University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

A Chamber in Durazzo's Palace.
Julia, and Marcellus.
MARCELLUS.
'Tis true, too true; my astonish'd eyes beheld it.
The duke is come, is in the hall this instant;
And (shame to Genoa!) armed guards are posted,
To save this palace from the people's outrage.

JULIA.
O, if my prayers have any power to move you,
Or, if you would not add to my distress,
(Most sure you cannot mean it,) I implore you,
Wide, as if spotted plagues encompass'd me,
Avoid me, fly me, in fierce Fulvia's presence.

MARCELLUS.
With joy, in all but this, I would obey you.
Shall I retire, and seem to abet a cause,
By tame neutrality, and timorous silence,
Which, but to think of, chills my heart's warm blood,
And drives my sober sense to wild amazement?

JULIA.
Think then what I feel here! yet, O, remember
She has a parent's claim to your respect;
And how I lov'd her, heaven that knows can witness;
In publick to confront her, might enkindle
Her rage to madness. Has she not accus'd me
(O, that I could forget it!) of such crimes,
As calumny's foul lips might shrink to utter?

MARCELLUS.
Her's is the shame, but our's, alas, the anguish.

JULIA.
Stung thus to frenzy, she would hurl on me
Your disobedience; all her house's woe
Impute to me alone, unhappy me;
While trembling, sinking, I could but oppose
The feeble shield of innocence and tears.
No, justice must for once give way to duty.

MARCELLUS.
O, do not freeze me with so cold a word;
Nor wrong the ardours of my glowing bosom.

JULIA.
The great disposer of events on earth,
For some unsearchable, mysterious end,
Has pleas'd to mark me for adversity.
With constancy unshaken, my firm soul
Shall meet the black succession of my fates.
When the full storm has emptied all its fury,
This shatter'd bark may sink at length to peace;
And the last wave that rolls the welcome death,
Bury my much-wrong'd name in cold oblivion.

MARCELLUS.
What eye that with delight has gaz'd on beauty;
What ear that e'er was ravish'd with sweet sounds;
Who that has sense and soul to feel perfection,
And witness'd thy unrivall'd excellence;
Can let thee be forgotten? Hear, O, hear me!
I can no more suppress my burning passion;
It will have way. My fate is in thy breath,
And all my enamour'd soul, enslav'd, adores thee.

JULIA.
Marcellus!

MARCELLUS.
Ha! that cold averted brow,
Presumptuous man! bespeaks my doom too plainly.

JULIA.
Is this an hour for love?

MARCELLUS.
At every hour,
(Enchanting as thou art) thy eyes command it.
Thus on my knee I seize the blest occasion,
To tell thee all thy wond'rous charms inspire,
Though ages might glide by, ere half was utter'd.

JULIA.
There is an aweful witness of this scene,
For ever present here, who hovers round me.
Through the still void I hear a solemn voice;
On his pale lips the unwilling accents hang:
Our vows, he cries, were register'd above;
For thee my breast was pierc'd; see this red wound,
Nor lose the memory in a brother's arms.

MARCELLUS.
What canst thou mean? Why do thy lovely eyes
Thus waste their beams on air? O, turn them here,
To warm my breast, and light up ecstacy!

JULIA.
May ghastly spectres deck my bridal couch,
Hemlock and poisonous weeds be strew'd for flowers,
The nuptial torch scatter despair and death,
And mutter'd curses blast the unhallow'd rite,
If my false hand receive another love,
Or my frail heart forget its early passion!

MARCELLUS.
O, fatal sound! my inauspicious sighs
Awake no gentle sympathy for me;
But fan the flame for a dead rival's ashes.

JULIA.
All the most tender interest can inspire,
Soft friendship, and an anxious sister's kindness,
Unask'd I offer; but of love no more:
The object, and the passion died with him.

MARCELLUS.
Too near, and too remote. It cannot be:
For, O, 'tis lingering torment, hourly death,
To touch the cup might quench our fever's thirst,
And know we must not taste it. Angels guard you!
Farewel! Let chance direct my wandering way;
The world, without thee, has no choice for me.
[Exit Marcellus.

