 | The Dramatic and Poetical Works of Joanna Baillie |  |
ACT III.
SCENE I.
An apartment in the castle.Enter Garcio and Ludovico, speaking as they enter.
Gar.
Ha! with a priest! conferring with a priest!
Have they been long together?
Lud.
Full an hour.
Gar.
And does she oft such ghostly counsel take?
Has she of late?
Lud.
My lord?
Gar.
O, nothing! nothing!
Stare not as if I meant to question thee:
I had no more to say. [Motioning him away.
[Exit Ludovico.
Alone.)
At such a time retired with her confessor!
What! hath her lord's return caused in her mind
Such sudden need of ghostly counsel?—Strange!
Something hath been amiss: if not in act,
She is, I fear, in will and fancy tainted.
Rovani enters behind him unperceived.
Rov.
Nay, pure or tainted, leave the fancy free.
Of her concerns who may cognizance take?
Although cowl'd priests beneath their jurisdiction
Pretend to hold her, be not thou so strict.
Gar.
Thou knowst, then, that my wife is with her priest.
Rov.
I knew it not.—She is a pious dame:
She seems—she is a very pious dame.
Gar.
Nay, speak thy mind! thou needst not hesitate.
We have been fellow-soldiers nine long years:
Thou ne'er wast wont to weigh thy words with me.
What dost thou think? There is some cause for this.
Rov.
Women are full of strange and fitful humours.
Gar.
Not so; it is not that.—Yet, were she false,
Methinks her shame-flush'd face would turn aside,
Nor look on me so oft and earnestly
As I have seen her gaze.—It cannot be!
In act she is not false.—But if her heart,
Where every kind and dear affection dwelt,—
If it be changed— stamping on the ground)
Some fiend hath been at work,—
Some cursed agent hath been tamp'ring with her.
[Pacing to and fro in violent agitation.
Rov.
Be not so wretched for a doubtful ill,
Which, if it be at all—
Gar.
A doubtful ill!
Oh, if my head but ached, or fev'rish sleep,
Or the more potent secret cause forced from me
One groan or sigh, what tones of kind alarm!
And the soft pressure of her gentle hand
In mute affliction, till I smiled again!
Here, on my bursting heart I feel it still,
Though cold and changed she be.
After a gloomy pause.)
Perhaps some awful and mysterious power
Within these fated precincts doth for me
Love to aversion turn.
Rov.
What dost thou mean by a mysterious power?
And but e'en now methought I heard thee name
A potent secret cause.—Thou hast been wont
Freely to make me sharer of thy thoughts—
Of all thy secret wishes.
Gar.
So I have:
Nought for thy good to hear or mine to utter,
Have I conceal'd from thee.—I hear a noise.
Rov.
No; I hear nothing.
Gar.
But my ear is quick;—
Too quick, perhaps, in fancying sounds that are not.
Rov.
Ay, thou art right: Sophera moved the latch.
Enter Sophera.
Gar.
to Sophera).
Com'st thou to tell me that the priest is gone?
Soph.
The countess did command me to inform you
She is not well, and begs that for the night
She may in solitude recruit her spirits.
She wishes you good night and peaceful sleep.
She bade me say, my lord, her malady
Is of no ardent kind that should alarm you;
But, as she hopes, will pass away ere morn. Aside to Rovani, while Garcio turns away in silence.)
He takes it deeply.
Rov.
aside to her).
No, faith! a soldier is too well inured
To disappointment; knowing not at daybreak
Whether his next night's slumber shall be had
On silken couch, by some fair princess fann'd,
Or on the cold damp earth, with dead men's bones
His wounded head to pillow. No, sweet maid!
We bear such evils lightly.
Soph.
'Tis well ye do; and so, brave sir, good night!
[Exit.
Gar.
returning to Rovani).
What thinkst thou of this message?
Rov.
I know not what to think.
Gar.
Thou dost! thou dost! for in thine eyes I read
A shameful thought, that must remain unutter'd.
Ruin, and shame, and misery come upon me!
Heav'n pours its vengeance on this cursed head!
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Nay, do not thus give way: be well assured
Ere thou give loose to passion.
Gar.
Assured! and how assured? What can I do?—
Become a calm inquisitor of shame?
Rov.
Restrain thyself, and go to thine apartment,
As if to pass the night. But, some hours later,
When all are gone to rest, steal softly forth
Into thy lady's chamber. There thou'lt see
If she indeed be sick, or if she hold
The vigil of a guilt-distracted mind.
Gar.
I like thy counsel well: I'll to my chamber.
Good night, my friend.
[Exeunt severally.
