 | The complete works of N.P. Willis |  |
TORTESA, THE USURER,
Duke of Florence.
Count Falcone.
Tortesa — a usurer.
Angelo — a young painter.
Tomaso — his Servant.
Isabella de Falcone.
Zippa — a Glover's daughter.
DRAMATIS PERSONæ.
Other characters — a Counsellor, a page, the Count's Secretary,
a Tradesman, a Monk, Lords, Ladies, Officer,
Soldiers, &c.
1. ACT I.
SCENE I.
[A drawing-room in Tortesa's house. Servant discovered
reading the bill of a tradesman, who is in attendance.]
Servant
(reading).
“Silk hose, doublet of white satin,
twelve shirts of lawn.” He'll not pay it to-day, good
mercer!
Tradesman.
How, master Gaspar? When I was
assured of the gold on delivery? If it be a credit account,
look you, there must be a new bill. The charge is for
ready money.
Servant.
Tut — tut — man, you know not whom you serve.
My master is as likely to overpay you if you are civil, as to
keep you a year out of your money if you push him when
he is crossed.
Tradesman.
Why, this is the humor of a spendthrift,
not the careful way of a usurer.
Servant.
Usurer! humph. Well, it may be he is — to
the rich! But the heart of the Signor Tortesa, let me tell
you, is like the bird's wing — the dark side is turned upward.
To those who look up to him he shows neither
spot nor stain! Hark! I hear his wheels in the court.
Step to the ante-room — for he has that on his hands to-day
which may make him impatient. Quick! Give way!
I'll bring you to him if I can find a time.
Tortesa
(speaking without).
What ho! Gaspar!
Servant.
Signor!
Tortesa.
My keys! Bring me my keys!
[Enter Tortesa, followed by Count Falcone.]
Come in, count.
Falcone.You're well lodged.
Tortesa.
To get to horse. So, briefly, there's the deed!
You have your lands back, and your daughter's mine —
So ran the bargain!
Falcone
(coldly).
She's betrothed, sir, to you!
Tortesa.
A free transaction, see you! — for you're paid,
And I'm but promised!
Falcone.
To give my daughter to! My daughter? Psha!
I'll think but of my lands, my precious lands!)
Sir, the duke sets forth —
Tortesa.
Yet stay! A word! Our nuptials follow quick
On your return?
Falcone.
That hour, if it so please you!
Tortesa.
And what's the bargain if her humor change?
Falcone.
The lands are yours again — 'tis understood
so.
Tortesa.
I have a right in her by this betrothal.
Seal your door up till you come back again!
I'd have no foplings tampering with my wife!
None of your painted jackdaws from the court,
Sneering and pitying her! My lord Falcone!
Shall she be private?
Falcone.
You shall control my door, sir, and my daughter!
Farewell now! [Exit Falcone.
Tortesa.
Ha! ha! Why, there's the haughtiest nobleman
That walks in Florence. He! — whom I have bearded —
Checked — made conditions to — shut up his daughter —
And all with money! They should pull down churches
And worship it! Had I been poor, that man
Would see me rot ere give his hand to me.
I — as I stand here — dressed thus — looking thus —
The same in all — save money in my purse —
He would have scorned to let me come so near
That I could breathe on him! Yet, that were little —
For pride sometimes outdoes humility,
And your great man will please to be familiar,
To show how he can stoop. But halt you there!
He has a jewel that you may not name!
His wife's above you! You're no company
For his most noble daughter! You are brave —
'Tis nothing! comely — nothing! honorable —
You are a phœnix of all human virtues —
But, while your blood's mean, there's a frozen bar
Betwixt you and a lady, that will melt —
Not with religion — scarcely with the grave —
But like a mist, with money!
[Enter a Servant.]
Servant.
A tradesman waits to see you!
Tortesa.
What need have I of forty generations
To build my name up? I have bought with money
The fairest daughter of their haughtiest line!
Bought her! Falcone's daughter for so much!
No wooing in't! Ha! ha! I harped on that
Till my lord winced! “My bargain!” still “my bargain!”
Naught of my bride! Ha! ha! 'Twas excellent!
[Enter Tradesman.]
Tradesman.
Ten ducats, please your lordship!
Tortesa.
Does a lord pay like that? Learn some name sweeter
To my ears than “Your lordship!” I'm no lord!
Give me thy quittance! Now, begone! Who waits?
Servant.
The glover's daughter, please you, sir!
[Enter Zippa.]
Tortesa.
My pretty neighbor! What! my bridal gloves!
Are they brought home?
Zippa.
He's well served.
Tortesa.
And yet, my pretty one, the words were sweeter
In any mouth than yours!
Zippa.
That's easy true!
Not money, Zippa, sweet! (She presents her parcel to him, with a meaning air.)
Zippa.
Your bridal gloves, sir!
Tortesa.
And will be thrown aside when worn a little.
Zippa.
What then, sir!
Tortesa.
And may be thrown aside, when worn a little!
Zippa.
You mock me now!
Tortesa.
And lands, here, by Fiesole? I bought them
For so much money of his creditors,
And gave them to him, in a plain, round bargain,
For his proud daughter! What think you of that?
Zippa.
What else but that you loved her!
Tortesa.
The thing I give my money for — no more!
Zippa.
You mean to love her?
Tortesa.
'Twas not in the bargain!
Zippa.
Have you no heart?
Tortesa.
Nay, never frown! I marry this lord's daughter
To please a devil that inhabits me!
But there's an angel in me — not so strong —
And this last loves you!
Zippa.
I'd sooner 'twere the devil!
Tortesa.
But for the burning fever that I have
To pluck at their proud blood.
Zippa.
Can not have harmed you!
Tortesa.
She's noble-born — there's one wrong in her cradle!
She's proud — why, that makes every pulse an insult —
Sixty a minute! She's profuse in smiles
On those who are, to me, as stars to glow-worms —
So I'm disparaged! I have passed her by,
Summer and winter, and she ne'er looked on me!
Her youth has been one tissue of contempt!
Her lovers, and her tutors, and her heart,
Taught her to scorn the low-born — that am I!
Would you have more?
Zippa.
Why, this is moonstruck madness.
Tortesa.
Just as they've worshipped her at court — my slave!
They've mewed her breath up in their silken beds —
Blanched her with baths — fed her on delicate food —
Guarded the unsunned dew upon her skin —
For some lord's pleasure! If I could not get her,
There's a contempt in that, would make my forehead
Hot in my grave!
Zippa.
Should make your bridal gloves!) Forgive me, signor!
I'll take these back, so please you! (Takes up the parcel again.)
Tortesa
(not listening to her).
This devil at my heart, thou shouldst have wedded
The richest commoner in Florence, Zippa!
Tell me thou wouldst!
Zippa.
Could feign to love him, and so work on him
To put this match off, and at last to break it —
'Tis possible — and so befriend this lady,
Whom, from my soul, I pity! Nay, I will!)
Signor Tortesa!
Tortesa.
How you would brave it in your lady-gear;
Was't not so?
Zippa.
No!
Tortesa.
What then?
Zippa.
If I dare speak it.
Tortesa.
Nay, nay, speak it out!
Zippa.
How lost you were!
Tortesa.
How lost?
Zippa.
Which far outweigh your treasure, thrown away
On one who does not love you!
Tortesa.
Thrown away?
Zippa.
And no eye to be proud on't — to be full
Of all that makes men dangerous to women,
And marry where you're scorned?
Tortesa.
There's reason there!
Zippa.
'Tis out at interest! — lands, palaces,
They bring in rent. The gifts of nature only
Worth to you, signor, more than all your gold,
Lie profitless and idle. Your fine stature —
Tortesa.
Why — so, so!
Zippa.
Speaking eyes —
Tortesa.
Ay, passable!
Zippa.
Your voice, uncommon musical —
Tortesa.
I think you may be honest!
Zippa.
In all points lofty, like a gentleman!
(Aside — That last must choke him!)
Tortesa.
That makes me wonder at you! We are both
Above our breeding — I have often thought so —
And loved you — but to-day so more than ever,
That my revenge must have drunk up my life,
To still sweep over it. But when I think
Upon that proud lord and his scornful daughter —
I say not you're forgot — myself am lost —
And love and memory with me! I must go
And visit her! I'll see you to the door —
Come, Zippa, come!
Zippa.