SCENE II.

Julia,
alone.
Most brave, most generous, and by me undone!
Judge of the secret heart, what unknown sin
Did I commit, that fate stands ready arm'd,
To visit all whose peace is dear to me?
Take me, O, take me, to thy wish'd-for rest,
And leave mankind to their own destiny!

[Exit.

SCENE III.

A magnificent Hall in Durazzo's Palace. The Duke of Genoa, with Guards and other Attendants in the center; Fulvia, &c. on one side; Durazzo, Camillo, and Julia, with their Attendants, on the other.
FULVIA.
I have obey'd the summons of your grace.
Yet when I see the seat of justice chang'd
From the grave bench, where once she us'd to frown,
Even to the chambers of my adversaries,
I look for such an issue, as hereafter
Will make this novelty no precedent;
But to be shun'd, and noted for the abuse.

DUKE.
The sanctity of justice is the heart
Of him who judges; place makes no distinction.
And when the veil of passion is remov'd,
When with clear eyes you see the good we mean you,
Yourself, I know, will thank us for this course;
And own our swerving from the common form
Was kind to all concern'd.

FULVIA.
May it prove so!

JULIA.
You see me here, brought for so strange a cause,
I can but with astonishment look round,
Nor know I whom to oppose, or what to answer.
'Tis hard to make my affliction my offence;
And the black deed which saddens all my days,—
The source, the bitter source, of every sorrow,—
The ground to load me with reproach and shame.
Yet here am I accus'd,—I cannot speak it,—
Accus'd of what?—To say, I am innocent,
Would be such mean, such base indignity
To the great spirit of my exalted love,
I'd rather burst with the proud sense of scorn,
And leave my silence to your worst surmise,
Than utter such a word.

DUKE.
O! 'tis too much.

DURAZZO.
You are appris'd, my lord, with what intent
My daughter secretly this morning sought
A meeting with Mentevole?

DUKE.
I know it;
And grieve to find so gentle an intent
Has met such hard construction from good Fulvia.

FULVIA.
Reserve, my lord, your pity till we ask it,
And counsel ignorance. We know our purpose.

DUKE.
As we our duty. And behold the man
First in our present search.

[takes his seat.

SCENE IV.

Enter Mentevole.
[Duke.]
Know you, my lord,
Why we assemble here?

MENTEVOLE.
Yes. Clamour's throat
Has roar'd it in our streets. I pass'd along
Through files of obloquy. Our sapient rabble
Reverse the order of the magistracy,
And, ere they hear, condemn us.

DUKE.
Then, my lord,
As you regard your honour, and your life,
Touch'd by suspicion to the quick, this instant
Account for your possession of that picture.
That lady there, dead Claudio's mother, swears,
It was her son's, and worn around his neck
The day he disappear'd. Behold, do you know it?
Do you allow you dropp'd it?

MENTEVOLE.
Yes; but not
That it was Claudio's. Yet, I cannot wonder,
Two objects so alike, should seem the same.

FULVIA.
Should seem the same!

DUKE.
Have patience, gentle lady.

MENTEVOLE.
I say, should seem; for it is barely seeming.
From that which Claudio own'd, (the artist's boast,)
Myself, not meanly in the science skill'd,
Painted this picture; love, my pencil's guide;
And, from the image in my heart engrav'd,
Assisted by the model, such I made it,
That not the most discerning, nicest eye
From the first beauteous draught could know that copy.

FULVIA.
And had you skill to paint those jewels too,
Those jewels in the round? their hue and lustre
So singular, and bright? By every power,
These were my son's.