SCENE II.
The bedchamber of the Countess, who is discovered sitting on a low seat by the side of the bed, with her head and arms thrown upon the bed. She raises her head, and, after a thoughtful pause, starts up eagerly.Countess.
It cannot be! The roused and angry deep
Lashes its foaming billows o'er the bark
That bears th' accursed freight, till the scared crew
Into its yawning gulf cast forth the murderer.
On the embattled field, in armour cased,
His manly strength to blasted weakness turns.
Yea, in their peaceful homes, men, as by instinct,
From the dark rolling of his eye will turn
They know not why, so legibly has Nature
Set on his brow the mark of bloody Cain.
And shall I think the prosp'rous Garcio,—he
Whose countenance allured all eyes, whose smiles,
Whose voice was love, whose frame with strong affection
I've seen so dearly moved; who in my arms,
Who in my heart hath lived—No! let dark priests,
From the wild fancies of a dying man,
Accuse him as they will, I'll not believe it.
After another pause.)
Would in this better faith my mind had strength
To hold itself unshaken! Doubt is misery.
I'll go to him myself and tell my wretchedness.
O! if his kindling eye with generous ire
Repel the charge;—if his blest voice deny it,
Though one raised from the dead swore to its truth,
I'll not believe it. Enter Sophera.
What brings thee here again? Did I not charge thee
To go to bed?
Soph.
And so I did intend.
But in my chamber, half prepared for rest,
Op'ning the drawer of an ancient cabinet
To lay some baubles by, I found within—
Countess.
What hast thou found?
Soph.
Have I not heard you say, that shortly after
Your marriage with the count, from your apartment,
A picture of your brother, clad in mail,
A strong resemblance, over which your tears
Had oft been shed, was stol'n away?
Countess.
Thou hast.
How it was stol'n, for value it had none
For any but myself, I often wonder'd.
Thou hast not found it?
Soph.
See! this I have found.
[Giving her a picture, which she seizes eagerly.
Countess.
Indeed, indeed it is!
[After gazing mournfully on it.
Retire, I pray thee, nor, till morning break,
Return again, for I must be alone. [Exit Sophera.
(After gazing again on the picture.)
Alas! that lip, that eye, that arching brow;
That thoughtful look which I have often mark'd,
So like my noble father!
[Kissing it.
This for his dear, dear sake, and this for thine:
Ye sleep i' the dust together.—
Alas! how sweetly mantled thus thy cheek
At sight of those thou lovedst!—What things have been
What hours, what years of trouble have gone by,
Since thus in happy careless youth thou wast
Dearest and nearest to my simple heart.
[Kisses it again, and presses it to her breast, while Garcio, who has entered behind by a concealed door at the bottom of the stage, comes silently upon her, and she utters a scream of surprise.
Gar.
This is thy rest, then, and the quiet sleep
That should restore thy health: thou giv'st these hours
To the caressing of a minion's image
Which to a faithful husband are denied.
Oh, oh! they but on morning vapour tread,
Who ground their happiness on woman's faith.
Some reptile too!
[Stamping on the ground.
A paltry, worthless minion!
Countess.
Ha! was it jealousy so much disturb'd thee?
If this be so, we shall be happy still.
The love I bear the dead, dear though it be,
Surely does thee no wrong.
Gar.
No, artful woman! give it to my hand.
[Snatching at the picture.
That is the image of a living gallant.
Countess.
O would it were!
[Gives it to him, and he, starting as he looks upon it, staggers back some paces, till he is arrested by the pillar of the bed, against which he leans in a kind of stupor, letting the picture fall from his hands.
Merciful God! he's guilty!—am I thus?
Heav'n lend me strength! I'll be in doubt no longer.
[Running up to him, and clasping her hands together.
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And curse me not that I have harbour'd it,
If that it be not so.—The wretched Baldwin,
Upon his death-bed, in his frenzied ravings,
Accused thee as the murderer of my brother:
O pardon me that such a monstrous tale
Had any power to move me!—Look upon me!
Say that thou didst it not, and I'll believe thee.
[A pause.
Thou dost not speak. What fearful look is that?
That blanching cheek! that quiv'ring lip!—O horrible!
[Catching hold of his clothes.
Open thy lips! relieve me from this misery!
Say that thou didst not do it.
[He remains silent, making a rueful motion of the head.
O God! thou didst, thou didst!
[Holds up her hands to heaven in despair, and then, recoiling from him to a distant part of the chamber, stands gazing on him with horror. Garcio, after great agitation, begins to approach her irresolutely.