You're a brave signor, but against two women
You'll find your wits all wanted!)
Tortesa.
I must look on my bargain! my good bargain!
Ha! ha! my bargain! [Exeunt.
SCENE II.
[The painter's studio. Angelo painting. Tomaso in the
foreground, arranging a meager repast.]
Tomaso.
A thrice-picked bone, a stale crust, and — excellent
water! Will you to breakfast, Master Angelo?
Angelo.
Look on this touch, good Tomaso, if it be not
life itself — (draws him before his easel)
. Now, what
thinkest thou?
Tomaso.
Um — fair! fair enough!
Angelo.
No more?
Tomaso.
Till it mend my breakfast, I will never praise
it! Fill me up that outline, Master Angelo! (Takes up
the naked bone.)
Color me that water! To what end dost
thou dabble there?
Angelo.
I am weary of telling thee to what end. Have
patience, Tomaso!
Tomaso
(coaxingly).
Wouldst thou but paint the goldsmith
a sign, now, in good fair letters!
Angelo.
Have I no genius for the art, thinkst thou?
Tomaso.
Thou! ha! ha!
Angelo.
By thy laughing, thou wouldst say no!
Tomaso.
Thou a genius! Look! Master Angelo! Have
I not seen thee every day since thou wert no bigger than
thy pencil?
Angelo.
And if thou hast?
Tomaso.
Do I not know thee from crown to heel? Dost
thou not come in at that door as I do? sit down in that
chair as I do? eat, drink, and sleep, as I do? Dost thou
not call me Tomaso, and I thee Angelo?
Angelo.
Well!
Tomaso.
Then how canst thou have genius? Are there
no marks? Would I clap thee on the back, and say good
morrow? Nay, look thee! would I stand here telling thee
in my wisdom what thou art, if thou wert a genius? Go
to, Master Angelo! I love thee well, but thou art comprehensible!
Angelo.
But thinkst thou never of my works, Tomaso?
Thy works! Do I not grind thy paints? Do
I not see thee take up thy palette, place thy foot thus, and
dab here, dab there? I tell thee thou hast never done
stroke yet, I could not take the same brush and do after
thee. Thy works, truly!
Angelo.
How thinkst thou would Donatello paint, if he
were here?
Tomaso.
Donatello! I will endeavor to show thee!
(Takes the palette and brush with a mysterious air.)
The
picture should be there! His pencil (throws down Angelo's
pencil, and seizes a broom)
, his pencil should be as long as
this broom! He should raise it thus — with his eyes rolling
thus — and with his body thrown back thus!
Angelo.
What then?
Tomaso.
Then he should see something in the air — a
sort of a hm — ha — r — r — rrrr — (you understand). And he
first strides off here and looks at it — then he strides off
there and looks at it — then he looks at his long brush — then
he makes a dab! dash! flash! (Makes three strokes across
Angelo's picture.)
Angelo.
Villain, my picture! Tomaso! (Seizes his
sword.)
With thy cursed broom thou hast spoiled a picture Donatello could ne'er have painted! Say thy prayers,
for, by the Virgin! —
Tomaso.
Murder! murder! help! Oh, my good master!
Oh, my kind master!
Angelo.
Wilt say thy prayers, or die a sinner? Quick!
or thou'rt dead ere 'tis thought on!
Tomaso.
Help! help! mercy! oh, mercy!
[Enter the duke hastily, followed by Falcone and attendants.]
Duke.
Disarm him! Now what mad-cap youth art thou? (To Angelo.)
To fright this peaceful artist from his toil?
Rise up, sir! (To Tomaso.)
Angelo.
(Aside
— Could my luckless star have brought
The duke here at no other time!)
Duke
(looking round on the pictures).
Matter worth stumbling on! By Jove, a picture
Of admirable work! Look here, Falcone!
Didst think there was a hand unknown in Florence
Could lay on color with a skill like this!
Tomaso
(Aside to Angelo).
Didst thou hear that?
(Duke and Falcone admire the pictures in dumb show.)
Angelo.
Swear 'tis thy work!)
Tomaso.
Mine, master?
Angelo.
The shadow of my fault will fall upon it
While I stand here a culprit? The duke loves thee
As one whom he has chanced to serve at need,
And kindness mends the light upon a picture,
I know that well!
Falcone
(to Tomaso).
The duke would know your
name, sir!
Tomaso
(as Angelo pulls him by the sleeve).
Tom —
Angelo, my lord!
Duke
(to Falcone).
Upon a treasure!
Falcone.
That led you in, my lord!
Duke.
That I might ne'er have found such excellence
But for a chance cry thus! Yet now 'tis found
I'll cherish it, believe me.
Falcone.
Your grace is never slow to,
Duke.
If you'll consent to it?
Falcone.
My gracious liege!
Duke.
Loves your fair daughter. Not as maid of honor
Lost to our service, but as parting child,
We grieve to lose her.
Falcone.
My good lord!
Duke.
She is betrothed now, and you needs must wed her!
My thought was, to surprise my grieving dutchess
With a resemblance of your daughter, done
By this rare hand, here. 'Tis a thought well found,
You'll say it is!
Falcone
(hesitating).
On a brief journey. Were't not best put off
Till our return?
Duke
(laughing).
The sun shine on your rosebud till she bloom
Fairly in wedlock. But this painter, see you
Is an old man, of a poor, timid bearing,
And may be trusted to look close upon her.
Come, come! I'll have my way! Good Angelo, (To Tomaso.)
A pen and ink! And you, my lord Falcone!
Write a brief missive to your gentle daughter
T' admit him privately.
Falcone.
I will, duke. [Writes.
Angelo
Shall I go back or forward? If he writes
Admit this Angelo, why I am he,
And that rare phœnix, hidden from the world,
Sits to my burning pencil. She's a beauty
Without a parallel, they say in Florence.
Her picture 'll be remembered! Let the duke
Rend me with horses, it shall ne'er be said
I dared not pluck at Fortune!)
Tomaso
(Aside to Angelo).
Signor!
Angelo.
(Hush!
Betray me, and I'll kill thee!)
Duke.
Angelo!
Angelo
(Aside to Tomaso).
Speak, or thou diest.
Tomaso
(to the duke).
My lord!
Duke.
In the attainment of an excellence
Well worth thy time and study. The clear touch,
Won only by the patient toil of years,
Is on your fair works yonder.
Tomaso
(astonished).
Those, my lord!
Duke.
But here's a new beginning. Take this missive
From Count Falcone to his peerless daughter.
I'd have a picture of her for my palace.
Paint me her beauty as I know you can,
And as you do it well, my favor to you
Shall make up for the past.
Tomaso
(as Angelo pulls his sleeve),.
Your grace is
kind!
Duke.
His sword was drawn upon an unarmed man.
He shall be fined, or, as you please, imprisoned.
Speak!
Tomaso.
If your grace would bid him pay —
Duke.
What sum?
Tomaso.
If it so please you. 'Tis a thriftless servant
I keep for love I bore to his dead father.
But all his faults are nothing to a thirst
That sucks my cellar dry!
Duke.
Write out a bond to pay of your first gains
The twenty flasks!
Angelo.
Most willingly, my liege. [Writes.
Duke
(to Tomaso).
Are you content?
Tomaso.
Your grace, I am!
Duke.
Once more to horse! Nay, nay, man, look not black!
Unless your daughter were a wine flask, trust me
There's no fear of the painter!
Falcone.
And you shall rule me. 'Tis the roughest shell
Hides the good pearl. Adieu, sir! (to Tomaso.)
[Exeunt duke and Falcone.
(Angelo seizes the missive from Tomaso, and strides up and
down the stage, reading it exultingly. After looking at
him a moment, Tomaso does the same with the bond for
the twenty flasks.
Angelo.
Oh, here is golden opportunity —
The ladder at my foot, the prize above,
And angels beckoning upward. I will paint
Shall live like loving daylight. They shall cease
To praise it for the constant glory of it.
There's not a stone built in the palace wall
But shall let through the light of it, and Florence
Shall be a place of pilgrimage for ever
To see the work of low-born Angelo.
Oh that the world were made without a night,
That I could toil while in my fingers play
This dexterous lightning, wasted so in sleep.
I'll out, and muse how I shall paint this beauty,
So, wile the night away.
[Exit.
Tomaso
(coming forward with his bond).
