University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Olivia's bed-chamber, in a wing of the villa overlooking the garden. Olivia and Jacquelina.
Oliv.
I'm sated,—weary of it.

Jacq.
But why, my lady?

Oliv.
No matter.

Jacq.
Nay, Signora,
Were a poor serving-woman, worse endowed
Than our great grandam,—tied to these two pouches
Empty, (thrusting her hands into her pockets,)
—an evil past the primitive,—
Were she to rail against the niggard world,
There might be reason. But to hear youth, beauty,
Fortune, and nobleness—

Oliv.
O, fool me not;—
Thou know'st, before I speak, the thorn that pricks me,—
Thou seest her like an adder in my path,—
Perceivest me slighted—like a dwarfish cluster,—
While all are scrambling for the prize that gilds
Her branch. No moment of my life is sweet
Or comfortable. Deep, and ever rankling,
I bear a gangrene that corrodes to death.

Jacq.
You wrong your beauty, trifle with your peace.—

Oliv.
Wrong?—Who that is not macerated, dead
To all that agitates the soul of woman,
Could choose but feel?—and bitterly resent?—
Precedence is my right—inalienable—
Yet when was not Olivia's favor blanked
At her appearing?—Half the natural love
My parents owed me she purloined. I pined
The loss, to be rebuked for sullenness.
Up from our childhood,—if my shape, or bloom,
Dark curls, or glances, aught about me drew
A breath of praise,—anon, I hear of eyes
That witch, as doth the pale green evening sky;
Cheeks, like the rose-tipt glacier; yellow locks,
That make the dreamer murmur of Madonna!
Ever, for her, the proudest breathed the sigh;
Round her, Love anticked as a new-found Psyche,
While scarce an eye seemed conscious of Olivia.

Jacq.
Preposterous! had it been so, dearest lady.

Oliv.
But this I 've borne, if not with meekness, borne
In bitter silence. I 've adorned her train,
Served as her foil, endured from youth neglects
I can endure no longer. Mark me—But first,
Hast thou observed this Cosmo?

Jacq.
Yes, my lady.

Oliv.
I mean, hast thou perused him heedfully?

Jacq.
Enough to see a model for a sculptor.

Oliv.
Hark, girl,—I'll tell thee. Some ten years ago,
Being bereft, at once, of both his parents,
My father brought him here to Belvederé.—
I, from the first, laid claim to him, and vowed,
By all the powers of love, to make him mine.
Just in his opening flower it was, he came,—
Graceful and blooming as a Ganymede;
Mixed fire and sweetness darting from his eyes,
Even in grief, infection to the heart.
O, that his lineaments could rise before thee
In all the unsunned beauty of the stripling!

Jacq.
Gramercy! I prefer the sun-burnt man.
Clip his moustache, give him the Phrygian cap,
And he might stand, now, for the rogue of Ida.

Oliv.
But here, as ever, stepped the basilisk
'Twixt me and happiness. Too soon I found
My pittance was the poor regard that lives
For kindred. But when his sidelong glance met hers,
There flashed from it another tale. I raised
Some jealousies,—and accidents conspired,—
That kept them from an open declaration
Till he departed for the wars. Alone,
She withered like a stemless blossom, long
Deluding me with mournful expectations.
But six full years are wasted, yet she lives,
She blooms, as in a second May. And Cosmo—
Marked'st thou?—ha?—at the table,—didst thou read
The language of his eyes?

Jacq.
Truly, Signora,
I could not but perceive, or fail to note,
While he recounted his young soldiership,
Another pair, like blue bells after rain.

Oliv.
Witch! sorceress! would that her tears might blind her!
Ah! Jacquelina!—'t is too palpable—

Jacq.
(perceiving from the window.)
Ha! apropos! (Aside.)

Be not too hasty: silently observe
How things fall out a day or two: as yet,
The storm of welcomes and God-bless-ye's scarce
Is over. Joy and revel rule the house:—
The very serving-men and grooms are crazed.
Soon as this tipsy mood subsides— (Seems to start.)


