University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A Chamber in Durazzo's Palace.
Durazzo, Marcellus, and Camillo.
DURAZZO.
Not so, not so; deem me not lost to reason;
My breast is ever open to receive you.
Though Fulvia's son, I hold you not allied
To Fulvia's enmity, and violence.
Nay, were we foes, (which I should grieve to think,)
The qualities and virtue of Marcellus
Could find no tongue more prompt in their report,
Than old Durazzo's.

MARCELLUS.
My much honour'd lord,
These friendly sounds are cordials to my ear.
Soon as I heard my mother's frantick tale,
(Though tears and exclamations scarce gave room
For her distemper'd rage to tell the story,)
Such consternation seiz'd me, as if earth
Convuls'd had yawn'd at once beneath my feet,
And livid flames shot upwards to consume me.

DURAZZO.
Did I not scorn to mate a woman's malice,
What vengeful spunge, though steep'd in Stygian gall,
Could wipe away my deep-dy'd injuries?
My house's ancient honour set at nought;
The little spark of health, which, just rekindling,
Glow'd in the cheek of my dear innocent child,
And warm'd her father's hopes, rudely extinguish'd;
Her name that like a holy word was utter'd,
Grace and good will still ushering the sound,
Cast for vile question to the publick streets,
'Midst scurril casuists, and the lees of Genoa:—
By my just rage, the sanctity of virtue
Never sustain'd so gross a profanation.

MARCELLUS.
With burning blushes, as the shame were mine,
And hooting crowds made me derision's scoff,
I own the justice of a father's anger.
Descend, mild patience, to her harrow'd breast!
What fortitude can arm her feeling heart
Against the rankling barb of this fell arrow?
'Gainst galling taunts, 'gainst mortal accusations,
From lips whose every sound should sooth and bless her?

DURAZZO.
The malice of a foe may be endur'd;
But friendship's stab,—the very plank we cling to
Turn'd to a barbarous engine for destruction!—
And yet her gentle, her forgiving nature
Unwillingly permits my just reproach;
She checks my indignation, by rememb'ring,
How kind, how tender, Fulvia once was to her;
And how the exalted virtues of her soul
Transcend her frailties, and efface this error.

SCENE II.

Enter an Officer.
OFFICER.
Be on your guard, my lord; we have certain notice,
The rabble stir'd up by some strange report,
Mustering from every quarter are assembled,
And threaten insult here.

DURAZZO.
I thank you, sir.
Let them come on, we are prepar'd to meet them.
The love of tumult, and not zeal for justice,
Is their great principle. What think you now?

[Exit Officer.
MARCELLUS.
The wretch arraign'd, whose gasping expectation
Hangs on the aweful pause that dooms or saves him,
Feels peace and bliss to what my breast endures,
Till, prostrate at her feet, I clear my honour,
My reason, and each spark of manhood in me,
From vile concurrence in this monstrous outrage.
This instant lead me to her.

CAMILLO.
Hold, Marcellus.
We must not give too loose a rein to passion,
At such a trembling crisis. Good my lord,
[to Durazzo.
To check the shameful licence, and disorder,
Which hourly spread more wide by our inaction,
One way at least is plain.

DURAZZO.
My mind's distracted.
I should before have told you our resolves;
But my vex'd spirit this way finds relief,
And vents itself in railing. But 'tis thus.
The duke, (and much I'm bound to thank his grace.)
Though urg'd to every harsh extremity
By that fierce woman, kindly has determin'd
To take the milder course. Himself in person,
When I appoint the hour, will visit us.
He knows already every circumstance,
In its true state, nor heeds our foe's perversion:
And resting so, with horrour I must own,
Suspicion has its mark.

CAMILLO.
Mentevole.

DURAZZO.
My favour to that lord, his daily boast,
The prattle of this busy babbling city,
Pregnant and positive in slanderous falshoods,
The picture dropp'd by him, and found with Julia,
But most, her secret meeting him this morning,
(Which, till explain'd, gives colour to suggestion,)
Have so perversely wound us in the snare;
We stand, like him, expos'd the common butt
For every shaft of venom'd calumny.