MENTEVOLE.
No. Give me hearing, madam.
Those too I purchas'd from the very merchant
Who furnish'd Claudio. All who hear me, know
The name of Manoa; his services
To this ungrateful state; his flight, his death;
Which I lament, since living, he could witness,
And strike you dumb, that by my special order
He chose these precious gems, in form and colour
So like to Claudio's, none could mark distinction.
To pay their value, my estate was strain'd;
But had their estimation been twice doubled,
A crown imperial deem'd the mighty price,
Rather than yield him preference in aught
Might seem a test of my extravagant love,
I would have grasp'd at it; and so remain'd
The ruin'd, happy lord of that sole treasure.
Now learn from hence, how wisdom should demur
To found a sentence on appearances.
Your grace is satisfied.

[Here Durazzo whispers Camillo, who goes out.
DUKE.
I own, to me,
(No proof appearing to the contrary,)
If this be so, your honour seems acquitted.

FULVIA.
But not to me. O, undiscerning lord!
Is this your inquisition, this your justice?
I am not satisfied; my heart still tells me,
That picture was my son's; so reason tells me;
Nor should a voucher from the yawning grave
Shake my conviction.—That good Manoa
Did sell these jewels to my slaughter'd son;
And he, 'tis true, conveniently is dead:
But he had heirs and kindred; summon them;
A treasure such as this, could not be sold
Without their knowledge; instantly convene them,
And act through shame, as if you sought for truth;
Else, your grave robes will be the jest of boys,
And my son's blood will cry till death against you.

MENTEVOLE.
Do not suppose I scoff at this grave presence,
When thus I smile in my security.
Produce such witnesses, what could they prove?
Their ignorance perhaps in what you ask them;
But we have clear and positive laws to guard us.

JULIA.
So long I have said little, fearful ever
To give offence, where all my care has been
To manifest respect, esteem, and honour,
Even with a daughter's duteous humbleness.
But thus much let me add: I here disclaim
(As most abhorrent to my thoughts, and nature,)
All common interest, union, and accord,
With him, for whom I suffer in the censure
Of that ungentle lady; and believe,
Firmly, like her, that picture was her son's,
And there, before you, stands his murderer.

MENTEVOLE.
Why stay I here? My lord, if you have power
To give me reparation for the stain
Cast on my honour by this foolish process,
Pronounce it straight; if not, thus I withdraw
From those vex'd eyes which glare with fury on me.

DURAZZO.
Soft you a while; for lo you, who comes here,
Even to your wish, to make all clear for you.

SCENE V.

Re-enter Camillo, leading in Manoa.
MENTEVOLE.
[starting.
Swallow me, earth! he lives. But I must brave it.

DUKE.
[rising.
Ha! can I trust my senses? Manoa!

DURAZZO.
The same, my lord, and by no miracle.

DUKE.
Yet things so strange are next to miracles,
And his appearance such. We thought him dead.—
This is beyond your hopes.

[to Mentevole.
MENTEVOLE.
O, much beyond them.—
All curses of his nation light upon him!

[aside.
JULIA.
The villain's cheek turns pale; his fate has found him.

[aside.
DUKE.
Surprise to see you here, no way abates
[to Manoa.
Our pleasure at your welfare. Blushing deeply,
We own the state has wrong'd you, but soon purpose
To give you full redress.

MANOA.
My humblest thanks.

DUKE.
[takes his seat.
At present we must set aside that care
For one which now employs us. No more thanks,
We yet deserve them not.—Come nearer still;
[gives Manoa the picture.
Take this, examine it. Do you remember
(Observe them well) the jewels round that picture?

MANOA.
Most sure, my lord; they are by no means common;
But all, indeed, most rare and singular.

DUKE.
They once were yours. Who was their purchaser?

MANOA.
A noble youth, by whose untimely death
Genoa has lost her brightest ornament.
Even in the depth of my own misery,
My heart dropp'd blood to hear the fate of Claudio.

DUKE.
Did you at any time, (think, ere you answer,)
Procure for any other purchaser
Jewels like these?

MANOA.
Never, my lord.

MENTEVOLE.
Out, dotard!
Thy miseries have craz'd thy memory.
To me these gems were sold; look on me well,
I was the friend of Claudio: think, old man,
A noble person's life, and reputation,
(More dear than life,) hang on the words you utter.