Prejudice aside, that is a pleasant-looking piece of paper! (Holds it
off, and regards it with a pleased air.)
Your bond to pay,
now is an ill-visaged rascal — you would know him across a
church — nay — with the wind fair, smell him a good league!
But this has, in some sort, a smile. It is not like other paper.
It reads mellifluously. Your name is in the right end
of it for music. Let me dwell upon it! (Unfolds it and
reads)
“I, Tomaso, promise to pay” — stay! “I, Tomaso —
I, Tomaso, promise to pay to Angelo, my master, twenty
flasks of wine!” (Rubs his eyes, and turns the note over
and over.)
There's a demnable twist in it that spoils all. “I Tomaso” — why that's I. And “I promise to pay” —
Now, I promise no such thing! (Turns it upside down, and
after trying in vain to alter the reading, tears it in two.)
There are some men that can not write ten words in their
own language without a blunder. Out, filthy scraps. If
the glover's daughter have not compassion upon me, I die
of thirst! I'll seek her out! A pest on ignorance!
(Pulls his hat sulkily over his eyes, and walks off.)
SCENE III.
[An apartment in the Falcone Palace. Angelo discovered
listening.]
Angelo.
In my impatience for this lovely wonder!
That window's to the north! The light falls cool.
I'll set my easel here, and sketch her — Stay!
How shall I do that? Is she proud or sweet?
Will she sit silent, or converse and smile?
Will she be vexed or pleased to have a stranger
Pry through her beauty for the soul that's in it?
Nay, then I heard a footstep — she is here!
(Enter Isabella, reading her father's missive.)
Isabella.
Done by this rude man, Angelo! Receive him
With modest privacy, and let your kindness
Be measured by his merit, not his garb.”
Angelo.
Fair lady!
Isabella.
Who speaks?
Angelo.
Angelo!
Isabella.
To paint a dull face, trust me!
Angelo.
(Aside
— Beautiful,
Beyond all dreaming!)
Isabella.
Not ev'n a mock one! Shall I sit?
Angelo.
I'll steal your beauty while you move, as well!
So you but breathe, the air still brings to me
That which outdoes all pencilling.
Isabella
(walking apart).
Is not a rude one. What a fate is mine,
When ev'n the chance words on a poor youth's tongue,
Contrasted with the voice which I should love,
Seems rich and musical!
Angelo
(to himself as he draws).
Drooping his small head to a lily-cup,
She curves that neck of pliant ivory!
I'll paint her thus!
Isabella.
He thinks aloud. This is, perhaps, the rudeness
My father feared might anger me.)
Angelo.
Can match the clear red of those glorious lips?
Say it were possible to trace the arches,
Shaped like the drawn bow of the god of love —
How teint them, after?
Isabella.
But murmurs to his picture. 'Twere sweet praise,
Were it a lover whispering it. I'll listen,
As I walk, still.
Angelo.
Hangs ever at the crystal-gate of heaven,
To bar the issue of its blinding glory,
So droop those silken lashes to an eye
Mortal could never paint!
Isabella.
Would draw down angels!
Angelo.
Can mock the rose and lily of her cheek!
I must look closer on't! (Advancing.) Fair lady, please you,
I'll venture to your side.
Isabella.
Sir!
Angelo
(examining her cheek).
Of white and red here, that defeats my skill.
If you'll forgive me, I'll observe an instant,
How the bright blood and the transparent pearl
Melt to each other!
Isabella
(receding from him).
You're too free, sir.
Angelo
(with surprise).
Madam!
Isabella.
To paint it well.)
Angelo.
Pray you, turn to me! In my study, here,
I've tried to fancy how that ivory shoulder
Leads the white light off from your arching neck,
But can not, for the envious sleeve that hides it.
Please you, displace it!
(Raises his hand to the sleeve.)
Isabella.
Sir, you are too bold!
Angelo.
Should be beyond your hiding, or my praise!
Were you less marvellous, I were too bold;
But there's a pure divinity in beauty,
Which the true eye of art looks on with reverence,
Though, like the angels, it were all unclad!
You have no right to hide it!
Isabella.
How? No right!
Angelo.
That, by oft looking on the type divine
In which we first were moulded, men remember
The heaven they're born to! You've an errand here,
To show how look the angels. But, as Vestals
Cherish the sacred fire, yet let the priest
Light his lamp at it for a thousand altars,
So is your beauty unassoiled, though I
Ravish a copy for the shut-out world!
Isabella.
Bold, yet respectful — free, yet full of honor!
I never saw a youth with gentler eyes;
I never heard a voice that pleased me more;
Let me look on him?)
(Enter Tortesa, unperceived.)
Angelo.
All parts are perfect, madam! yet, unseen,
Impossible to fancy. With your leave
I'll see your hand ungloved.
Isabella
(removing her glove).
To keep it from you, signor! There it is!
Angelo
(taking it in his own).
Inimitably perfect! Let me look
Close on the tracery of these azure veins!
With what a delicate and fragile thread
They weave their subtle mesh beneath the skin,
And meet, all blushing, in these rosy nails!
How soft the texture of these tapering fingers!
How exquisite the wrist! How perfect all!
(Tortesa rushes forward.)
Tortesa.
To palm the hand of my betrothed bride
With this licentious freedom?
(Angelo turns composedly to his work.)
With a first troth scarce cold upon your lips —
Is this your chastity?
Isabella.
Is over me! I'm not your wife!
Tortesa.
The wedding toward — have I no right in you?
Your father, at my wish, bade you be private;
Is this obedience?
Isabella.
Has, to his daughter, ever been a law;
This, in prosperity — and now, when chance
Frowns on his broken fortunes, I were dead
To love and pity, were not soul and body
Spent for his smallest need! I did consent
To wed his ruthless creditor for this!
I would have sprung into the sea, the grave,
As questionless and soon! My troth is yours!
But I'm not wedded yet, and, till I am,
The hallowed honor that protects a maid
Is round me, like a circle of bright fire!
A savage would not cross it — nor shall you!
I'm mistress of my presence. Leave me, sir!
Tortesa.
Sold to Falcene for that lily hand!
The deed's delivered, and the hand's my own!
I'll see that no man looks on't.
Isabella.
Bid you begone twice?
Tortesa.
Twenty times, if't please you!
(She looks at Angelo, who continues tranquilly painting.)
Isabella.
That he can hear this man heap insult on me,
And ne'er fall on him?
Tortesa.
I have a touch to give this picture, here,
But want no model for't. Come, come.
(Offers to take her by the arm.)
Isabella.
Now, will he see this wretch lay hands on me,
And never speak? He can not be a coward!
No, no! some other reason — not a coward!
I could not love a coward!
Tortesa.
Stay where you're better missed — 'tis at your pleasure;
I'll hew your kisses from the saucy lips
Of this bold painter — look on't, if you will!
And first, to mar his picture!
(He strikes at the canvass, when Angelo suddenly draws,
attacks and disarms him.)
Angelo.
Fool! madman! dog! What wouldst thou with my picture?
Speak! — But thy life would not bring back a ray
Of precious daylight, and I can not waste it!
Begone! begone!
(Throws Tortesa's sword from the window, and returns to
his picture.)
'Twas this touch that he marred! So! fair again!
Tortesa
(going out).
And, madam, you! or Count Falcone for you,
Shall rue this scorn!
[Exit.
Isabella
(looking at Angelo).
I shall be jealous of my very picture!
Yet one who can forget his passions so —
Peril his life, and, losing scarce a breath,
Turn to his high, ambitious toil again —
Must have a heart for whose belated waking
Queens might keep vigil!
Angelo.
I must give o'er! Pray Heaven, the downy wing
Of its most loving angel guard your beauty!
Good night!
(Goes out with a low reverence.)
Isabella.
Good night!
(She looks after him a moment, and then walks thoughtfully
off the stage.)
2. ACT II.
SCENE I.
[Tomaso discovered sitting at his supper, with a bottle of
water before him.]
Tomaso.
Water! (Sips a little with a grimace.) I
think since the world was drowned in it, it has tasted of
sinners. The pious throat refuses it. Other habits grow
pleasant with use — but the drinking of water lessens the
liking of it. Now, why should not some rivers run wine?
There are varieties in the eatables — will any wise man
tell me why there should be but one drinkable in nature
— and that water? My mind's made up — it's the curse of
transgression.