MARCELLUS.
Heavens, can it be? That angel! she expos'd
To bear the prying eye, the insidious question,
Of proud, unfeeling, quaint authority;
Each sauntering varlet, worthless of the honour
To strew her paths with rushes, unabash'd
Gaze on the emotions of her lovely face,
And find a heighten'd zest in her confusion!
I will not trust myself to wear my sword,
Lest, with a firy instinct, from my side
It start at once, and in their blood avenge her.

CAMILLO.
Reason and justice are her best avengers.
Be calm then, good Marcellus; hear the means.
Just now, an order issued from the state,
That none should pass the city's suburb gates,
Nor vessel leave the port, till the duke's licence
Permits the usual egress. This, though pointed
But at Mentevole, being general,
Wounds not his pride; nor can awake suspicion.

DURAZZO.
I fear the wise precaution was in vain;
Suspicion will awake, when conscience sleeps not,
And his—but I am to blame;—appearances
Are indexes full oft which point to error.

CAMILLO.
His sister, as we learn; has sought a convent,
And will no more be found.

DURAZZO.
I pity her,
Poor wretch! unconsciously, the instrument
To speed perhaps a brother's infamy:
But all she knew already is divulg'd.
Keep eye, Camillo, on Mentevole.
For you, dear youth, be sure, no mean mistrust
Unworthy my esteem, and your high honour,
Can ever harbour here.

MARCELLUS.
Yet, O, Durazzo,
I feel but half assur'd. An ugly shame,
Chilling the native freedom of my spirit,
Hangs on me, loads me, drags me to the ground.
Nor can I shake the vile dejection off,
Till sweeter than the gale from new-born flowers;
Her balmy lips breathe peace into my bosom.
Will you not lead me to her?

DURAZZO.
Yes, Marcellus,
Deplore with me the ruins of a mind
Where nature lavish'd every grace and virtue,
To make misfortune still more eminent.
Come then, let's on.—Without there? [Enter Serv.]
Is my daughter
Still in her chamber?

SERVANT.
She but now was seen,
Without attendants, near the orange grove.

DURAZZO.
Ere we return here, should the duke arrive,
You'll find us near the grove. Now I attend you.

[to Mar.
SERVANT.
My lord, the stranger we this morn admitted,
Waits in the outward chamber.—If your leisure—

DURAZZO.
I had forgot. Good man! yes, bid him enter.
[Exit Serv.
Marcellus, for a moment, pardon me.

[Exeunt Marcellus and Camillo.

SCENE III.

Durazzo,
alone.
He has known better days; and, to my thought,
No cares, however near us, can excuse
Our hard neglect of humble misery.

SCENE IV.

To Durazzo, Manoa enters with humility.
MANOA.
I am too bold.

DURAZZO.
No, worthy Manoa;
Pride may intrude, but not the unfortunate.
But how? Thy cheeks are pale; thy startled eye
Looks fearfully around. What sudden terrour
Shakes thus thy manhood?

MANOA.
O, my gracious lord,
In vain I hoped, your pity and protection
Might be stretch'd forth to screen me from my foes.
The cruel vigilance of fate has found me;
I am discover'd, lost.

DURAZZO.
I trust, not so.

MANOA.
A dreadful order is but now gone forth,
To close the port up, and the city gates.
It must be meant 'gainst me; to hem me in,
And yield my life to cruel men who hate me.

DURAZZO.
Dismiss that fear, I know the cause too well;
'Tis distant far from thee.

MANOA.
Indeed?

DURAZZO.
Most sure.

MANOA.
I breathe again. May every blessing crown you!

DURAZZO.
I know your innocence, and will not fail
To impress the duke and senate in your favour,
Nor can I think but for some special end
A providence so visible preserv'd you.
Mean time, take comfort to you, and rest here,
Secure; these walls shall be your sanctuary.

MANOA.
O, ever-bounteous to the oppress'd and wretched,
The strength of our forefathers be your shield!
And, for this manna to my famish'd hopes,
When full of age and honours you lie down,
Protect your generations to time's end!
[Exit Manoa.