I've shared thy love, been in thy bosom cherish'd,
But come not near me! touch me not! the earth
Yawning beneath my feet will shelter me
From thine accursed hand.
Gar.
O Margaret!
Can gentlest love to such fierce detestation
Be in an instant changed, for one sad deed,
The hasty act of a most horrid moment,
When hell and strong temptation master'd me?
And yet why marvel? for thou canst not more
Detest that deed than I, the wretched doer.
Countess.
Ah, ah! why didst thou?
Gar.
Listen to my story.
But, oh! the while, unfasten from my face
Those looks of horror, else I cannot tell it.
Countess.
Speak then, I hear thee.
Gar.
Thou knowst too well with what fierce pride Ulrico
Refused, on thy behalf, my suit of love;
Deeming a soldier, though of noble birth,
E'en his own blood, possessing but his arms
And some slight wreaths of fame, a match unmeet
For one whom lords of princely territory
Did strive to gain:—and here, indeed, I own
He rightly deem'd; my suit was most presumptuous.
Countess.
Well, pass this o'er;—I know with too much pride
He did oppose thy suit.
Gar.
That night! It was in dreary, dull November,
When at the close of day, with faithful Baldwin,
I reach'd this castle with the vain intent
To make a last attempt to move his pity.
I made it, and I fail'd. With much contempt
And aggravating passion, he dismiss'd me
To the dark night.
Countess.
You left him then? You left him?
Gar.
O yes! I left him. In my swelling breast
My proud blood boil'd. Through the wild wood I took
My darkling way. A violent storm arose;
The black dense clouds pour'd down their torrents on me;
The roaring winds aloft with the vex'd trees
Held strong contention, whilst my buffeted breast
The crushing tangled boughs and torn-up shrubs
Vainly opposed. Cross lay the wild'ring paths.
I miss'd the road; and after many turnings,
Seeing between the trees a steady light,
As from a window gleam, I hasten'd to it.
It was a lower window, and within,
The lighted chamber showed me but too well,
We had unwittingly a circuit made
Back to the very walls from whence we came.
Countess.
Ah, fated, fatal error! most perverse!
Gar.
But, oh! what feelings, thinkst thou, rose within me?
What thoughts, what urging thoughts, what keen suggestions
Crowded upon me like a band of fiends,
When, on a nearer view, within the chamber,
Upon an open couch, alone and sleeping,
I saw Ulrico?
Countess.
Didst thou slay him sleeping?
The horrible deed!—Thou couldst not! O thou couldst not!
Gar.
Well mayst thou say it! I've become, sweet Margaret,
Living, though most unworthy as I was,
Companion of thy virtues, one, whose heart
Has been to good affections form'd and bent;
But then it was not so.—My hapless youth
In bloody, savage, predatory war
Was rear'd. It was no shock to my rude childhood
To see whole bands of drunk or sleeping men
In cold blood butcher'd. Could I tell to thee
The things that I have seen: things, too, in which
My young hand took its part; thou wouldst not wonder,
That, seeing thus my enemy in my power,
Love, fortune, honours, all within the purchase
Of one fell stroke, I raised my arm and gave it.
Countess.
Fearful temptation!
Gar.
After a fearful pause, I softly enter'd.
The deed was done; and, hastening from the chamber
With breathless speed back to the spot where Baldwin
Held my brave steed, I mounted, favour'd now
By a new-risen moon and waning storm;
And to the fleetness of that noble creature
I owe it, that though heir to him I slew,
No whisper of suspicion upon me
E'er breathed as perpetrator of the deed.
Countess.
And I have been the while thy bosom's mate,
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That slew my brother!
Gar.
Thou, indeed, hast been
An angel pure, link'd to a fiend. Yet, think not
I have enjoy'd what guilt so deep had earn'd.
Oh no! I've borne about, where'er I went,
A secret wretchedness within my breast
Turning delight to torment. Now thou knowest
Why on my midnight couch thou'st heard me oft
Utter deep groans, when thou, waked from thy sleep,
Hast thought some nightmare press'd me.
Oh! were the deed undone, not all the diff'rence
Of sublunary bliss that lies between
A world's proud monarch and the loathliest wretch
That gleans subsistence from the fetid dunghill,
Would tempt me to embrue my hands in murder.
[Speaking these last words loudly and vehemently.
Countess.
Hush! speak not thus! thou'lt be o'erheard: some list'ner
Is at the door. I thought I heard a noise.
[Going to the door, opening it, then shutting it softly and returning. No; there is nothing: 'twas my fears deceived me.
Gar.
And dost thou fear for me? Are there within thee
Still some remains of love for one so guilty?