Oliv.
What 's there?

Jacq.
Ha!—can it be!—faith! even—here, my lady,
Stand here—Seest thou?—under that pomegranate?

Oliv.
Confusion! Cosmo and Demetria!

Jacq.
Troth,
Almost embracing.

Oliv.
Put away the light.

(Jacquelina extinguishes the lamp: Olivia leans from the window.)
Jacq.
(in a whisper, after listening some time.)
Hear'st thou?

Oliv.
Dost thou?

Jacq.
Nothing intelligible.

Oliv.
Mark! mark!—What means that gesture?

Jacq.
Lo! again—
To ratify some vow, or protestation,—
Look, how his amorous plume bows towards her cheek,
And dallies, as to kiss her with the breeze.

Oliv.
(stepping back.)
They move this way.—Watch where they go.

(A door closes.)
Jacq.
Into the hall. That was the glass door closing.

Oliv.
Her wittol father hears this! By the mass!
Arcadian times again!—How know we—ha?
What gambols grots and garden nooks may witness?
O! chaste, thrice pure, most pale-faced, snowy vestal!
Could some, whom you feigned marble to, see this!
Clinging, and palming it!

Jacq.
Will you consent to be thus outmanœuvred?
For, now, we need no confirmation.

Oliv.
No,—
Never,—by all my injuries,—I would not,—
But where 's the remedy?

Jacq.
Ha! ha!
Methinks 't would need no miracle,—no magic,—
Nothing transcending mother wit.

Oliv.
I'll hail
Ingots upon thee, jewels as the wind
Showers winter crystals! O! unlock thy brain,—
Devise, forge, conjure for me!—But no risks,—
No gossip,—jeopard not my pride or honor.

Jacq.
When your grandfather, or your great uncle,
(Which was it?) risked the main untraversed ocean,
Struggled against despair and mutiny,
Ate mouldy biscuit, drank sea-water, knew
No more than ignorance, whether his loved home
Should greet him more, or he englut some monster,
Pray wherefore did he jeopard thus?—For nothing,
But leave to stamp on the chart—Amerigo.
And shall the lover's meed, so coveted,
That, oft, the lack frenzies and drives men mad,
Be plucked with less smart than a gooseberry?—
What! for the tinkle of an idle tongue
Forego the object of sighs infinite,
Salt tears to drown ye, which has kept your eyes
Unvisited of rest, poisoned your heart
With jealous rancors, mildewed all life's sweetness,
Made youth itself one canker,—saint-like sit,
And see 't inveigled from you!—Virgin martyrs!
In Venice you 'd be sung in hymns; held up
In holy pulpits as the child of Job;
Invoked, as one by patience sanctified!—
O yes—I 've lived there:—did I ever tell thee—
I mean a story—rife when I was there,—
How a Venetian served her rival?

Oliv.
Never.

Jacq.
A noble lady, called Florentia, loved
The counterpart of this same Cosmo. She,
Like you, had been his playmate, and imbibed
Passionate thoughts, early and unawares,
Till all her being centred in one hope.—
It chanced, once, with her lover and her father,
She visited their old ancestral castle,
Built in the mountains, built for war and strength,
A huge grey mass of towers and battlements,
Lonely and frowning 'midst its solemn woods.
Here they amused some sultry summer days
With roaming through the strange, gigantic pile;
Reminded by its massiveness of times
When the fierce Condottieri made the hills
Flash with their arms, and echo with their music.
A few sweet days flew o'er their solitude,
When (as to mar their Paradise) her sister,—
Adopted by some kinswoman, some countess,
And reared by her from early youth,—this sister—
I say her younger sister—followed her.

Oliv.
What, to the castle?