DURAZZO.
Who waits? [Enter Serv.]
Observe that stranger with respect,
And see that none molest him. [Exit Serv.]
O, Mentevole!—
It must be so. A thousand distant hints,
Like meteors glancing through a dusky sky,
That nothing shew distinctly, cross my brain,
But soon the dim horizon will be clear,
And truth's bright ray dispel the doubtful twilight.
[Exit Durazzo.

SCENE V.

The Garden of Durazzo's Palace.
Mentevole,
alone. A Whistle is heard.
Hark! that's my signal. Then she's near the grove:
And see, a woman's form. Be firm, my heart!
No fluttering now. Let dire necessity
(That in itself contains all arguments)
Fix its strong fiat on my resolution,
And cancel nature's fear. She must be mine.
I have buffetted beyond the midway flood;
Nor shall my sinews shrink so near the shore.
But come the worst, 'gainst shame and disappointment,
Thou sharp, but friendly leech, I will apply thee.
[He draws a dagger, which he holds up, and returns again to his bosom.
Soft, soft; from hence, unseen I may observe her.

[he retires.
Enter Julia.
No, I must still endure; for death is proud,
Owes none obedience; nor will come when summon'd:
The happy who avoid him, he pursues;
And with malignant triumph loves to enter,
Where dreams of long security and joy
Give ten-fold terrours to the grim intruder.
To thee I stretch my arms, thee I invoke,
For in thy cold and leaden grasp there—Ha!

[seeing Mentevole, she starts.
MENTEVOLE.
Why start you, madam? Have a few short hours
So chang'd the man you sought, nay, kinder still,
With gentle intercession sooth'd, and won
To mercy for a rival, that a serpent
Rising on mortal spires to sting your life,
Could not excite more horrour than his presence?

JULIA.
Thou art, indeed, a serpent, coil'd for mischief;
To dart out on the unwary, drink his blood,
And slink again to thy dark lurking place.
Why art thou here?

MENTEVOLE.
To talk to thee of love.

JULIA.
Of murder rather.—Hence!

[going.
MENTEVOLE.
I must detain you.
[holding her.
A moment is not long. And can thy wisdom,
For such a feather, for one light surmise,
That picture, rashly deem me capable
Of shedding human blood, nay, a friend's blood?

JULIA.
Of every crime I deem thee capable:
Thy furious temper knows no sacred bond;
Death on thyself, even kneeling at my feet,
Thou hast vow'd with frantick oaths. O, patient heaven!
Why did not fire from yon insulted sky
Consume him quick, ere his pernicious rage
Had plung'd me in this gulph of wretchedness?

MENTEVOLE.
I am so clear from any conscious taint,
On that foul charge, I would not waste a moment
To purge me of so gross a villainy.
What state, what sex, what excellence of mind,
E'er found an armour against calumny?
Give the most monstrous slander but a birth,
Folly shall own, and malice cherish it.
It moves but my contempt. Consider this,
Art not thou too accus'd? thy spotless self,
Alike call'd criminal? by what? by madness.

JULIA.
I thank thee, yes. Thy most unwelcome love,
Like some contagious vapour breath'd upon me,
Has made me loathsome to the publick view:
The persecution of thy hateful vows,
That first disturb'd my peace, now blasts my honour.
I stand a poor, defam'd, suspected creature:
The eyes, whose gentle pity balm'd my sorrows,
Now turn their beams with indignation on me;
And thou the cause of all.

MENTEVOLE.
You hate me then?

JULIA.
Hate thee! the term's too weak. 'Tis vital horrour:
The helpless dove views not the ravening kite,
With such instinctive dread, and detestation.
The principle by which we start from death,—
Crave needful food,—nature's original print
To shun our evil, and pursue our good,
By reason strengthen'd with increasing age,
Are not so mix'd, and general through my frame.
Hence from my eyes! Thy sight is deadly to me.

MENTEVOLE.
O, thou unthankful beauty! think a little,
How envy'd, but for thee, had been my lot:
My youth had glided down life's easy stream,
With every sail out-spread for every pleasure.
But since the hour I saw thy fatal charms,
My bosom has been hell. How I have lov'd,
All my neglected duties of the world,
Friends, parents, interest, country, all forgotten,
Cry out against me; now I count the exchange,
And find all barter'd for thy hate and scorn.