Thou wilt not then, in utter detestation,
Heap curses on my head.
Countess.
Guilty as thou hast been, I cannot curse thee.
O no! I'll nightly from my cloister'd cell
Send up to pitying heaven my prayers for thee.
Gar.
Thy cloister'd cell! What mean those threat'ning words?
Countess.
Garcio, we must part.
Gar.
No; never! Any punishment but this!
We shall not part.
Countess.
We must, we must! 'Twere monstrous, 'twere unholy
Longer to live with thee.
Gar.
No, Margaret, no! Thinkst thou I will indeed
Submit to this, e'en cursed as I am?
No; were I black as hell's black fiends, and thou
Pure as celestial spirits (and so thou art),
Still thou art mine; my sworn, my wedded love,
And still as such I'll hold thee.
Countess.
Heav'n bids us part: yea, nature bids us part.
Gar.
Heav'n bids us part! Then let it send its lightning
To strike me from thy side. Let yawning earth,
Op'ning beneath my feet, divide us. Then,
And not till then, will I from thee be sever'd.
Countess.
Let go thy terrible grasp: thou wouldst not o'er me
A dreaded tyrant rule? Beneath thy power
Thou mayst indeed retain me, crush'd, degraded,
Watching in secret horror every glance
Of thy perturbed eye, like a quell'd slave,
If this suffice thee; but each tie of love—
All sympathy between us now is broken
And lost for ever.
Gar.
And canst thou be so ruthless? No, thou canst not!
Let heav'n in its just vengeance deal with me!
Let pain, remorse, disease, and every ill
Here in this world of nature be my portion!
And in the world of spirits too well I know
The murd'rer's doom abides me.
Is this too little for thy cruelty?
No; by the living God! on my curst head
Light every ill but this! We shall not part.
Countess.
Let go thy desp'rate hold, thou desp'rate man!
Thou dost constrain me to an oath as dreadful;
And by that awful name—
Gar.
Forbear, forbear!
Then it must be; there is no mitigation.
[Throws himself on the ground, uttering a deep groan, when Rovani and Sophera burst in upon them from opposite sides.
Rov.
(to the Countess).
What is the matter? Hath he on himself
Done some rash act? I heard him loud and stormy.
Soph.
She cannot answer thee: look to the count,
And I will place her gently on her couch;
For they are both most wretched.
[Sophera supports the Countess, while Rovani endeavours to raise Garcio from the ground, and the scene closes.
SCENE III.
The inside of a rustic hermitage; the hermit discovered marking a figure on the wall.Hermit.
This day to all the lonely days here spent;
Making a term of thirty years' repentance
For forty years of sin. Heav'n of its mercy
Accept the sacrifice! Who knocks without?
[Knocking at the door.
'Tis nothing but my fancy. Break of day
Yet scarcely peeps, nor hath a new-waked bird
Chirp'd on my branchy roof.
[Knocking again.
Nay, something does.
Lift up the latch, whoe'er thou art; nor lock
Nor bar, nor any hind'rance e'er prevents
Those who would enter here.
Enter Rovani.
Rov.
O pardon, holy hermit, this intrusion
At such untimely hour; for misery
Makes free with times and seasons.
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Thou sayest well: it will doff ceremony
E'en in a monarch's court. Sit down, I pray:
I am myself a poor repentant sinner,
But, as I trust, a brand saved from the fire.
Then tell thy tale, and give thy sorrows vent:
What can I do for myself entreat thy pity
Rov.
I do not for myself entreat thy pity
But I am come from an unhappy man,
Who, inly torn with agony of mind,
Hath need of ghostly aid.
Hermit.
I am no priest.
Rov.
I know thou art not, but far better, father,
For that which I entreat thee:
The cowled monk, in peaceful cloisters bred,
Who hath for half a cent'ry undisturb'd
Told o'er his beads; what sympathy hath he
For perturb'd souls, storm-toss'd i' the wicked world?
Therefore Count Garcio most desires to see thee,
And will to thee alone unlock his breast.
Hermit.
Garcio, the lord of this domain?
Rov.
The same.
Hermit.
The blest in love, the rich, the prosp'rous Garcio?
Rov.
He hath since dead of night traversed his chamber
Like one distraught, or cast him on the ground
In all the frantic violence of despair.
I have watch'd by him, but from thee alone
He will hear words of counsel or of peace.
Thy voice, perhaps, will calm a stormy spirit
That ne'er has known control.
Hermit.
God grant it may!
We'll lose no time, my son; I follow thee.
[Exeunt.
| The Dramatic and Poetical Works of Joanna Baillie | |