Jacq.
Ay, as if resolved
Maliciously to rob her of her birthright.
Florentia welcomed her as might beseem
Her father's child. But, soon, this young one,—mark,—
This cunning piece of fascination threw
Her witch-nets round her sister's plighted lover,—
She stole his heart,—most treacherously robbed
Her elder sister,—triumphed in the deed.
When proud Florentia saw the truth, a pang
Convulsed her like an epilepsy; her eye
Shot one Vesuvian glare,—and all was calm,
Or seemed so. Thereupon, one listless day,
When both the cavaliers were down the mountains
Riding or hunting, she began to speak
Of sundry strange and secret passages,
And labyrinths of cells, like catacombs,
Cut in the living rock beneath the castle,
For safety or concealment; vaults, and crypts,
Receptacles of treasure or of groans.
In one, she said, some hundred fathom down,
The bandit Leo Galfri breathed his last,
Chained to a ring still there. And in another
Three chests, with mighty clasps of iron, stood,
That looked like treasure-chests, but which her father
Refused to open. Piquing thus, awhile,
Her curiosity, she cried, at last,
“Lauretta, come, I long to know their contents;
Let 's go and privately examine them.”
Purloining keys and lights, they went together,
Down, down, long winding damp stone stairs,—through this
And that dark vault, low passage, massive door,
Such as we hear of,—till they came indeed,
Far down, into an arched room, prison-like,
Ribbed with such monstrous stones as might have borne
The whole incumbent pile. There stood the chests.

Oliv.
Three, saidst thou?

Jacq.
Three prodigious chests.—
Pausing to gather nerve and breath, they strove
To open one; but could not, for a spring.
This mastered, their united strength heaved up
The bossy, clasped, and antique lid.

Oliv.
What saw they?

Jacq.
Parchment rolls, with papal seals,
And piles of old discolored writings.

Oliv.
Nought else?

Jacq.
O, yes; among the papers lay a casket,
Inlaid with brass or gold, or some bright substance.
In haste to seize it (for the chest was deep),
Lauretta climbed, and, reaching, lost her balance,
And fell sheer in.—Down comes the heavy lid;
The steel spring snaps; the rusty dungeon key
Does its last office; brave Florentia lies
Slumbering upon her bed, and, waking, asks
Whether Lauretta is returned from rambling.

Oliv.
O, heavens and earth! She did not perish there?

Jacq.
Her father, sister, all the house wore black,
Whether she did or no;—and every hold
And fastness of the mountains was smoked out,
And nineteen brigands and their leader suffered.
I cannot say she perished there, when those
Same rogues strangled her as was proved, and swung
To expiate their crime.

Oliv.
A dreadful story!

Jacq.
I could unfold you many such.
Her treachery deserved scarce better. False
Insinuating minion!

Oliv.
(in a low, hesitating voice.)
Surely,—thou canst not mean—

Jacq.
Mean what, Signora?

Oliv.
That I—that we—

Jacq.
Speak out, dear injured lady.—What
So moves thee?—Speak!—Nay, trust me not by halves.

Oliv.
What meant'st thou by that tale?

Jacq.
To show you, lady,
How proud souls can resolve, when basely wronged.

Oliv.
Then I must bear it?

Jacq.
Better so,
Than conscience should begnaw your life. And yet—
Discard him,—tear his image from your breast
And cast it to the winds. Arm your keen eye
With coldness and disdain, and see these turtles
Bill at the altar.

Oliv.
Sooner come perdition!

Jacq.
Then quickly meditate some bold resolve.
Fortune and rank achieved, or fallen on him,
Who can gainsay his suit?—His doating uncle?—
It needs but half an eye to see they love.—
Fate only, or some master-stroke, can stop
Their marriage.

Oliv.
Accursed truth!—But what—what stroke?—
What fate?

Jacq.
Some casualty, or providence,
Agent, or anodyne, stronger than love.

Oliv.
(in a hollow voice.)
O, Jacquelina—friend—

Jacq.
Command me, dearest mistress.

