 | Comedies |  |
SCENE I.
A Room in Roberto's House.Cecilia and Leonora.
Cec.
To dare my father's will;—'t is to disjoin
Myself in hostile halves, each spearing each.
To wed Fernando, that were worse than death.
Rather than that I'll weep away my days
In convent cell.
Leon.
Talk not of convents, sister;
It makes my heart stop beating. There's a way—
Cec.
What way?
Leon.
To wed thee with another.
Cec.
Ha!
What other?
Leon.
Him to whom thou wast betrothed.
Cec.
Oh! speak not of another. Thou but addst
A wrench unto the wheel whereon I'm racked.—
We have not eyes, that they be seared; nor ears,
That they be stopped. These finer inward senses—
To which all others are but servitors—
By the fresh giant, Morning, is aglow
With quivering light—wherefore should they be darkened,
Their sudden sweetness soured? This is not right.
Leon.
It is not right that thy dear heart be wounded,
That weeps such healing tears for others' woes.
Who could do violence to such as thou?
Thy father surely not: he loves thee, Cecil.
Ambitious is he, not unkind; and when
Of thy averseness to the duke he learns,
Warm love will melt ambition's icy plots.
Cec.
I will believe thee! 'Tis my meddling fancy—
Bribed by a coward heart—that coins these fears.
Leon.
Forget the duke: let's talk of something else.
Filippo—once betrothed to thee—is here;
And he has seen thee, and thou him.
Cec.
What meanst thou?
Leon.
Alonzo's friend Valeric, that is he;
Ah, he, methinks, it were not hard to love.
Cec.
Prove this; I give thee all my share in him.
Enter Berto.
Berto.
Ladies, the Signor comes; with him the duke.
Cec.
Leave me not, sister; Berto, stay thou, too.
My one poor heart, unpropped, will not have pulse
To feed my willing tongue with all its needs.
Enter Roberto and the Duke.
Duke.
Lady Cecilia, the rich happiness,
I dare not vest me with, nor call my own,
Till you have stamped upon its folds your signet.
Cec.
More even than my father, this great contract
Concerns, my lord, you and myself. The bond,
You honor me by wishing me to sign,
Is holy; but 'tis from the heart that comes
Its holiness. Not consecrated thus,
It is a malediction on the life.
You take me for myself; but if myself
I give without my affections, I then give
Not even a portion of me, but a thing
Defiled and worthless.
Rob.
What strange words are these?
They smack of disobedience.
Cec.
Oh! my father,
Break not the gentle cords that hitherto
Have linked me to thee, and have kept me ever
As pendant on thy wish as on the oak
The shadow is that softly lies beneath it.
I will forego my woman's destiny,
And minister but to thee, so thou'll not bid me
Attaint my virgin purity and honor,
Giving a husband's sacred rights to one
Who is a stranger to my heart.
Rob.
My daughter,
This new self-confidence beseems thee not;
And thy distrust of me is a rank weed,
When was my rule untoward to thy good?
My judgment now is what it ever was,
The guardian of thy simpleness.
Duke.
Signor,
Modesty is the casket that inlocks
A maiden's virtues. This sweet coyness whets
My love with warranty of excellence,
Adding a quenchless lustre to your gift.
Dear lady, you so perfectly have taught me
Love's task, the pupil now feels strong to teach
His teacher. I will trust thy heart to learn,
And through this rosy shyness do espy
Its aptitude.
Cec.
You read me wrong, my lord.
As to the lesson which you prize so much,
If I have taught it you, the teaching was
Without my will or knowledge. Love's a lesson
Which only then is well taught when 'tis self-taught.
When comes my time to learn, I'll teach myself.
Duke.
Begin then now: thy time is come to-day.
For by thy father's will thou'rt mine. This hand—
Cec.
[Who, as he would seize her hand, draws it back.]
If so my father shall enjoin, this hand
I'll give thee—but, first severed from my wrist;
That so, no longer warmed by my heart's currents,
No part of me, bloodless and dead, I care not
Whether it be given to thee, or thrown to the dogs.
Know you me, madam? I am Duke Fernando.
Cec.
And I, sir, am myself. Within a circle,
Drawn round me by my womanhood, I stand;
And who, with forceful grasp would drag me thence,
He is an ingrate to his mother's breast,
Disfranchised of a sister's duty, and,
Whatever name he bear, false to true manhood,
To whose right sense naught is more precious—nay,
Not morning light or nurturing bread—than is
A maiden's purity.
[Exit Cecilia followed by Leonora.
Duke.
Here in your presence, sir, am I insulted
With a spoilt girl's unchecked capriciousness.
Rob.
My lord, my lord, to-morrow this will pass—
Duke.
To-morrow, to-morrow;—I'll no to-morrows.
Nay, sir, you are not master of your own.
[Exit.
Rob.
My lord, my lord— [follows the Duke out.]
Berto
alone.
There's a woman for you. If Florence had a score such, it
were too good for me to snore in. I should migrate to Rome.
To think, that I live under the same roof with such a perfection.
Why, she would sweeten a whole province; she would
convert a monastery to innocence. Her one fault was, that
she was all angel. But she isn't; so she's faultless. A woman
that has not in her a spice of the devil, is not worth that.
[Snapping his fingers.]
Re-enter Roberto.
Rob.
Berto, Berto, this is a sad business.
Berto.
So sad, it almost makes me laugh.
But the duke will not be pacified. In the election he'll turn against me.
Berto.
No matter which way he turns, signor; he'll be like the pig in his wallow; nothing will turn with him but his own skin.
Rob.
He has great influence, Berto; he can carry with him hundreds of votes.
Berto.
Not five. That grinning abbé would make you believe, that a wave of the duke's hand will knock a man down quicker than my fist. If I could but make trial on his reverend skull.
Enter Ernesto.
Rob.
Ha! my dear friend, how overjoyed I am
To greet you. Give me counsel. Wilt thou think it—
Cecilia, who did never yet rebel,
Is of a sudden mutinous; refusing
To marry Duke Fernando, and in's face
Throwing such words, so hot with angry scorn,
That I stood mazed, as if I'd heard a lamb
Howl like a wolf.
Ern.
Cecilia—did she this?
Rob.
She who was ever so serene, her heart,
Methought, held no blood red enough for anger,
Startled the duke, us all, with speech defiant.
Ern.
The pure never revolt but 'gainst what's foul:
The anger of the good is truth in arms.
Thy meek child's wrath deplumes thy soaring thoughts.
Open thy heart to let her wisdom in.
And blest is he, whose years leave him so humble
And clean, he still can learn from their deep schooling.
Let us go in and talk this trouble through.
[Exeunt.
Berto
alone.
From a man with his heart in the right place, good counsel comes as easily as butter from thick cream. These two are bent now on getting Cecilia married. She is too good to be married, men are such knaves; but then, she is too good not to be married, for thereby her husband's son will be less of a knave than his father. Marriage is the way of this wicked man-peopled world. I wonder what sort of a Berto a married Berto would have been. I laugh to think how I should have plagued my wife; but I laugh louder to think, what a plaguing I have missed. Well, let who will get married; all comfort shall not be banished from the world, for I'll keep single.
[Exit.
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