University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

STRENI, CLAUDIO.
CLAUDIO.
Good morrow,
And many happy days, to good Lord CLAUDIO?

STRENI.
The same to you, Count CLAUDIO.—Who'd believe it!

CLAUDIO.
You cannot wonder that I thus prevent
My happiest day: my love of dear OLYMPIA,
My warm ambition to be stiled your son,
Might well account for that.—But I have news,—
No bad ones neither.—Guess, my Lord.

STRENI.
How should I?—
What mean you?

CLAUDIO.
Only this;—at last 'tis done
What we so long have laboured—ALPHONSO's married!
'Tis true—'tis past all doubt—I have sure proofs on't.
And now OLYMPIA stands absolved from all
Engagements there, which gives me double joy:
For it would damp all happiness to shock
Her scrupulous honour; and indeed that thought
Has always check'd me—What! you're sad, my Lord,

STRENI.
I have some reason. I am quite heart-sick
Of ineffectual cares. I've done whate'er
Authority or gentle arts could do
To push this backward treaty, but find at last
'Tis all in vain. 'Twill never do, believe me.

CLAUDIO.
How's this, my worthy Lord? you quite amaze me!
I thought it had been fix'd.

STRENI.
It seem'd so; but
I cannot force my daughter's inclinations.

CLAUDIO.
I hope they are not now less kind to me
Than when the happy day was named.

STRENI.
Indeed,
Not to amuse you with false complaisance,
I think they rather are; for as the day
Draws nearer her reluctance grows more violent.
I cannot bear to see her agonies.
Could I compel her, as indeed I cannot,
I feel too much compunction in my breast
To use a power so tyrannous and unjust
Against my child. Nor would it suit your wisdom
To yoke your years with an unwilling bride.
And as your friend, my Lord, I would dissuade you
From further thoughts of this: extorted vows
Can never tend to happiness.

CLAUDIO.
I hope
I do but dream! If not, your mind, my Lord,
Is strangely altered for the time. These difficulties
Till now have ne'er been thought of. But they're nothing:
For be affection e'er so coy, 'twill grow
At last with tender cherishing.

STRENI.
But its growth
Will not be forced. Let time and nature work.
Have patience. Let it rest. A short delay
Can breed no danger here. A month or two hence
Will do as well, or better.

CLAUDIO.
A month or two!
Heavens! that's an age to one who loves like me!—
No, no,—to-morrow—would it were to-day!

STRENI.
It cannot be to-day—nor yet to-morrow.

CLAUDIO.
How! not to-morrow? Ah! by all that's tender
Let me insist on that, my dearest Lord.

STRENI.
Urge me no further.

CLAUDIO.
For your own sake, my Lord,
As well as mine, I must.—How will it sound?
'Tis known—

STRENI.
Suppose ALPHONSO had returned?
You know the terms—

CLAUDIO.
He's married.

STRENI.
I'm sorry for it.

CLAUDIO.
You joke.

STRENI.
Not I.
I'm not so merry.

CLAUDIO.
Sorry!

STRENI.
Yes, I say sorry.

CLAUDIO.
Why?

STRENI.
My daughter loved him.—
And he's an honest man.

CLAUDIO.
There are many such
I hope, my Lord.

STRENI.
Yes, hundreds who appear such
To one that is.

CLAUDIO.
Good Heaven! What can this mean?—
But some men's favour is a slippery hold.
Not long ago ALPHONSO was dismiss'd
To make me room; now 'tis my turn to yield
To some new favourite. I see it plainly.

STRENI.
I shall not henceforth be too rash in making
New friendships;—that I promise you.

CLAUDIO.
My Lord,
You aim at something; what I know not: but
To one who almost lived upon your smiles,
That angry coyness in your look is death;
And every word you utter is so keen
It stings me to the heart. I could encounter
The rudest malice of indifferent men
With vengeance or contempt. But from the man
I love, and on whose love I built my happiness,
Unkindness tortures while it wounds.—How have I
Deserved this? sure some secret foe of mine
Has been too busy with your ear: for foes
I have, more than I know of. What little services
I've done my country are by some repaid
With Envy: but I laugh at that, my Lord.
To one that's fortified in innocence
Such bolts are harmless: 'Tis as 'twere to batter
A fort with snow-balls. Yet it would be kind,
Nay 'tis but justice, if malicious tongues
Have tampered with my name, to let me know
Of what I stand accused.

STRENI.
You talk like one
Unconscious of all blame: but boldness is not
Always the surest test of innocence.

CLAUDIO.
What have I done?

STRENI.
Look backwards, and consider.
Peruse your life a little.

CLAUDIO.
There's nothing there
I dare not boldly look into. But what,
My Lord, does all this tend to?

STRENI.
Have you nothing
To settle with the state?—

CLAUDIO.
To settle!—yes—
The state is in my debt.

STRENI.
But has the state
No claim on you?

CLAUDIO.
For nothing but my services
Whene'er it needs them.

STRENI.
Are you sure of that?

CLAUDIO.
As sure as that I live.