(A rap at the door.)
Come in!
[Enter Zippa, with a basket and bottle.]
Zippa.
Good even, Tomaso!
Tomaso.
Zippa! I had a presentiment —
Zippa.
What! of my coming?
Tomaso.
No — of thy bottle! Look! I was stinting myself
in water to leave room!
Zippa.
The reason is superfluous. There would be
room in thee for wine, if thou wert drowned in the sea.
Tomaso.
God forbid!
Zippa.
What — that thou shouldst be drowned?
Tomaso.
No — but that being drowned, I should have
room for wine.
Zippa.
Why, now? — why?
Tomaso.
If I had room for wine, I should want it — and
to want wine in the bottom of the sea, were a plague of
Sodom.
Zippa.
Where's Angelo?
Tomaso.
What's in thy bottle? Show! Show!
Zippa.
Tell me where he is — what he has done since
yesterday — what thought on — what said — how he has
looked, and if he still loves me; and when thou art thirsty
with truth-telling — (dry work for such a liar as thou art),
— thou shalt learn what is in my bottle!
Tomaso.
Nay — learning be hanged!
Zippa.
So says the fool!
Tomaso.
Speak advisedly! Was not Adam blest till he
knew good and evil?
Zippa.
Right for once.
Tomaso.
Then he lost Paradise by too much learning.
Zippa.
Ha! ha! Hadst thou been consulted, we should
still be there!
Tomaso.
Snug! I would have had my inheritance in a
small vineyard!
Zippa.
Tell me what I ask of thee.
Tomaso.
Thou shalt have a piece of news for a cup of
wine — pay and take — till thy bottle be dry!
Zippa.
Come on, then! and if thou must lie, let it be
flattery. That's soonest forgiven.
Tomaso.
And last forgotten! Pour out! (She pours
a cup full, and gives him.)
The duke was here yesterday.
—
Zippa.
Lie the first!
Tomaso.
And made much of my master's pictures.
Zippa.
Nay — that would have made two good lies.
Thou'rt prodigal of stuff!
Tomaso.
Pay two glasses, then, and square the reckoning!
Zippa.
Come! Lie the third!
Tomaso.
What wilt thou wager it's a lie, that Angelo
is painting a court lady for the dutchess?
Zippa.
Oh Lord! Take the bottle! They say there's
truth in wine — but as truth is impossible to thee, drink
thyself, at least, down to probabilities!
Tomaso.
Look you there! When was virtue encourraged?
Here have I been telling God's truth, and it goes
for a lie. Hang virtue! Produce thy cold chicken, and
I'll tell thee a lie for the wings and two for the side-bones
and breast. (Offers to take the chicken.)
Zippa.
Stay! stay! It's for thy master, thou glutton!
Tomaso.
Who's ill a-bed, and forbid meat. (Angelo
enters.)
I would have told thee so before, but feared to
grieve thee. (She would have a lie!)
Zippa
(starting up).
Ill! Angelo ill! Is he very ill,
good Tomaso?
Very! (Seizes the chicken, as Angelo claps him
on the shoulder.)
Angelo.
Will thy tricks never end?
Tomaso.
Ehem! ehem! (Thrusts the chicken into his
pocket.)
Angelo.
How art thou, Zippa?
Zippa.
Well, dear Angelo! (Giving him her hand.)
And thou wert not ill, indeed!
Angelo.
Never better, by the test of a true hand! I
have done work to-day, I trust will be remembered?
Zippa.
Is it true it's a fair lady?
Angelo.
A lady with a face so angelical, Zippa, that —
Zippa.
That thou didst forget mine!
Angelo.
In truth, I forgot there was such a thing as a
world, and so forgot all in it. I was in heaven!
Tomaso.
(Aside, as he picks the leg of the chicken
—
Prosperity is excellent whitewash, and her love is an old
score!)
Zippa
(bitterly.)
I am glad thou wert pleased, Angelo!
— very glad!
Tomaso.
(Aside
— Glad as an eel to be fried.)
Zippa.
(Aside
— “In heaven,” was he! If I pay him
not that, may my brains rot! By what right, loving me,
is he “in heaven” with another?)
Tomaso.
(Aside
— No more wine and cold chicken from
that quarter!)
Zippa.
(Aside
— Tortesa loves me, and my false game
may be played true. If he wed not Falcone's daughter, he
will wed me, and so I am revenged on this fickle Angelo!
I have the heart to do it!)
Angelo.
What dost thou muse on, Zippa?
Zippa.
On one I love better than thee, signor!
Angelo.
What, angry? (Seizes his pencil.) Hold there
till I sketch thee! By Jove, thou'rt not half so pretty when
thou'rt pleased!
Zippa.
Adieu, signor! your mockery will have an end!
(Goes out with an angry air.)
Angelo.
What! gone? Nay, I'll come with thee, if
thou'rt in earnest! What whim's this? (Takes up his
hat.)
Ho, Zippa! (Follows in pursuit.)
Tomaso
(pulls the chicken from his pocket).
Come forth
last of the chickens! She will ne'er forgive him, and so
ends the succession of cold fowl! One glass to its memory, and then to bed! (Drinks, and takes up the candle.)
A
woman is generally unsafe — but a jealous one spoils all
confidence in drink. [Exit, muttering.
SCENE II.
[An Apartment in the Falcone Palace. Enter Servant,
showing in Zippa.]
Servant.
Wait here, here, if't please you!
Zippa.
'Tis a bold errand I am come upon —
And I a stranger to her! Yet, perchance
She needs a friend — the proudest does sometimes —
And mean ones may be welcome. Look! she comes!
Isabella.
You wished to speak with me?
Zippa.
My memory is crept into my eyes;
I can not think for gazing on your beauty!
Pardon me, lady!
Isabella.
To find my face a wonder. Speak! Who are you?
Zippa.
Zippa, the glover's daughter, and your friend!
Isabella.
My friend?
Zippa.
And I a lowborn maid — yet I have come
To offer you my friendship.
Isabella.
This seems strange!
Zippa.
I'll make it less so, if you'll give me leave.
Isabella.
You'll please me!
Zippa.
To me as well as you — I have a lover,
A true one, as I think, who yet finds boldness
To seek your hand in marriage.
Isabella.
How? We're rivals!
Zippa.
Yet I'm not sure I love him more than you —
And you must hate him.
Isabella.
What was your thought in coming to me now?
Zippa.
To mar your match with him, and so make
mine!
Isabella.
Why, free again! Yes, as you love him not
'Tis strange you seek to wed him!
Zippa.
Woman loves once unthinkingly. The heart
Is born with her first love, and new to joy,
Breathes to the first wind its delicious sweetness,
But gets none back! So comes its bitter wisdom!
When next we think of love, 'tis who loves us!
I said Tortesa loved me!
Isabella.
With all my heart! See — I'm your friend already!
And friends are equals. So approach, and tell me,
What was this first love like, that you discourse
So prettily upon?
Zippa.
'Twill be a happiness to talk of him!)
I loved a youth, kind madam! far beneath
The notice of your eyes, unknown and poor.
Isabella.
A handsome youth?
Zippa.
But you would not. I loved him out of pity;
No one cared for him.
Isabella.
Was he so forlorn?
Zippa.
Was almost profitless; and 'twas a pleasure
To fill my basket from our wasteful table,
And steal, at eve, to sup with him.
Isabella
(smiling).
Was charity, indeed! He loved you for it —
Was't not so?
Zippa.
The kindest brother sister ever had.
I built my hopes upon his gentleness:
He had no other quality to love.
Th' ambitious change — so do the fiery-hearted:
The lowly are more constant.
Isabella.
Was after all, a false one?
Zippa.
I'll check my story there! 'Twould end in anger,
Perhaps in tears. If I am not too bold,
Tell me, in turn, of all your worshippers —
Was there ne'er one that pleased you?
Isabella.
Prate to this humble maid, of Angelo,
Till matins rang again!) My gentle Zippa!
I have found all men prompt to talk of love,
Save only one. I will confess to you,
For that one could I die! Yet, so unlike
Your faithless lover must I draw his picture,
That you will wonder how such opposites
Could both be loved of women.
Zippa.
Or brown?
Isabella.
In truth, I marked not his complexion.
Zippa.
Tall?
Isabella.