MANOA.
I've said, what I have said; were my soul's fate
Link'd to the testimony, thus I stake it:
As I do hope forgiveness of my sins,
And peace in death, I never sold these gems,
Nor any like them, save to noble Claudio.

DUKE.
Hear you, my lord?

MENTEVOLE.
I hear a faithless Jew,
A slave suborn'd, a traitor to the state,
A bankrupt, fugitive, and outcast Hebrew,
Aver—he knows not what;—and still more strange,
I see the credulous duke of Genoa,
The first in estimation as in place,
Gaping to swallow monstrous perjuries.

MANOA.
What interest, lord, have I to do this wrong?
I enter'd, uninstructed of the cause
For which you summon'd me; nor know I now,
Why I am thus revil'd for my true answer.

DUKE.
[to Mentevole.
It can avail you nought, to disallow
The proof yourself appeal'd to.

MANOA.
Mighty signor,
I have an attestation of my truth,
Beyond all oaths, or sacred form of words.
If I am not a liar, and suborn'd,
There rests within this frame a spring conceal'd
With nicest art, and known to me alone,
And its first master. Touch'd, it will discover
The noble Claudio's image.—Ay, 'tis here.—
Ill-fated youth!—Is this to be a liar?

[He touches a spring, and shews a picture of Claudio beneath that of Julia.
JULIA.
[eagerly.
Give me that picture. O, my promis'd love,
This was thy form. Thy brow, the throne of honour,
And grace thy minister.—For ever gone!
So look'd those glossy eyes when turn'd on Julia.—
Cold is that tongue.—Come, animating warmth,
Breathe through my lips, give life to this dear shade,
And let me die thus gazing!

MENTEVOLE.
Dæmons seize thee!
[to Manoa.
Cramps and cold palsies wither thy curs'd hand!
Thou hast undone me.

DUKE.
[rising.
Sir, you are our prisoner;
And in our palace you must hear your sentence.—
Bear him away this instant.

[Two of the Guards attempt to seize him.
MENTEVOLE.
Stand aloof!
Nor raise a hand in violence against me;
Or with one stroke I'll frustrate all your forms,
And the dark tale dies with me.

DUKE.
Hold;—let's hear him.

MENTEVOLE.
I did kill Claudio. On the morn you miss'd him,
We took together our accustom'd walk;
When this too certain arm achiev'd the deed,
Which long lay brooding in my jealousy.

FULVIA.
Deliberate, curs'd assassin!

JULIA.
O, my heart!

MENTEVOLE.
He talk'd with rapture of the approaching bliss,
Till passion drown'd his sight; with eyes upcast,
Then drew that picture, hanging round his neck,
From underneath his garment; glew'd his lips
With transport, to the beauteous, lifeless form.
My smother'd fury rose at once to madness;
With one hand, from his grasp I tore the picture,
And with the other smote him to the heart.

[Julia faints.
DURAZZO.
My daughter! ha! the blood forsakes her cheeks.
My life, my all, look up!

FULVIA.
[running to Julia.
Dear, injur'd, maid,
Live but to see my penitence, my tears!
Thou lovely sufferer, O wake, and hear me!
Alas! she heeds me not. My barbarous tongue,
Sharp as the felon's steel, was fatal to thee.—
See, she revives.

DURAZZO.
Thank heaven! she breathes again.

JULIA.
O, who has call'd me back to this dark world,
From choirs of angels, and celestial light,
To view that murderer? Yet, let me view him;
For I would find the speediest way to peace;
And in the hollow of his cruel eye,
There should be mortal mischief, freezing terror,
To stop the tide of nature.—Monster, think,
Pain, ignominy, death, which wait thee here,
Will have their lengthen'd end, but to consign thee
To ever-during misery hereafter.

