University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene I.

—A Chamber in Zenora's House.
Basso.

There is nothing so cruel as love. My
master said to me a day ago, ‘Basso, thou growest
thin; what ails thee, man?’ I answered, ‘If I knew
my ailment I should be far toward a cure.’ Said he,
‘Then I will inform you. I have observed of late
that you have forgot to warm my shoes and to cleanse
my hose of dust. You have omitted to put a keen
edge on my razor, till it was as blunt as a sick man's
appetite’—(Ah, said I, there lies my complaint)—
‘and once you would have brushed out my hair with
a horse's currycomb had I not perceived it in time,

and saved my pate and thine own. Now all this
argues a distracted mind and a distempered condition,
whence resulteth languor and emaciation!—
those were his very words—languor and emaciation—
‘therefore thou art in love.’ Ah, my master is a rare
scholar. But she approaches. Surely she will compassionate
my emaciation.

Enter Nita.
Nita.

How now, Basso! Where is thy master, that
thou hast leisure to do nothing?

Basso.

My master, seeing my emaciation, is moved
with more pity than some, and leaves me to myself
and my melancholy.

Nita.

If thou wouldst eat less and walk more, thou
wouldst have less emaciation.

Basso.

Ignorant girl! what dost thou conceive to
be the signification of the term emaciation?

Nita.

A burden which thou carriest without profit,
and much against thy will.

Basso.

Not so far out. Thou conceivest it to
imply that of which in truth it signifies the result.
Love is indeed a burden, but emaciation signifieth
not love.

Nita.

Nay, but fat.

Basso.

What?

Nita.

Fat, flesh, stupidity, that come of sloth and
high feeding.

Basso.

Does she mock me? Then I will waste
away yet farther.

Nita.

Thou canst afford to waste, having, like a rich
spendthrift, much to lose.

Basso.

I will lose half my flesh.

Nita.

Do, and thou wilt yet be twice as big as
another man.

Basso.

I will pine to death, and then they will
bury me.

Nita.

When they have found a churchyard big
enough. Woe is me! the people passing will take
the grave for the foundation of a house, and the contract
of wood for thy coffin will enrich two timber
merchants.

Basso.

How hast heart to jest about it? If thou
shouldst die, I would plant a rose-tree over thee, and
bedew thy tomb daily with my tears.

Nita.

A good thought—give me the freehold of
thy grave.

Basso.

Wherefore?

Nita.

Then, when thou diest, I will plant an
orchard and an olive grove upon thee, and build a

farm and grow rich. But for tears, I have not enough
to bedew so many acres.

Basso.

Cruel, cruel!

Enter Livia.
Livia.

How dare you, slut, revile my Basso?

Basso.

Thy Basso, forsooth! I am Nita's.

Nita.

Then I will give so great a piece of good
to Livia for a small matter.

Livia.

Abuse him not. He is worth many of thee.

Nita.

Ay, if we were sold by the pound. Farewell,
Basso.

[Exit Nita.

Livia.

Shame on her, impudent wench!

Basso.

Speak but one other word against her—

Livia.

I will. She knows not when she is flattered.
Are there two such men in the world that she should
chance on such another offer?

Basso.

Thou art a sensible girl.

Livia.

Trust me to know a fine manly fellow when
I see him—none of your elegant fine-waisted gentlemen,
but a good solid piece of work.

Basso.

I think I am all sound and solid.

Livia.

Indeed thou art; and then such a sweet
smile! Such noble pity when the half-finished skeletons,
thy brother-men, look enviously upon thee.

Basso.

True, true; thou speakest well: but Nita is
better favoured.

Livia.

Cruel, cruel!

Basso.

I have no patience with women. I will go
look for my master.

[Exit Basso.