That I know not.
Zippa.
Well — robust, or slight?
Isabella.
Looked in his eyes, and saw him calm and angered —
And see him now, in fancy, standing there —
Yet know not limb or feature!
Zippa.
A shadow, lady!
Isabella.
His eyes were light with it. The forehead lay
Above their fires in calm tranquillity,
As the sky sleeps o'er thunder-clouds. His look
Was mixed of these — earnest, and yet subdued —
Gentle, yet passionate — sometimes half god-like
In its command, then mild and sweet again,
Like a stern angel taught humility!
Oh! when he spoke, my heart stole out to him!
There was a spirit-echo in his voice —
A sound of thought — of under-playing music —
The echo was caught up in fairy-land!
Zippa.
Was he a courtier, madam?
Isabella.
In birth and fortunes, as your false one, Zippa!
Yet rich in genius, and of that ambition,
That he'll outlast nobility with fame.
Have you seen such a man?
Zippa.
My life is humble, and such wondrous men
Are far above my knowing. I could wish
To see one ere I died!
Isabella.
But while we talk of lovers, we forget
In how brief time you are to win a husband.
Come to my chamber, Zippa, and I'll see
How with your little net you'll snare a bird
Fierce as this rude Tortesa!
Zippa.
A way, dear lady, if we die for it!
Isabella.
Shall we? Come with me, then!
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
[An apartment in the Falcone Palace. Tortesa alone awaiting
the return of the Count.]
Tortesa
(musing).
Your soul, 'tis said, will buy them, of the devil —
Money's too poor! What would I not give, now,
That I could scorn what I can hate and ruin!
Scorn is the priceless luxury! In heaven,
The angel's pity. They are blessed to do so;
For, pitying, they look down. We do't by scorn!
There lies the privilege of noble birth!
The jewel of that bloated toad is scorn!
You may take all else from him. You — being mean —
May get his palaces — may wed his daughter —
Sleep in his bed — have all his peacock menials
Watching your least glance, as they did “my lord's;”
And, well-possessed thus, you may pass him by
On his own horse; and while the vulgar crowd
Gape at your trappings, and scarce look on him —
He, in his rags, and starving for a crust —
You'll feel his scorn, through twenty coats-of-mail,
Hot as a sun-stroke! Yet there's something for us!
Th' archangel fiend, when driven forth from heaven,
Put on the serpent, and found sweet revenge
Trailing his slime through Eden! So will I!
[Enter Falcone booted and spurred.]
Falcone.
Good morrow, signor,
Tortesa.
How sped your riding?
Falcone.
Left you alone?
Tortesa.
Nay — she'll come presently! A word in private,
Since we're alone, my lord!
Falcone.
I listen, signor!
Tortesa.
Your honor, as I think, outweighs a bond?
Falcone.
'Twas never questioned.
Tortesa.
And such more weight as hangs upon the troth
Of a capricious woman, I gave up
A deed of lands to you.
Falcone.
You did.
Tortesa.
To be
Forfeit, and mine again — the match not made?
Falcone.
How if you marred it?
Tortesa.
What I would yesterday, I will to-day!
I'm not a lover —
Falcone.
And not a lover? Shame, sir!
Tortesa.
You take me for a fool!
Falcone.
To love a high-born lady, and your bride?
Tortesa.
I'm not a mate for her — you know I am not!
You know, that, in her heart, your haughty daughter
Scorns me — ineffably!
Falcone.
To slight her, signor!
Tortesa.
If all the pride that cast down Lucifer
Lie in her bridal-ring! But, mark me still!
I'm not one of your humble citizens,
To bring my money-bags and make you rich —
That, when we walk together, I may take
Your shadow for my own! These limbs are clay —
Poor, common clay, my lord! And she that weds me,
Comes down to my estate.
Falcone.
To shut her from her friends?
Tortesa.
By coming to my house — not else! D'ye think
I'll have a carriage to convey my wife
Where she will hear me laughed at? — buy fine horses
To prance a measure to the mocking jeers
Of fools that ride with her? Nay — keep a table
Where I'm the skeleton that mars the feast?
No, no — no, no!
Falcone.
I would, ere now, have struck an emperor!
But baser pangs make this endurable.
I'm poor — so patience!) What was it beside
You would have said to me?
Tortesa.
Has, in your absence, covered me with scorn!
We'll not talk of it — if the match goes on,
I care not to remember it! (Aside — She shall —
And bitterly!)
Falcone.
The task was too much!)
Tortesa.
You may not think it much — I reckon it
A thousand pounds per day — in playing thus
The suitor to a lady crammed with pride!
I've writ you out a bond to pay me for it!
See here! — to pay me for my shame and pains,
If I should lose your daughter for a wife,
A thousand pounds per day — dog cheap at that!
Sign it, my lord, or give me back my deeds,
And traffic cease between us!
Falcone.
Or are you mad or trifling? Do I not
Give you my daughter with an open hand?
Are you betrothed, or no?
[Enter a Servant.]
Who's this?
Servant.A page
Sent from the duke.
Falcone.
Admit him!
[Enter Page, with a letter.]
Page.
The Count Falcone.
Tortesa.
I would have had a bond of such assurance
Her father on his knees should bid me take her.
(Looking at Falcone, who smiles as he reads.)
Falcone.
You shall not have the bond!
Tortesa.
Stirs him to this?) My lord, 'twere best the bridal
Took place upon the instant. Is your daughter
Ready within?
Falcone.
You'll never wed my daughter!
[Enter Isabella.]
Tortesa.
My lord!
Falcone.
My lofty Isabella! My fair child!
How dost thou, sweet?
Isabella
(embracing him).
Art well? I see thou art! Hast ridden hard?
My dear, dear father!
Falcone.
Some better news, my loved one!
To see you back again 's enough for now.
There can be no news better, and for this
Let's keep a holyday twixt this and sunset!
Shut up your letter and come see my flowers,
And hear my birds sing, will you?
Falcone.
Upon this first! (Holds up the letter.)
Isabella.
You and the duke did — where you slept, where ate,
Whether you dreamed of me — and, now I think on't,
Found you no wild-flowers as you crossed the mountain?
Falcone.
My own bright child! (Looks fondly upon
her.)
Tortesa.
To see the glover's daughter in your palace,
And your proud daughter houseless!)
Falcone
(to Isabella).
The news I have for you!
Tortesa
(advancing).
I'll take my own again!
Isabella.
I crave your pardon, sir; I saw you not!
(Oh hateful monster! — Aside.)
Falcone.
Signor Tortesa! It concerns you, trust me!
Isabella.
(Aside
— More of this hateful marriage!)
Tortesa.
My time is precious!
Falcone.
In twenty words. The duke has information,
By what means yet I know not, that my need
Spurs me to marry an unwilling daughter.
He bars the match! — redeems my lands and palace,
And has enriched the young Count Julian,
For whom he bids me keep my daughter's hand!
Kind, royal master! (Reads the note to himself.)
Isabella.
(Aside
— Never!)
Tortesa.
He's mad, or plays some trick to gain the time —
Or there's a woman hatching deviltry!
We'll see.) (Looks at Isabella.)
Isabella.
Then thrust upon a husband paid to take me!
To save my father I have weighed myself,
Heart, hand, and honor, against so much land! —
I — Isabella! I'm nor hawk nor hound,
And, if I change my master, I will choose him!
Tortesa.
(Aside
— She seems not over-pleased!)
Page.
I wait your answer to the duke!
Falcone.
Shall give it you herself. What sweet phrase have you,
Grateful and eloquent, to bear your thanks?
Speak, Isabella!
Isabella.
Courage, poor heart, and think on Angelo!)
(Advances suddenly to Tortesa.)
Signor Tortesa!
Tortesa.
Madam!
Isabella.
Is't yours, or no?
Tortesa.
There was a troth between us!
Isabella.
Is't broke?
Tortesa.
I have not broke it!
Isabella.
Mute as a statue, when 'tis struck asunder
Without our wish or knowledge? Would you be
Half so indifferent had you lost a horse?
Am I worth having?
Tortesa.
Is my life worth having?
Isabella.
Then are you robbed! Look to it!
Falcone.
Is she mad!
Tortesa.
You'll marry me?
Isabella.
I will!
Falcone.
What, shall my daughter wed a leprosy —
A bloated money-canker? Leave her hand!