MENTEVOLE.
My sentence here I know; the rest's uncertain.
But least of all, fair sorceress! that tongue
Should aggravate the crime, those eyes persuaded;
Thou, thou, the cause of all this guilt and ruin.
Why did I kill my friend? Why, but for thee.
Why risk my soul's perdition? Still for thee.
Why forfeit life and honour? All for thee.
Then where should I seek vengeance, but from thee?
And thus, insulted love thus bids me take it.

[He stabs Julia, and attempts to stab himself, but is prevented.
JULIA.
Ha!

DURAZZO.
Seize his arm! O, execrable wretch!
Fly, fly for succour! See, she bleeds, she dies:
The fiend, the inhuman fiend has kill'd my daughter.

DUKE.
Quick, bear him hence; each hour while he draws breath,
All laws divine and human are insulted.
[Exit Duke.

MENTEVOLE.
'Tis done; I laugh at you. Your triumph's past.
See there, the last despair of outraged love.
Now plunge me in your dungeons; tire your code,
To wake new torments for me. The great spirit
Which dared such deeds, shall brave their penalty.

[Mentevole is carried off.
DURAZZO.
Good heaven, in pity to a father's anguish,
Let me not lose her thus!—my child, my child!

JULIA.
The pain of this deep wound is light, my father;
But O, to think, that your declining age
Will want the comfort of a daughter's care;
That cold obedience must discharge the office
Affection made so welcome to your Julia!

DURAZZO.
My heart's best blood! I shall not long survive thee.

FULVIA.
Hide me, O earth! I tremble to approach.—
Has thy soft generous heart one drop of mercy,
To fall upon a wretch, whose savage fury
Outraged thy virtues, pierc'd thy tender soul,
Mocking thy bitterest pangs. O, Julia! Julia!

[kneeling.
JULIA.
Rise, madam, rise. These supplicating hands,
Your streaming eyes, and that respected body,
Thus bow'd with grief, and groveling on the earth,
Are sights unfit for her, whose dying beams
With tender reverence must still behold you.
Alas! resentment, at this awful moment,
Can find no place in my departing spirit;
For all will soon be peace.

FULVIA.
Thou saint-like goodness!
Unmov'd I saw thy tears, saw the sweet blush
Of thy wrong'd innocence. For pity hate me;
In life, in death, rise not so much above me.

JULIA.
Give me your hand; my last tears fall upon it.
As these dissolving drops part from my eyes,
So melts the memory of all past unkindness.

FULVIA.
O, could they quench my everlasting shame!

MARCELLUS.
[without.
I will not be withheld. [Enters.]
O, grief and horrour,
Why, why did I obey?—thy cruel order
Kept me far off. My presence might have saved thee:
The ruthless ruffian in my faithful breast
Should first have drench'd his steel. These fruitless tears
Are all I now have left thee.

JULIA.
Thus 'tis better.
A life of sorrow, (such alas, was mine,)
Is well exchang'd for bless'd eternity;
Thine shall be long and happy.

MARCELLUS.
Never, never:
Infinite woe from this black hour awaits me.
Yet let me print on that pale beauteous hand
One sad adieu. O, that my soul could pass thus!
By every sacred power that hears, I swear,
My lips thus hallow'd by this holy kiss,
Shall ne'er again—

JULIA.
[eagerly.
As you regard my peace,
My last, my earnest prayer, let no rash vow,
Blasting the hopes of all your noble race,
Replunge the dagger in my bleeding bosom.

MARCELLUS.
Yet, there are means of death—

FULVIA.
My best Marcellus!

JULIA.
[to Fulvia.
I beg you do not leave my poor remains,
But lighten that sad office to my father.

DURAZZO.
O, misery!

JULIA.
[taking papers from her breast.
These papers,—pray observe me,—
Bury these papers with me. Lay that picture
Close to my heart, and let my coffin rest
In the same tomb which holds my murder'd Claudio;
One love, one death, and the same sepulchre.
I thank your tender tears.—Fountain of mercy!
Mild peace, and heavenly light, dawn on my sense;
My pains grow less; this load will soon fall off:
I shall be happy. Weep not. Mercy! Oh!

[Dies.
[Curtain falls.