JULIA.
Dar'st thou upbraid me, or assume a pride
Even from the homely meanness of thy soul,
Thy long ungenerous importunity?
Mere sensual love, contented with the outside?
The pure, exalted, incorporeal flame,
Fann'd not by sympathy's soft breath, expires.
I never gave thee hope, no, not a look,
Thy vanity could construe into kindness.
I play'd no hypocrite; my heart at once
Diffus'd its honest dictates to my eyes;
They told thee my aversion, my disdain;
And were this air the last I should respire,
Here, in the face of heaven, my tongue confirms them.

MENTEVOLE.
O eloquence of hatred! noble candour!
I am thy fool no more, my doubts are vanish'd.
Thou hast not left in all my swelling veins,
One cold compunctious drop, to chill my purpose:
The lover scorn'd, the man now rouses here.
Mark me, ungrateful!

JULIA.
Ha! what means the traitor?

[aside.
MENTEVOLE.
This garden leads to mine; the passages
Are all secur'd. A ready priest within
Waits to unite us; therefore yield at once;
Vain is resistance. If I raise my voice,
Four faithful slaves behind yon thicket lodg'd,
Will bear thee off.

JULIA.
Am I betray'd thus vilely?

MENTEVOLE.
Look round, no aid is near thee. Thou art mine:
All thy reluctant beauties are my spoil,
And, won by wit, shall be enjoy'd at will.
Come;—nay, no strife.

JULIA.
[kneeling.
O, give me instant death!
See, at your feet I fall.

MENTEVOLE.
For worlds on worlds,
I would not hurt thy charms. My eyes, my soul,
Are not so dear to me.

JULIA.
Satiate thy rage;
With new-invented cruelty deface me;
I will but smile at the uplifted steel,
And bless you while you kill me.

MENTEVOLE.
Have a care!
I mean thee no dishonour; but these struggles,
That heaving bosom, those resistless beams,
Darting their subtle heat through all my frame,
May fire my senses to so wild a tumult,—

JULIA.
O, fatal thought! I will choke in my breath;
Fall lifeless here. Is there no pitying power?
Are prayers in vain above?

MENTEVOLE.
As empty air.
Love only wakes, for he inspires my ardour.
O, fond reluctance! must I call for aid?
No, gently thus—

[stooping to raise her, in the struggle, the dagger falls from his breast, which she seizes instantly, and rises.
JULIA.
Ha! was it sent from heaven?
Lo, thine own dagger. See, I grasp it strongly:
Now, monster, I defy thee.

MENTEVOLE.
Plagues! confusion!

JULIA.
The righteous guardian of the innocent
Has look'd from yon bright firmament to earth,
And sends this timely succour.

MENTEVOLE.
Meddling dæmons,
In black confed'racy combin'd against me,
Turn all my engines to their own destruction.
Yet hear with patience—

JULIA.
If thou dar'st approach me,
Stir but thy foot, or call thy base associates,—
Swift as the ray that darts from yonder orb,
(I feel the artery here,) this friendly point
Shall pierce my heart, and, as death's shades close round me,
I'll bless the night which shuts thee out for ever.

MENTEVOLE.
Obdurate as thou art, alas, my dotage
Would still preserve thee; and implores thee, pardon
The mad attempt by desperation prompted.

JULIA.
Sunk to the lowest in my esteem before,
Lower thou could'st not fall. Degrading guilt,
How mean, how abject, are the souls which own thee!
How vile thy thraldom! See the baffled ruffian,
Though bravoes lurk all round to abet his fury,
Abash'd, and pale, before an injur'd woman.

MENTEVOLE.
I must endure it all;—perfidious fortune!

JULIA.
But lo, my father and Marcellus near.
Keep thy dark secret, for I will not rouse
Their indignation to demand thy life,
And snatch the forfeit from impending justice:
Thou should'st not die so nobly. Hence! begone!

[Julia throws down the dagger, and exit.

SCENE VI.

Mentevole,
alone.
Again I grasp thee, faithless instrument!
[takes up the dagger.
Revenge, that latest sunshine of the accurs'd,
If I must perish, still may gild my downfall.

[Exit.