Enter Zenora.
Zenora.
What, crying, girl? Come, dry those scalded eyes,
And send Teresa hither.
[Exit Livia.
Oh, these girls!
When does a girl begin to think of lovers?
Here is a question for physicians, who
Dispute the time when infants quicken first,
But never yet have dressed my doubt in Latin.
I never knew one that had not yet reached
The stage to think of lovers. Ere she talks,
A child will choose some boy of two years old
Out of a family. Around his neck
She wreathes her arms and kisses him: the rest,
His brothers and his sisters, bites and kicks,—
The sisters chiefly. Soon as they can see
To know one from another, this they do
And show their love by little brutish cries.
But what they think before they clearly see,
I have had many and I cannot tell.
If I may guess, they're thinking of no good.
One only girl I know with wit enough
To hide her folly (though, be sure, 'tis there),
And here she comes.

Enter Teresa.
Teresa.
You sent for me—but pardon;
I had forgot my duty and respect,
And have no child's right to break ceremonies.

Zenora.
You silly chick! so that you find a place
Under the old hen's wing, how differs it
Whether you be or be not of her brood?

Teresa.
You honour me too far: but now, being come,
How many I serve you, that you sent for me?

Zenora.
I wished to speak with you.

Teresa.
Ah me! I fear
You have observed some fault in me. 'Tis true
That I have many—more than other maids.
I leave my broideries about the rooms,
Each day forget a thousand little things,
And weightier duties twice or thrice at least.
I let the moths eat through my newest robe,
Leaving it by i' the press unpeppered, break
Thrice more than all my savings can repay,
And let the rents run in my gowns unstitched.
Then, too, I am impatient o'er my tasks,
And leave religious books, soon as your eyes
Are turned some other way, for pages strewn
With follies of romance.

Zenora.
'Tis not of these,
The rifer faults in girls of your crude age
That I would speak with you.

Teresa.
Have I then more?
Alas! I thought these same were full enough,
Nay, far too many, and repent them sore.
But now I have some new fault yet unlearned.
Tell me, dear mistress, that I may make haste
In season to reform it.

Zenora.
Duteous girl!
Know then this fault is much the contrary
Of that which most befalls young maidens set
In your condition, and, though 'tis a sin
Against all nature, yet may it be called
A virtuous failing.

Teresa.
'Tis some strange default
That so makes one the unmingling elements
Of extreme vice and venial offence.

Zenora.
Well, know that when, some few days past, my son
Came back from Paris home, his studies o'er,
I said within myself, Ah, foolish dame,
To graft into thine house a portionless
And orphan child of such a comely face,
A barren plash with such a flush of flowers
Of other sort than goes with gilded fruit.
(Nay, blush not): surely, looking on thy son,
So manful-fair, so fraught with golden bales
Of wisdom, sailing to so rich a port
Upon the impulse of all favouring winds,
So wide an harbour of fair heritage,
She will work mischief to her best of power,
And shake down all her petals at his feet.
So deeming, I bethought to closely watch
Thy ways, and guard against what well thou know'st
Would be disaster to our noble house,
When lo! the wind blows from the other pole
An ice-flaw cutting to the bone with frost,
And my fear's very opposite befalls
In such excess as to become a vice.
I would not have thee so forget thy station
To pay lewd and o'erreaching courtesies
Unto my son; nor can I well abide
To mark thee, with an equal arrogance,
So scorn and hold him cheap as now thou dost.
I see the young man is much grieved thereat,
And he so manful, virtuous, and wise,
A princess might take pride to speak with him.

Teresa.
I will reform this to my best of power.

Zenora.
So! you deny it not! Why, I had thought
Some light, unwarranted, foolish vanity
Had made it seem the young man fancied you,
And, being modest and of humble mind,
As I have found you hitherto, and chaste,
That you of purpose slighted him, for fear
You else might seem approve his too mean choice,
And so of fostering it, considering well
The breach of custom set betwixt your fates,
Albeit approving—as how should I doubt?—
His form to match his mind, and loving him,
But deeming all too high to honour one
So stinted as yourself in fortune's gifts.
If so it proved, I meant to comfort you
By showing (mixed with wholesome bitters culled
Of choice advice and sweets of hinted promise
How some day I should find you your fit match)
Of my son's mind, how it was built too firm
On pride and reason's solid marble-blocks,
No shifting sands of changeful phantasies,
To fall at storm of aught so silly a maid,
And bury in its ruin all our race,
Nay, of no lady so beneath his rank.
But now it seems your pert young vanity
Has pitched a higher and a higher flight,
And that you scorn where prayer would be profane,
And dare hate where you should not dare to love.