STRENI.
All-conscious Heaven!
Was ever such effrontery known!—D'ye think
We've no intelligence here? Or can you be
So ignorant of the dreadful storm that hangs
Ready to burst upon your head? is 't possible
You should not know how dear a reckoning, what
A bloody one perhaps, you have to pay?
For what, you best should guess.—Infatuate man!
Away!—There is no safety here!—Fly quickly!—
There is no ground where Naples has command
Can shelter you!—You're mad to stay one moment!—
The blood-hounds of the state are at your heels!—
Away, and hide yourself betimes!

CLAUDIO.
Ha! ha!

STRENI.
You laugh!—(He's surely mad!)

CLAUDIO.
Indeed I do,
To see the bottom of this fearful mystery.
'Tis well no wounded conscience watches here
To cry out Guilty when another's crimes
Burst out. There's here a small mistake, my Lord;
Only one CLAUDIO for another; that's all.—
Ha! ha!

STRENI.
What other CLAUDIO?

CLAUDIO.
You have seen him.
A distant kinsman of my own, and tho'
He has hurt me in the tenderest point I pity him.
'Twas I that raised him to a place of trust,
Because I thought him honest; and, for some time,
So blind is friendship, I neglected all
Reports to his discredit, as the blasts
Of envy; till at last some flagrant acts
Appeared.—I never was so angry; never
Perhaps but then have I rebuked with rancour.
Yet on his promise to offend no more
He was continued. But it seems th' effect
Of all my friendly warnings, all my threats,
And weak mistaken lenity at last,
Was only this, to put him on his guard,
And make him a more politick knave. But now
He is in hands will strip him of his spoils,
And squeeze the inmost marrow from his bones.
For, if 'tis true what I have heard, by this
He's prisoner to the state.

STRENI.
(What shall I think?)—
This is a strange mistake; and if indeed
It be no more, I'm glad on't for the sake
Of one I am so loath to judge of harshly.
But on your honour, pardon me good Count,
Is there no more than this?

CLAUDIO.
D'ye doubt my word?—
What should I gain by such a falshood?—I
Who see no luxury in simple lying?
Were I th' obnoxious wretch you take me for
My mind had hardly been employed to-day
In nuptial thoughts; nor should my presence here
Have shock'd good CLAUDIO? Look upon my face;
Is there ought there or in my whole behaviour
That shews like guilt? Heavens! can I be so monstrous
So madly wicked, so absurd a villain,
For such I must be, to involve my friends,
Those whom I love most, one whom I adore,
In my perdition?—But if you doubt me still,
With all my heart here let us stop, my Lord,
Till every straw suspicion stumbles at
Be swept away. Inform yourself; be cautious;
Do nothing rashly. And, my Lord, to shew you
How dearly I regard your satisfaction:
Let us, that you may weigh it at full leisure,
Adjourn this marriage; not for a month or two,
But for a year or two, or three, or seven,—
Or, if you please, for ever. Heaven forbid
I should engage you in my bankruptcy!—
Good God defend me!—So, farewel, my Lord—
My servants there—

STRENI.
Come; not so hot, my Count.
A word or two before you go. Let's part
Like friends at least.

CLAUDIO.
Where friendship is so ticklish
The sooner done the better. I'm heart-sick
Of hot and cold friends: They never quit the pains
It costs to manage them. Farewel!

STRENI.
Yet hear me.—
I'm sorry, CLAUDIO; I am quite confounded
For this mistake. But the report was aimed
At you so very plainly, that your brother
Must have believed it. 'Tis not in my nature,
Old as I am, to be suspicious.
But where the welfare of my only child,
Her happiness for life depends, to scruple
Is no offence I hope; at least I'm sure
meant you none. In proof of which, demand
My utmost power to serve you.

CLAUDIO.
Ah STRENI! STRENI!
You know me but too well. I am a child
To you; mere wax, you mould me at your pleasure:
You wound and heal me. Were I less your slave,
And less enamoured, this unkind behaviour
Had rid me of those chains which I prefer
To freedom—love and friendship.

STRENI.
Come, forgive
An old man's spleen; forget it. And to prove
How little apt I am to keep impressions
To CLAUDIO's disadvantage; every art
I have, and all my power, shall be employed
To hasten on these nuptials.—But is it certain,
This marriage of ALPHONSO? make that appear,
And the main obstacle's removed.

CLAUDIO.
Last night
I met a gentleman, you know him; STURIO;
You have seen him with ALPHONSO: he comes on business
Post-haste from Sicily. The night before
He left Palermo was, he says, the eve of
ALPHONSO's wedding, which his haste alone
Excused him from attending. 'Tis like he brings
Some message hither; for he said, this morning
He should be here. I thought to have found him here
Before me; but he'll soon appear, I doubt not,
And certify his news.

STRENI.
Well, let him come.
He comes with no intelligence to retard
Our purpose.—Shall I leave you, ALPHONSO, here
Till I prepare OLYMPIA for such news
As rashly told might hurt her?

CLAUDIO.
By all means.

STRENI.
You'll follow presently?

CLAUDIO.
I will, my Lord.