
Fiordeliza.
Me?
A headache—nothing—nothing you can cure.
You minister to me! I thank you,—no:
If need were I could die; but, praised be God,
I am not in extremity. A quip
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For all that ails me.
Ruggiero.
Then the word was false
They brought?
Fiordeliza.
'Twas falser than the father of lies
If it cried “help” to you.
Ruggiero.
No need of this;
Of vehement disavowal there's no need
To undeceive me had I thought you kind.
I have but to recall the past.
Fiordeliza.
What past?
Speak out your quarrel with the past; and I
Will tell you of my quarrel with the present.
I was kind once unless my memory errs,
And if I seem'd to change without a cause
What since has follow'd shows that cause enough
There might have been; for aught I know, there was.
How read you then the history of the past
To make me seem too harsh?
Ruggiero.
How read I it?
I read it but as they that run may read;
A tale of no uncustomary kind:
The love whose dawn beheld its earliest glow
Reflected, as it rose to perfect day
Saw the bright colouring of the vaporous cloud
Grow pale and disappear; my springing love,
So long as it was pleasant, light, and free,
Was prosperous; but it pass'd too soon to passion;
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I could not match it with your sportive moods
'Till garlands should be conjured into chains;
I could not lightly agitate and fan
The airier motions of an amorous fancy,
And by a skill in blowing hot and cold
And changeful dalliance, quicken you with doubts,
And keep you in the dark till you should kindle.
I was not ignorant that arts like these
Avail, when bare simplicity of love
Falls flat; but be they strong or weak, these means
Were none of mine; and though my heart should break,
(As humbly I believe it will not,) still
More willingly would I suffer by such arts
Than practise them.
Fiordeliza.
Have I then practised arts?
One art I know,—to judge men by their acts
And not their seemings. I should not be loth
Some faults to own, Ruggiero, did I know
That he to whom I own'd them would own his;
But there should be a justice in confession;
Yours is the greater fault; confess you first.
Ruggiero.
Most fully, frankly, freely, from the heart
Will I pour out confessions; I am proud,
Inflexible, undutiful, self-will'd,
In anger violent, of a moody mind,
And latterly morose; what further? sad,
Severe, vindictive.
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How confession loves
To fight with shadows whilst the substance flies;
You have not said that in a treacherous hour
You stain'd another's honour and your own.
Ruggiero.
That which I have not said I have not done.
Fiordeliza.
Where is Lisana?
Ruggiero.
Wheresoe'er she be
Her innocence is with her.
Fiordeliza.
But where is she?
Ruggiero.
Secrets that are mine own you may command;
This is another's.
Fiordeliza.
You refuse to tell.
Ruggiero.
It is but for a season I refuse;
I may not tell you till St. Michael's Eve;
But then I may.
Fiordeliza.
Gramercy for the boon!
Seek, Sir, henceforth the love of those you trust
And never more seek mine. Sir, fare you well!
Excuse the blunder which beguiled you hither;
And hie you, if conveniently you can,
To some more distant spot than whence you came.
Ruggiero.
To you and to your vicinage, farewell!
The refuge that is most remote is best:
A prison at Palermo not the worst.
[Exit.
Fiordeliza.
A prison! And the King, as some believe,
Is greedy for his life. Alas! alas!
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And nowhere else perchance could he be safe;
And I have driven him thence, and he will rush ...
Oh, look! I see his blood upon my hands!
Come back, Ruggiero,—dear, beloved Ruggiero!
Return—return—I knew not what I said—
Come back to me—forgive me—oh, come back!
[Exit.
Enter Fra Martino and Girolamo.
Fra Martino.
Where is the Lady Fiordeliza? These
letters, Girolamo, bring us the fatal tidings which we
have so long expected. Your honoured master died at
Jerusalem that very hour that we were sadly celebrating
his birthday here at Malespina.
Girolamo.
Alas! we seemed to know it then, and the
letters that tell of it now might be thought but to certify
what was seen darkly before.
Fra Martino.
The Chamberlain writes me that the
Countess must repair to Palermo with all convenient
speed, for certain ceremonies which the law enjoins. But
where is the Lady Fiordeliza? She will be of more
comfort to my Lady than I.
Enter Mariana.
Mariana.
Oh piteous spectacle! oh rogues and slaves!
That I should live to see it!
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Mariana!
Mariana.
Oh, shame upon you! Shame! to stand like stocks
And see him taken! Do you hear her shrieks?
She'll die of this—I know she will—oh shame!
There! hark! she shrieks again!
Fra Martino.
Who shrieks? be calm;
Say what has happen'd?
Mariana.
They have seized the Count.
Fra Martino.
What Count?
Mariana.
His Lordship of Arona.
Fra Martino.
Where?
Mariana.
There—not a bowshot from the Castle gate—
Before my Lady's eyes.
Girolamo.
You say not so!
Where were my men?
Mariana.
Your men indeed! What men? You have no men;
Twenty bald heads I saw put out at windows,
And gouty feet went shuffling over floors;
But as to manhood, there is more in me
Than in a hundred of such mummies. Oh!
Had there been one stout-hearted wench to back me!
Fra Martino.
Run, Girolamo—send a summons round
To all the Count's retainers. Oh, those cries!
Go, take her to her chamber.—Is she there?
| The Virgin Widow ; or, A Sicilian Summer | |