Stand from him, Isabella!
Isabella.
This “leper” for a husband, three days gone;
I did not ask my heart if I could love him!
I took him with the meekness of a child,
Trusting my father! I was shut up for him —
Forced to receive no other company —
My wedding-clothes made, and the match proclaimed
Through Florence?
Falcone.
Do you love him? — tell me quickly!
Isabella.
To wed him!
Falcone.
I am dumb!
Tortesa.
At him again, 'Bel! Well! I've had misgivings
That there was food in me for ladies' liking.
I've been too modest!
Isabella.
(Aside
— Monster of disgust!)
Falcone.
Signor! you'll pardon me.
Isabella.
I'll follow straight.
[Exit Falcone.
Tortesa.
They're all alike! The same trick woos them all!)
Come to me, 'Bel!
Isabella
(coldy).
You'll find the priest here, and the bridesmaids waiting.
Till then, adieu!
[Exit.
Tortesa.
Sweetheart! I say! So! She would coy it with me!
Well, well, to-morrow! 'Tis not long, and kisses
Pay interest by seconds! There's a leg!
As she stood there, the calf showed handsomely.
Faith 'tis a shapely one! I wonder now,
Which of my points she finds most admirable!
Something I never thought on, like as not,
We do not see ourselves as others see us.
'Twould not surprise me now, if 'twere my beard —
My forehead! I've a hand indifferent white!
Nay, I've been told my waist was neatly turned.
We do not see ourselves as others see us!
How goes the hour? I'll home and fit my hose
To tie trim for the morrow. (Going out.) Hem! the door's
Lofty. I like that! I will have mine raised.
Your low door makes one stoop!
[Exit
3. ACT III.
SCENE I.
[Angelo discovered in his studio, painting upon the picture
of Isabella.]
Angelo.
I reel and faint with it. In what sweet world
Have I traced all its lineaments before?
I know them. Like a troop of long-lost friends,
My pencil wakes them with its eager touch,
And they spring up, rejoicing, oh, I'll gem
The heaven of Fame with my irradiate pictures,
Like kindling planets — but this glorious one
Shall be their herald, like the evening star,
First-lit, and lending of its fire to all.
The day fades — but the lamp burns on within me.
My bosom has no dark, no sleep, no change
To dream or calm oblivion. I work on
When my hand stops. The light teints fade. Good night,
Fair image of the fairest thing on earth,
Bright Isabella!
(Leans on the rod with which he guides his hand, and
remains looking at his picture.)
[Enter Tomaso, with two bags of money.]
Tomaso.
For the most excellent painter, Angelo, two
hundred ducats! The genius of my master flashes upon
me. The duke's greeting and two hundred ducats! If I
should not have died in my blindness but for this eye-water,
may I be hanged. (Looks at Angelo.) He is studying his
picture. What an air there is about him — lofty, unlike the
vulgar! Two hundred ducats! (Observes Angelo's hat on
the table.) It strikes me now that I can see genius in
that hat. It is not like a common hat. Not like a bought
(Weighs the ducats in his hand.)
Good heavy ducats.
What it is to refresh the vision! I have looked round, ere
now, in this very chamber, and fancied that the furniture
expressed a melancholy dulness. When he hath talked to
me of his pictures, I have seen the chairs smile. Nay, as
if ashamed to listen, the very table has looked foolish.
Now, all about me expresseth a choice peculiarity — as you
would say, how like a genius to have such chairs! What
a painter-like table! Two hundred ducats!
Angelo.
What hast thou for supper?
Tomaso.
Two hundred ducats, my great master!
Angelo
(absently).
A cup of wine! Wine, Tomaso!
[Sits down.
Tomaso.
(So would the great Donatello have sat upon his
chair! His legs thus! His hand falling thus!) (Aloud.)
There is naught in the cellar but stale beer, my illustrious
master! (Now, it strikes me that his shadow is unlike
another man's — of a pink tinge, somehow — yet that may be
fancy.)
Angelo.
Hast thou no money? Get wine, I say!
Tomaso.
I saw the duke in the market place, who
called me Angelo (we shall rue that trick yet), and with a
gracious smile asked me if thou hadst paid the twenty
flasks.
Angelo
(not listening).
Is there no wine?
Tomaso.
I said to his grace, no! Pray mark the sequel;
In pity of my thirst, the duke sends me two — ahem! — one
hundred ducats. Here they are!
Angelo.
Didst thou say the wine was on the lees?
Tomaso.
With these fifty ducats we shall buy nothing
but wine. (He will be rich with fifty.)
Angelo.
What saidst thou?
Tomaso.
I spoke of twenty ducats sent thee by the duke.
Wilt thou finger them ere one is spent?
Angelo.
I asked thee for wine — I am parched.
Tomaso.
Of these ten ducats, thinkst thou we might
spend one for a flask of better quality?
Angelo.
Lend me a ducat, if thou hast one, and buy
wine presently. Go!
Tomaso.
I'll lend it thee, willingly, my illustrious master.
It is my last, but as much mine as thine.
Angelo.
Go! Go!
Tomaso.
Yet wait! There's a scrap of news. Falcone's
daughter marries Tortesa, the usurer? To-morrow
is the bridal.
Angelo.
How?
Tomaso.
I learned it in the market-place! There will
be rare doings!
Angelo.
Dog! Villain! Thou hast lied! Thou dar'st
not say it!
Tomaso.
Hey! Art thou mad? Nay — borrow thy
ducat where thou canst! I'll spend that's my own. Adieu,
master!
(Exit Tomaso, and enter Tortesa with a complacent smile.)
Angelo.
Ha! — well arrived! [Draws his sword.
Tortesa.
Good eye, good Signor Painter.
Angelo.
You struck me yesterday.
Tortesa.
For which I'm truly sorry — but not you!
Angelo.
What are my bones that rot? Is this my hand? —
Is this my eye?
Tortesa.
I think so.
Angelo.
The hand and eye of Angelo are there!
There — there — (Points to his pictures) — immortal!
Wound me in the flesh,
I will forgive you upon fair excuse.
'Tis the earth round me — 'tis my shell — my house;
But in my picture lie my brain and heart —
My soul — my fancy. For a blow at these
There's no cold reparation. Draw, and quickly!
I'm in the mood to fight it to the death.
Stand on your guard!
Tortesa.
I will not fight with you.
Angelo.
Coward!
Tortesa.
I'm deaf.
Angelo.
Feel then!
(Tortesa catches the blow as he strikes him, and coldly flings
back his hand.)
Tortesa.
I'll call the guard, and cry out like a woman.
Angelo (turning from him contemptuously).
What seent of dog's meat brought me such a cur!
It is a whip I want, and not a sword.
Tortesa
(folding his arms).
The stake you quarrel for, that you may choose
Your words to please yourself. They'll please me, too.
Yet you're in luck. I killed a man on Monday
For spitting on my shadow. Thursday's sun
Will dry the insult, though it light on me!
Angelo.
Oh, subtle coward!
Tortesa.
So I'm alive to marry on the marrow!
'Tis well, by Jupiter! Shall you have power
With half a breath to pluck from me a wife!
Shall I, against a life as poor as yours —
Mine being precious as the keys of heaven —
Set all upon a throw, and no odds neither?
I know what honor is as well as you!
I know the weight and measure of an insult —
What it is worth to take or fling it back.
I have the hand to fight if I've a mind;
And I've a heart to shut my sunshine in,
And lock it from the scowling of the world,
Though all mankind cry “Coward!”
Angelo.
Mouthing braggart!
Tortesa.
Show me her picture! (Advances to look for it.)
Angelo.
By heaven's fair light, I'll kill you! [Draws.
Tortesa.
She loves me! and with that to make life precious,
I have the nerve to beat back Hercules,
If you were he!
Angelo (attacking him).
Tortesa (retreating on the defence).
Thy blows and words fall pointless! Nay thou'rt mad!
But I'll not harm thee for her picture's sake!
Angelo.
(Beats him off the stage and returns, closing the door
violently.)
(Takes Isabella's picture from the easel, and replaces it with
Zippa's.)
And come forth, Zippa, fair in honest truth!
I'll make thee beautiful!
(Takes his pencil and palette to point.)
[A knock is heard.]
[Enter Isabella, disguised as a monk.]
Isabella.
Good morrow, signor!