Teresa.
Dear lady, for the gratitude I owe,
I cannot blame thee for so bitter taunts,
Who know myself beneath thyself and son
In all that makes man envied of his kind.
I have nor rank, nor riches, nor high birth,
And owe thee all; though, to be frank, I deem
A mindful benefactor scarce less vile
Than a forgetful heir of benefits,
And to do good offencefully more cruel
Than generous evil; for that the other binds
Your enemy's hands to peace with chains of honour,
Which if he break, he wounds himself and thee,
But more himself, since fame is more than life.

Zenora.
Ungracious girl! do you requite me thus?
However this your o'erstrained frowardness
T'ward me shall not yield less my charity.
How came you, though, to bend your scorn so high,
To shoot its venom upward at my son?

Teresa.
I know not if I flouted him. Perchance
My heart shone through in action all too clear.

Zenora.
Your heart! a proper seat to harbour scorn,
Of him too! In the ocean where all praises
Empty themselves what bitter brook falls here?
'Mid such a scene what blemish can yours find
Where other's eyes can see but virtues sown
In that fair rose-garden, his opening life,
Like flowers, so thick that not a weed can sprout,
Or it is quickly smothered by the throng?

Teresa.
I know not, madam. Far as my sight carries
He seems all honour, wisdom, courage, truth.

Zenora.
What here for scorn?

Teresa.
Indeed, I scorn him not.

Zenora.
That's well, at least. Then wherefore hate you him?

Teresa.
I know not.

Zenora.
But you do.

Teresa.
It is not hate.
He never wronged me.

Zenora.
Must that be for hate?
Hate may be where no cause, then bitterest.
It is a plant that grows without a seed,
Or, if there be a seed, oft in the breast,
Of him who harbours hate, a curse self-fed
Upon his heart, a fire upon his house.
Men hate most whom they have injured. Injury
Begets the scorn of self, which scorn begets
The hate of him who made us scorn ourself
By hurting him (we say he made us do it,
So just!) If this of yours, then, be not hate,
Which shows so like hate, what then is it, child?

Teresa.
I cannot tell that neither. I am but
A foolish girl, and make all estimates
More by main instinct than by reason, and
At the first glance. Why, I have known myself
Hate one who had red hair, only for that,
No other cause.

Zenora.
Well, wear more courtesy,
And, with what flimsy gauze you can, inveil
Your misformed feelings, if to mould them straight,
To need no veil needs more wit than you own,
And be this warning of its kind the last.
But what's the proverb of an angel's wings?
I have a glimpse.

Enter Raolfo.
Raolfo.
What, mother, not alone?
But in sweet converse with our lovesome guest.
Why, this is well! You live too much apart;
And women have a thousand whims to tell
To other women, which in solitude
Must well nigh burst their heart with holding them.
Leastwise when you are met your tongues run on
Like prattling brooks or birds, or children's talk.
Nay, mother, frown not so; you know they do.
Is it not fact, fair lady?

Teresa.
So you say,
And it becomes us not to praise ourselves.

Raolfo.
Why, 'tis no self-praise to disown this charge.
'Tis but a slight fault of great virtue born;
A wild-rose sucker from the double rose;
Waste that makes riot with luxuriant growth,
To breed fair vices of excess of virtue,
That make the pruner's hand shrink from his task,
Spare half, and every stroke a sweet regret;
A wild spray from the root of social joy,
The pleasure in his fellow's company
Which causes man alone of all the beasts
To live in cities and to bow to laws,
For “man by nature is political,”
As Aristotle saith, and woman more.

Teresa.
You talk above me.

Raolfo.
Lady, say not so.
My talk is apt to relish of the schools,
For where the treasure is, you know, 'tis said
The heart is also. But pray pardon me.

Teresa.
It needs no pardon.

Raolfo.
Mother, plead for me.