Oliv.
If—if—

Jacq.
What says my lady?—No eavesdropper 's near us.

Oliv.
(hurriedly.)
No tower is here,—no prison,—safe, dark, deep,—
No fatal instrument,—and ah! I fear,
Scarce provocation to excuse like hers.

Jacq.
Holy Maria keep Sathanas from us!
What art thou ruminating?

Oliv.
Hush!—speak lower;—
Methought you said—methought you whispered me
With abjectness of mind—with tame endurance—
But I'm scarce waking.—Dismal, dreamlike things
Flit through my fancy. I'll to bed. Shut, shut.
(Jacquelina closes the sash.)
Would we 'd a light:—the chamber 's like a tomb.
Go—no; stay—leave me not. You might disturb
My father or some other. I'll undress,
For this time, as I may.—Make haste, I say.—
Can I have caught an ague?

(Jacquelina begins to undress Olivia, but stops, as in thought.)
Jacq.
What if—Signora—Could we not
Accomplish it—somehow—by stratagem?
(Olivia turns quickly.)
Let 's see.—But late—within this very month—
Your sister contumeliously dismissed
A wooer, whom we all know something of;
Haughty, unscrupulous, but of a face
And mien to hit fastidious eyes. He 's now
Moody with disappointment, apt for mischief—

Oliv.
Well; Barbadeca.

Jacq.
And to a wish,
Cosmo and he are still at daggers' points—

Oliv.
What then? 'T were death, if—

Jacq.
I know it: hear me, lady.—
Some quarrel in the service long ago,
Some bagatelle, I know not what, unsheathed
Their angry weapons. Cosmo twice disarmed him;
Coupling the second gift of life with terms,
That, chafing his imperious spirit, bred
A rancorous hate. This, Cosmo wots full well.
And Barbadeca, while he wooed your sister,
(Before her saint-ship turned poor me adrift,)
Confided gifts and letters to my care,
Communed with me in private of his love,
Lamenting that a rival he abhorred
Should triumph o'er him. Somewhere he had caught
A rumor of their early passion. Now,—
The Count, you know, looked coldly on his suit
As well as she,—now, of these circumstances
Could we not weave the several ends together,
Blending, transposing, and so coloring things,
That Cosmo (prone to sudden jealousy)
Should think his mistress, to gain time and slip
Peaceably the knot of her old vows, dissembled;
Though secretly grown fond of Barbadeca?—
Might not these hints be wrought?

Oliv.
'T would strain his weakness:—
Credulity 's his vice.

Jacq.
And all his rare
And noble qualities he rates so cheap,
That confidence would fail him, if a hair
Fell in love's scale opposed to his deserts.—

Oliv.
Yet—yet—I dread her art: she can put on
Looks so angelical, so meek, so pure,—
The thing were perilous.

Jacq.
Not so to you;—
You need not move in it:—on me alone
Falls all the shame, which I will bear,
And more, for your dear sake.

Oliv.
How, if their love, this night
Confessed and ratified—

Jacq.
Even that may seem
Forced on her for a while to skreen her secret;
Or charged on Barbadeca's malice.

Oliv.
That, indeed.

Jacq.
Besides, strong probability sides with us:—
Time—opportunity—our fickle nature—
The known caprices of our sex—Lord! Lord!
To dwell upon a shadow six long years!
Six slow-revolving, dull-returning winters
To nourish and keep warm a lifeless image!—
Love and Disdain might breed, and die, revive,
And chase, and eat each other in less time.
Sly Ariosto fables this too shrewdly
With his two fountains.

Oliv.
No more to-night. I'll think of it.—What 's that?

Jacq.
Only the tree rustling against the window.
But why mope here, Signora, when the moon
Is queening 't over wood and river?—Come;
Let 's to your closet. In the cheerful beam
Of that bright window, I 've another thought
Better unfolded ere to-morrow.—Come.

(Exeunt.)