Angelo (turning sharply to the monk).
Might stir your blood — ha? You shall tell me, now,
Which of these heavenly features hides the soul!
There is one! I have worked upon the picture
Till my brain's thick — I can not see like you.
Where is't?
Isabella.
What does he, painting her!) Is't for its beauty
You paint that face, sir?
Angelo.
Look here! What see you in that face? The skin —
Isabella.
Brown as a vintage-girl's!
Angelo.
The mouth —
Isabella.
To eat and drink withal!
Angelo.
The eye is —
Isabella.
You'll buy a hundred like it for a penny!
Angelo.
A hundred eyes?
Isabella.
No. Hazel-nuts!
Angelo.
How find you that?
Isabella.
I'll cut as good a face out of an apple —
For all that's fair in it!
Were God's most blessed image did all eyes
Look on't like thine! Is't by the red and white —
Is't by the grain and tincture of the skin —
Is't by the hair's gloss, or the forehead's arching,
You know the bright inhabitant? I tell thee
The spark of their divinity in some
Lights up an inward face — so radiant,
The outward lineaments are like a veil
Floating before the sanctuary — forgot
In glimpses of the glory streaming through!
Isabella
(mournfully).
Is Zippa's face so radiant?
Angelo.
You see thro' all the countenance she's true!
Isabella.
True to you, signor!
Angelo.
Yet once, to me too! (Dejectedly.)
Isabella.
Have dared to love a man like Angelo!
I think she dare not. Yet if he, indeed,
Were the inconstant lover that she told of —
The youth who was “her neighbor!”) Please you, signor!
Was that fair maid your neighbor?
Angelo.
A loving sister were not half so kind!
I never supped without her company.
Yet she was modest as an unsunned lily,
And bounteous as the constant perfume of it.
Isabella.
Has falsehood there! Yet stay! If it were I
Who made him false to her? Alas, for honor,
I must forgive him — tho' my lips are weary
With telling Zippa how I thought him perjured!
I can not trust her more — I'll plot alone!)
(Turns, and takes her own picture from the wall.)
Isabella.
What picture's this, turned to the wall, good
signor?
Angelo.
A painted lie!
Isabella.
I spoke in haste. Methought 'twas like a lady
I'd somewhere seen! — a lady — Isabella!
But she was true!
Angelo.
For that's a likeness of as false a face
As ever devil did his mischief under.
Isabella.
You must have thought it fair to dwell so on it.
Angelo.
Tempted, while praying, by the shape of woman.
The painter knew that woman was the devil,
Yet drew her like an angel!
Isabella.
He praised my beauty as a painter may —
No more — in words. He praised me as he drew
Feature by feature. But who calls the lip
To answer for a perjured oath in love?
How should love breathe — how not die, choked for utterance,
If words were all. He loved me with his eyes.
He breathed it. Upon every word he spoke
Hung an unuttered worship that his tongue
Would spend a life to make articulate.
Did he not take my hand into his own?
And, as his heart sprang o'er that bridge of veins,
Did he not call to mine to pass him on it —
Each to the other's bosom! I have sworn
To love him — wed him — die with him — and yet
He never heard me — but he knows it well,
And, in his heart holds me to answer for it.
I'll try once more to find this anger out.
If it be jealousy — why — then, indeed,
He'll call me black, and I'll forgive it him!
For then my errand's done, and I'll away
To play the cheat out that shall make him mine.)
(Turns to Angelo.) Fair signor, by your leave, I've heard it said
That in the beauty of a human face
The God of Nature never writ a lie.
Angelo.
'Tis likely true!
Isabella.
Seem fair at first, a blemish on the soul
Has its betraying speck that warns you of it.
Angelo.
It should be so, indeed!
Isabella.
Will show at once if it be true or no.
At the first glance 'tis fair!
Angelo.
Most heavenly fair!
Isabella.
Something — I know not what — but in it lies
The devil you spoke of!
Angelo.
Not in her lip! Oh, no! Look elsewhere for it,
'Tis passionately bright — but lip more pure
Ne'er passed unchallenged through the gate of heaven.
Believe me, 'tis not there
Isabella.
I see a gleam not quite angelical
About the eye. Maybe the light falls wrong —
Angelo
(drawing her to another position).
Stand here! Dy'e see it now?
Isabella.
'Tis just so here!
Angelo
(sweeps the air with his brush).
That blurs your sight. Now, look again!
Isabella.
Just as before.
Angelo.
Under the lid. Try how it feels with winking.
Is't clear?
Isabella.
'Twas never clearer!
Angelo.
You'd best betake you to your prayers apace!
For you've a failing sight, death's sure foreunner —
And can not pray long. Why, that eye's a star,
Sky-lit as Hesperus, and burns as clear.
If you e'er marked the zenith at high noon,
Or midnight, when the blue lifts up to God —
Her eye's of that far darkness!
Isabella
(smiling aside).
A blur was on my sight, which passing from it,
I see as you do. Yes — the eye is clear.
The forehead only, now I see so well,
Has in its arch a mark infallible
Of a false heart beneath it.
Angelo.
Show it to me!
Isabella.
Between the eyebrows there!
Angelo.
Whereon the Savior's finger might have writ
The new commandment. When I painted it
I plucked a just-blown lotus from the shade,
And shamed the white leaf till it seemed a spot —
The brow was so much fairer! Go! old man,
Thy sight fails fast. Go! go!
Isabella.
Is't not?
Angelo.
No!
Isabella.
It makes it seem so!
Angelo.
Thou'rt one of those whose own deformity
Makes all thou seest look monstrous. Go and pray
For a clear sight, and read thy missal with it.
Thou art a priest, and livest by the altar,
Yet dost thou recognise God's imprest seal,
Set on that glorious beauty!
Isabella.
Loves me as genius loves — ransacking earth
And ruffling the forbidden flowers of Heaven
To make celestial incense of his praise.
High-thoughted Angelo! He loves we well!
With what a gush of all my soul I thank him —
But he's to win yet, and the time is precious.)
(To Angelo.) Signor, I take my leave.
Angelo.
And, if thou com'st again, bring new eyes with thee,
Or thou wilt find scant welcome.
Isabella.
These same eyes well enough when next I come!
[Exit.
From sight once more, for till he made me look on't
I did not know my weakness. Once more, Zippa,
I'll dwell on thy dear face, and with my pencil
Make thee more fair than life, and try to love thee!
(A knock.)
Come in!
[Enter Zippa.]
Zippa.
Good day, Signor Angelo!
Angelo.
Why, Zippa! is't thou? is't thou, indeed!
Zippa.
Myself, dear Angelo!
Angelo.
Art well?
Zippa.
Ay!
Angelo.
Hast been well!
Zippa.
Ay!
Angelo.
Then why, for three long days, hast thou not
been near me?
Zippa.
Ask thyself, Signor Angelo!
Angelo.
I have — a hundred times since I saw thee.
Zippa.
And there was no answer?
Angelo.
None!
Zippa.
Then shouldst thou have asked the picture on
thy easel!
Angelo.
Nay — I understand thee not.
Zippa.
Did I not find thee feasting thy eyes upon it?
Angelo.
True — thou didst?
Zippa.
And art thou not enamored of it — wilt tell me
truly?
Angelo
(smiling).
'Tis a fair face!
Zippa.
Oh, unkind Angelo!
Angelo.
Look on't! and, seeing its beauty, if thou dost
not forgive me, I will never touch pencil to it more.
Zippa.
I'll neither look on't, nor forgive thee. But if
thou wilt love the picture of another better than mine, thou
shalt paint a new one!
(As she rushes up to dash it from the easel, Angelo catches
her arm, and points to the picture. She looks at it, and,
seeing her own portrait, turns and falls on his bosom.)
My picture! and I thought thee so false! Dear, dear
Angelo! I could be grieved to have wronged thee, if joy
would give me time. But thou'lt forgive me?
Angelo.
Willingly! Willingly!
Zippa.
And thou lovest me indeed, indeed! Nay, answer
not! I will never doubt thee more! Dear Angelo!
Yet — (Suddenly turns from Angelo with a troubled air.)
Angelo.
What ails thee now?
(Zippa takes a rich veil from under her cloak, throws it
over her head, and looks on the ground in embarrassed
silence.)
Dost thou stand there for a picture of Silence?
Zippa.