Zenora.
Nay, I will leave thee make thine own excuse.
It is the one sole flaw I find in thee,
And will depart when thou art more acquainted
With foolish company and empty talk,
Which schooling cannot lack, if thou live here,
And troubles me to think of, lest how much
With this blameworthy go worth praise to ruin:
For ah! we lose our virtues with our faults,
Like plants with the close-kissing parasite,
Too fast embracing to unwreathe their arms
And let us slay the weed and leave the flower,
So subtly are they woven each with each:
And when the last fault left in generous youth,
As pride of heart or mind, is rooted out,
'Tis weighty odds some ranker vice grows up.
Farewell, and seek me in the oratory.
[Exit Zenora.

Raolfo.
A mother sees her son through mists of tears,
With eyes love-blinded. Pardon her and me.
My banter and my craving grace for it,
That neither meant thee pain, gave pain alike.

Teresa.
It wounded not, kind sir.

Raolfo.
Ah, say not so:
For when such words wound not they oft breed scorn,
And I had rather wound than be despised.

Teresa.
I should condemn myself in scorning you.

Raolfo.
Not so, but rather me.

Teresa.
What fruit could grow
Of the rash judgment of an untaught girl?

Raolfo.
Such know a many things veiled from our souls.
Know you the words so often read at mass
Of wisdom that escapes the wise and learned?

Teresa.
And is revealed to sucklings and to babes.

Raolfo.
Indeed, I meant not that.

Teresa.
But it is true,
For I am young and foolish.

Raolfo.
Once again,
My meaning was your soul soared nigher heaven.

Teresa.
For being foolish?

Raolfo.
Nay, for being pure,
Purer than purest men, who at the best
Must soil their hands in battle, which your fate
Spares you; and though they beat down sin and self,
And come out like the pure gold tried with fire,
Yet must they hear and see the sin of the world,
Which you need not; and therefore does their soul
Make harmony in dissonance, while yours
With one consent sings with the circling stars,
An hymn more acceptable, though less praised
By the great maker.

Teresa.
Once again you speak
Above me, sir.

Raolfo.
Alas! how should we take
Thoughts that lie out of our experience?
How should she catch by the thin gossamer wing,
The filmy fleeting wing, and hold light hints,
A moment in our reach, then gone, of things
She knows not, and is blest in knowing not,
For as I think my mother keeps her close—
Once more I beg forgiveness.

Teresa.
And for what?

Raolfo.
For troubling thee.

Teresa.
Seek out some worthier ear,
And waste no wisdom on so shaly soil.

Raolfo.
Why shame me so with what I most would be?
I am not wise, unless love makes us wise,
As some say.

Teresa.
How, sir!

Raolfo.
Look not on me so.
Indeed I love thee, loved thee heart and soul
Since first our eyes kist. Wherefore leave me thus?

Teresa.
It ill becomes me, sir, being that I am,
To list love tales from so unequal tongue.

Raolfo.
What! am I scorned, then?

Teresa.
I denied it once,
But now I am not sure. You see my state,
A poor man's orphan in your mother's home.
You cannot mean the love of married names,
And so to stain my cheek with flatteries
Redder than shame, and blow on the frail flower
Of my good name, your mother's alms-woman,
Under the guise of high philosophy,
Feeling your way with hints of nameless things,
Is treacherous and cruel, yea, and base.

Raolfo.
By Heaven, I never meant but lawful love!
And when I wooed thee 'twas to marry thee.

Teresa.
Have I not heard that vows like these are rife,
And read how men with hooks catch innocence
By such fair baits? No truth bears leaning on.
Indeed I now begin to scorn you, sir.

Raolfo.
'Tis I am wronged. What root lurked in my words
For such suspicion? And where found you cause
Believe my virtue lighter than your own?
'Tis ill to put such books in young maids' hands
Which make them deem the jewel chastity
Hath no place in the virtues of a man.
Hence comes it that so many cast their love
For swine to trample.

Teresa.
Trust me, when I love
I will choose well. Meanwhile impute to pride
My quick suspicion, not to sin in me;
And leave me now, and speak no more of this.

Raolfo.
No more. Your words have wounded me too deep.
[Exit Raolfo.

