University of Virginia Library

SCENE VI.

The Abbey Cloisters.
Cimbelli and Gerardo.
CIMBELLI.
Nay, but you chew it crossways.

GERARDO.
Let me go—

CIMBELLI.
Let us go both together.

GERARDO.
Good or ill,
And whether what you think or not, I am
Of what I was thus much—I love too kindly
Such as I loved at first—the free, the sportive,
A merry heart like yours; and it would press
Far heavier on my spirit than greater sins,
To see the snare and watch the heedless perish.

CIMBELLI.
Now this is kindly said.

GERARDO.
The light leads you—
I am the while a bat, a screech-owl's godchild,
A fright, a portent—ominous as it is,
My voice was raised to warn you.

CIMBELLI.
What dost wish?
I will repent.

GERARDO.
'Tis time, young man!—by this
My words and doings may seem more akin.

CIMBELLI.
The words are good—and for the rest, Gerardo,
I would not coax, and sue, and tell a lie
To save as many threatened heads as his
That barked in hell!—so speak, or else good day—
Art one of us?

GERARDO.
I cannot answer that—
But hark!—stand still, you must not be so hasty:—
You talked of late with Andria?—You shall hear
And answer me—my brother and the duchess?—
Now can I tell of what?—

CIMBELLI.
Well, do.

GERARDO.
You touched,—
And sharply too,—the beggary of your friend,
Hinted his griefs, and ended that he lives
Deprived, deserted, wronged?

CIMBELLI.
I did.

GERARDO.
You said—
Unwisely as I think—that Nature yields
The authority of man to men, and law
In this hath strengthened Nature?

CIMBELLI.
I did not.

GERARDO.
Then it was rendered wrong. Mark me, my son;
The lesson, if we live, may do thee good;
If not, it is but lost.—Stand wide of quarrels,
Nor kick the dog which bites thy neighbour's heel.
When strong men smite the weak—go home in silence.
If Ahab lack a vineyard, bid him take it—
Though Naboth be thy brother. If a house
Consume with fire at midnight, let it burn
Unless thine own stand near. And if the church,
In which lie sepulchred thy father's bones,
Should chance to shake—'tis better that it fall
Than risk thine own in propping it.

CIMBELLI.
By the mass!
Mine was a silly squeamishness of late—
I might have said at first, had I heard this,
Thy words and deeds agree; good father, where
Didst learn thy catechism?

GERARDO.
What Andria points at
Heaven knows, not I! To covet is a sin
Which most besets old age. He is my brother—
Mine elder brother—but the near in blood
May stand aloof in will.

CIMBELLI.
Why true—you pair
No better than the weasel and the stote—
One wears the bushier tail.

GERARDO.
Hear me, Cimbelli!
Mouths which revile the mighty must be closed—
The sooner if they speak the truth—and thine
Hath long stood wide: it spatters at the church,
Blasphemes her ministers, vents, scoffs and jeers
At us, and all.

CIMBELLI.
Stop there, and take one half—
I ever loved the church, and some I honor
Whose mother she is, not all.

GERARDO.
So much the worse;
Now this is heresy—so rank a goat
To choose between her shepherds; he sins less
Who hates them all!—the discipline fails here
Which happier Spain can furnish—she may lop
The barren branches off, and purge with fire
The stock which profits not;—thou shalt bear hence
A message to the king?

CIMBELLI.
What if I do?

GERARDO.
His majesty may save a soul—and lend
The inquisitors to help thy faith.

CIMBELLI.
Ye faggots!
What, burn me?

GERARDO.
Hush! man, hush!

CIMBELLI.
I ever loathed
This heathenish cookery where they roast men whole—
And must I make a dish?

GERARDO.
We may be watched.
I barely keep the windward of mine oath,
As servant of the office—and have borrowed
From Faith too much for Charity—come hither!—
I saw the accusation; this right hand
Subscribed it, sealed it, sent it. Those in Spain
Can do what we cannot. While Andria lives,
Take heed!—dost hear me?—While he lives be careful.

[Exit.
CIMBELLI.
Father, adieu! I thank you for your news—
Your prayers and blessing at your better leisure.
'Tis well the plug is near to caulk this hole,
Or mercy on my boat!—Prince Andria—verily!
Old Honor's leading staff!—The slime of Nile—
With all its sun-engendered snakes and vermin—
Hath never hatched so strange a chick as this,
Bird, beast, or fish! A sphinx with claws and riddles!
Part cat, part crocodile!—pat me, and coax me,
Call me kind names forsooth!—jumped just in time!
But one day left. I stood so near the fire
My doublet seems to smell of it. And now—
It is as I could wish. The popular voice,
Some yearnings of mine own, above all Arezzi—
Who would abhor the hand which plucked one hair
From that devil's head of his—have kept between us,
Turned back my sword, and, but for this, to-morrow
Had seen its work ill done. The kingly babe
May travel with his aunt toward Spain—but Andria!
That brain of thine is dangerous. I will shove
Remorse behind me, think upon the flames,
And dash it out.—Arezzi may repine;
But when the thing is ended, it will be
Both well and wisely—justly done and fairly.
So let your politic pate rest whole till morn,
Then take its leave of night caps—good prince Andria.

[Exit.