Teresa.
I fear I missed his meaning wide: nor know
Cause why to loathe him so, as yet I do,
Who is good and true—nay, on truth's further side.
But from the eye's turn when I saw him first
Aversion whelmed me, deepening into hate.
Quicker than stream e'er deepened t'ward the sea,
If one whom conscience quits of sin can hate
Another full as pure and higher poised
Upon the nobler virtues of a man.
'Tis strange, this loathing: but we do not love,
I at least do not, by main weight of merit.
Perchance 'tis well, for else the sin-stained soul,
Baffled alike of virtue and of love,
Might find life's desert all too desolate.
Give me a man less perfect.

Enter Fausta.
Fausta.
How now, child?
I met but now my cousin in a fret.
He scowled upon me darkly, and I knew
'Twas some fresh slight of yours. Why, are you blind?
Can you not see he is not one to scorn?
Or blinder still, and cannot see his love?

Teresa.
He told me of it but a moment past.

Fausta.
And you would none of it?

Teresa.
What else should I do?

Fausta.
Why should he throw his jewel at your feet?
For what so honour you o'er all our sex?
And to be scorned at last!

Teresa.
Why blame you me?
I did not make him love, or, if not so,
Can you, of all that breathe, find cause of blame
In my refusal?

Fausta.
Nay, I will be frank,
As I am ever. I do love the man,
And hate thee for so turning of his love.
I read his soul; I see his high-pitched aims,
Matched with his strength to give them living shape:
My life beats with his life; I first of men
Knew and believed in him: I ever burned
To be his wife, to help him bring to birth
All noble acts and fill his destiny.
I am half mad to see him bent on one
Who cannot so do for him as I would,
Or value him e'en at man's market price,
Far less as I do: and though, as thou say'st,
Small cause have I to hate thee for that act
Which leaves the race to me, yet is it cold
To creep in second into his high heart,
Thou having left it to the rats; o'er all
It goads me but to think a witling girl
Should flout my hero.

Teresa.
Evil was the fate
That brought me here a discord in your house!
Forgive me.

Fausta.
Nay, speak not, speak not of that,
Or thou wilt soften all my rage. I know
Thy lot is hard; mine aunt is coarsely kind:
But know at least in me an enemy
Open and honest as the burning fire
Or foaming sea. We stand on equal ground;
Thy manners speak thy birth no worse than mine;
And I believe them, and for that the more
Have cause to hate thee as a rival, not
To overlook thee as a toy of his.

Teresa.
I thank thee, and I thank thee not—the first
For thy respect, the second for thy hate,
Which I have scarce deserved, for, trust my truth,
I ever looked on thee with tenderest love.
So thou art crueller than is thine aunt,
For my love pours a poison in each stab
Which thy tongue deals me. Farewell. Let me go.
[Exit Teresa.

Fausta.
Go, and for thine own like thy friendship keep,
For friendship was not made for souls diverse
As thine and mine, but somewhat same demands
To o'erbridge those inconstant properties,
Which change from man to man, with kindred link.
I will bestow mine better than on thee.

Enter Raolfo.
Raolfo.
What! quarrelling with our sweet guest?

Fausta.
What cause
Have you, sir, pray, to deem our guest so sweet?

Raolfo.
Is she not pure and—

Fausta.
Yes as many more,
Women of all degrees of idiocy.
When cynics charge the frailty of our sex,
I marvel much they choose inconstancy
To aim their shafts at and impurity.
Are not pure women plenty as white flowers,
Sweet fruit, or any other natural thing?
It is a virtue built on weakness, and
Most lack bare courage to be otherwise,
Or, having this, lack wit to think of it;
Or, having that, yet lack enough to find
The means of pleasure. So much for that praise.
And for inconstancy, when have you known
A fool to change his mind? for stubbornness
And folly keep each other well in touch,
More kin than blind whelps littered at a birth.
Women are mostly cowards, therefore pure,
And fools, and therefore constant; virtues these
Common enough: but seek the higher sort,
Justice and prudence and true fortitude—
How many women will you find have these?

Raolfo.
It may be, few enough, and properly.
These are the things commended in a man.
Women have other virtues, other faults.
We praise the hound for fleetness, and the ox
For strength, and all things for their proper grace;
And finding that, we should go thank high Heaven.
None ever blamed an ox for lack of scent,
Or hound for that he could not draw a plough.

Fausta.
But higher creatures higher virtues owe,
Therefore are fortitude and prudence more
Than purity by all the difference
'Twixt man and woman: and if, as may hap,
One of the baser ore should chance possess
The virtues of the nobler, which more just,
To honour her as miracle, or loathe
As a deformity?

Raolfo.
Show first to me
This woman, and then will I answer you.

Fausta.
Perchance I could. But were not such more meet
Than the other sort to be a hero's bride?

Raolfo.
Nay, but to be the wife of some weak will.

Fausta.
How so?

Raolfo.
The wise man needs no counsellor,
The strong no strong will to bear up his own.

Fausta.
You deem, then, that true friendship should patch up
Gaps and deficiencies on either side;
The strong will lending strength unto the weak,
The weak returning grace unto the strong.

Raolfo.
You reason close and readily conceive,
So is it written by the sage.

Fausta.
Come now,
I will refute your sage.

Raolfo.
Ye gracious Heavens!

Fausta.
Come now, sir, tell me have you once yet found
A man o'ertopping others in all arts
So that the supreme soldier should likewise
Be mightiest painter, sculptor, poet, sage,
Or otherwise?

Raolfo.
Indeed far otherwise.

Fausta.
The fount whereof, as some would deem it, springs
Solely from brief duration of our days.
Think you so?

Raolfo.
Thus the sages bid me think.

Fausta.
You mean, with ampler scope of years the sage
Should prove best hero, poet, painter, all;
Or, in the strait and closure of our lives,
Had virtue beckoned from another mount,
The sculptor had quelled armies, and in turn
The hero tamed the stubborn marble's will
Till icy chaos yearned to cosmic life.

Raolfo.
I do.

Fausta.
So do not I, for I have seen
In virgin soil of children's untilled minds
A thousand differences. But deem that waived.
Have you yet found, for you have many friends,
One mind that stood right well in divers arts,
Though he o'ertopped not others in them all?

Raolfo.
I have.

Fausta.
Now answer me this one time more.
Hath he o'ertopped all others e'en in one?

Raolfo.
Nay; but to what end all this argument,
My lady Plato?

Fausta.
Just to this, my friend.
If for scant power or time we may not pass
All ways our fellows, were it not far best
Climb to the summit of one art? That so,
'Twere wise to seek a friend less powerful
To fill demerits up, than with more stress
To cumulate our merits?

Raolfo.
I must crown
Thy brows with laurel; but for answer this.
I know not if the man who perfects one,
Or he who tills all gardens of his soul,
Be higher in God's sight; though thine in man's
Be first, and in this life, in God's my hero,
Climbing from life to life through deathless days,
Might win at last to complete excellence.

Fausta.
Hast no ambition?

Raolfo.
'Tis a fault.

Fausta.
Yet still
Thou would'st win triumph here, and leave beyond,
With all its doubts, to others.

Raolfo.
It is true,
Such is my strongest craving.

Fausta.
Choose a friend
To help thee gain it.

Raolfo.
What! abandon me
To one whose vice by mutual sympathy
Should grow into and double mine, and lose
In feverish thirst of fame that soft “well done”
In him who seeks but God's approof?

Fausta.
Go to.
I am made foolish in thee. Go, turn priest
Or true philosopher. Renounce the world,
And when thou hast renounced it boast thereof.
None will believe thee. All will say, “This man
Glosses bare weakness with self-sacrifice.”

Raolfo.
I say I care not for esteem of men,
Save where it tallies with approof of God;
Nor with less scorn put by their blame, save where
God's censure and my soul's in chorus sing
With it, to damn some vice all know for such.
Farewell, my cousin. I will seek my book.
[Exit Raolfo.

Fausta.
Now am I madder than I was before.
O noblest soul that ever woman loved!
It were more privilege to share with such
That wise retirement, than with vainer hearts
The esteem of princes and the crowd's applause.
But with increased love comes increased despair,
For now I see him past my furthest reach.
But is Teresa worthier than I?
Faugh, patience! We shall see that by-and-by.