Alas! dear Angelo! When I said I forgave
and loved thee, I forgot that I was to be married to-morrow!
Angelo.
Married! to whom?
Zippa.
Tortesa, the usurer!
Angelo.
Tortesa, saidst thou?
Zippa.
Think not ill of me, dear Angelo, till I have
told thee all! This rich usurer, as thou knowest, would for
ambition marry Isabella de Falcone.
Angelo.
He would, I know.
Zippa.
But for love, he would marry your poor Zippa.
Angelo.
Know you that?
Zippa.
He told me so the day you angered me with the
praises of the court lady you were painting. What was
her name, Angelo?
Angelo
(composedly).
I — I'll tell thee presently! Go on!
Zippa.
Well — jealous of this unknown lady, I vowed,
if it broke my heart, to wed Tortesa. He had told me
Isabella scorned him. I flew to her palace. She heard
me, pitied me, agreed to plot with me that I might wed the
usurer, and then told me in confidence that there was a
poor youth whom she loved and would fain marry.
Angelo
(in breathless anxiety).
Heard you his name?
Zippa.
No! But as I was to wed the richer and she
the poorer, she took my poor veil, and gave me her rich
one. Now canst thou read the riddle?
Angelo.
(Aside
— A “poor youth!” What if it is I?
he “loves and will wed him!” Oh! if it were I!)
Zippa.
Nay, dear Angelo! be not so angry! I do not
love him! Nay — thou know'st I do not!
Angelo.
(Aside
— It may be — nay — it must! But I will
know! If not, I may as well die of that as of this jealous
madness.)
(Prepares to go out.)
Zippa.
Angelo! where go you? Forgive me, dear
Angelo! I swear to thee I love him not!
Angelo.
I'll know who that poor youth is, or suspense
will kill me!
(Goes out hastily, without a look at Zippa. She stands
silent and amazed for a moment.)
Zippa.
Why cares he to know who that poor youth is!
“Suspense will kill him?” Stay! a light breaks on me!
If Isabella were the court lady whom he painted! If it
were Angelo whom she loved! He is a poor youth! — The
picture! The picture will tell all!
(Hurriedly turns round several pictures turned to the wall,
and last of all, Isabella's. Looks at it an instant, and
exclaims) —
Isabella!
(She drops on her knees, overcome with grief, and the scene
closes.)
SCENE II.
[A Lady's dressing-room in the Falcone Palace. Isabella
discovered with two vials.]
Isabella.
The keenest-eyed will think the sleeper dead, —
And this kills quite. Lie ready, trusty friends,
Close by my bridal veil! I thought to baffle
My ruffian bridegroom by an easier cheat;
But Zippa's dangerous, and if I fail
In mocking death, why death indeed be welcome!
(Enter Zippa angrily.)
Zippa.
Madam!
Isabella.
You come rudely!
Zippa.
Yet as the “friend” to whom you gave a husband,
(So kind you were!) I might come unannounced!
Isabella.
What is this anger?
Zippa.
Oh no! I'm patient!
Isabella.
What's your errand, then?
Zippa.
And take my mean one.
Isabella.
'Twas you that plotted we should wed together —
You in my place, and I in yours — was't not?
Zippa.
You're noble born, and so your face is marble —
I'm poor, and if my heart aches, 'twill show through.
You've robbed me, madam!
Isabella.
I?
Zippa.
Gold that would stretch the fancy but to dream of,
And gems like stars!
Isabella.
You're mad!
Zippa.
Oh, what had you to do with Angelo?
Isabella.
What should you do with Angelo?
Zippa.
You are a woman though your brow's a rock,
And know what love is. In a ring of fire
The tortured scorpion stings himself, to die —
But love will turn upon itself, and grow
Of its own fang immortal!
Isabella.
To wed another?
Zippa.
What makes a right in anything, but pain?
The diver's agony beneath the sea
Makes the peril his — pain gets the miser's gold —
The noble's coronet won first in battle,
Is his by bleeding for't — and Angelo
Is ten times mine because I gave him up —
Crushing my heart to do so!
Against yourself. Say it would kill me quite,
If you should wed him? Mine's the greater pain,
And so the fairer title!
Zippa (falling on her knees).
Love him no more! Upon my knees I do!
He's not like you! Look on your snow-white arms!
They're formed to press a noble to your breast —
Not Angelo! He's poor — and fit for mine!
You would not lift a beggar to your lips! —
You would not lean from your proud palace-stairs
To pluck away a heart from a poor girl
Who has no more on earth!
Isabella.
I will not answer!
Zippa.
Pastime! You think on't when the dance is o'er —
When there's no revel — when your hair's unbound,
And its bright jewels with the daylight pale —
You want a lover to press on the hours
That lag till night again! But I —
Isabella.
I love him better than you've soul to dream of!
Zippa (rising).
That shines amid a thousand just as bright!
What's one amid your crowd of worshippers?
The glow-worm's bright — but oh! 'tis wanton murder
To raise him to the giddy air you breathe,
And leave his mate in darkness!
Isabella.
Soar from the earth on his own wing — what then?
Zippa.
You've stolen my life, and you can give it back!
Will you — for Heaven's sweet pity?
Isabella.
(Aside — I pity her — but on this fatal love
Hangs my life, too.) What right have such as you
To look with eyes of love on Angelo?
Zippa.
What right?
Isabella.
Has made you fit to climb into the sky —
A moth — and look with love upon a star!
Zippa (mournfully).
I'm lowly born, alas!
Isabella.
Forget your anger and come near me, Zippa,
For e'er I'm done you'll wonder! Have you ever,
When Angelo was silent, marked his eye —
How, of a sudden, as 'twere touched with fire,
There glows unnatural light beneath the lid?
Zippa.
I have — I've thought it strange!
Isabella.
When he has turned his head, as if to list
To music in the air — but you heard none —
And presently a smile stole through his lips,
And some low words, inaudible to you,
Fell from him brokenly.
Zippa.
Ay — many times!
Isabella.
With voice unlike his own — so melancholy,
And yet so sweet a voice, that, were it only
The inarticulate moaning of a bird,
The very tone of it had made you weep?
Zippa.
'Tis strangely true, indeed!
Isabella.
Yet never dreamt it was a spirit of light
Familiar with you!
Zippa.
How?
Isabella.
Who walk this common world, and want, as we do —
Here, in our streets — all seraph, save in wings —
The look, the speech, the forehead like a god —
And he the brightest!
Zippa (incredulously).
Nay — I've known him long!
Isabella.
Farther to flee to than the stars in heaven.
Which Angelo can walk as we do this —
And does — while you look on him!
Zippa.
Angelo!
Isabella.
Without a thousand messengers from thence!
(O block! to live with him, and never dream on't!)
He plucks the sun's rays open like a thread,
And knows what stains the rose and not the lily —
He never sees a flower but he can tell
Its errand on the earth — (they all have errands —
You know not that, oh dulness!) He sees shapes
Flushed with immortal beauty in the clouds —
(You've seen him mock a thousand on his canvass,
And never wondered!) Yet you talk of love!
What love you?
Zippa.
Take you the dream and give me Angelo!
You may talk of him till my brain is giddy —
But oh, you can not praise him out of reach
Of my true heart. — He's here, as low as I! —
Shall he not wed a woman, flesh and blood?
Isabella.
Born by the low nest of an unfledged lark.
They lived an April youth amid the grass —
The soft mole happy, and the lark no less,
And thought the bent sky leaned upon the flowers.
By early May the fledgling got his wings;
And, eager for the light, one breezy dawn,
Sprang from his nest, and buoyantly away,
Fled forth to meet the morning. Newly born
Seemed the young lark, as in another world
Of light, and song, and creatures like himself,
He soared and dropped, and sang unto the sun,
And pitied everything that had not wings —
But most the mole, that wanted even eyes
To see the light he floated in!
Zippa.
She watched his nest, and fed him when he came —
Would it were Angelo and I indeed!
Isabella.
There was no echo at the height he flew!
And when the mist lay heavy on his wings
His song broke, and his flights were brief and low —
And the dull mole, that should have sorrowed with him,
Joyed that he sang at last where she could hear!
Zippa.
Why, happy mole again!
Isabella.
He found a mate that loved him for his wings!
One who with feebler flight, but eyes still on him,
Caught up his dropped song in the middle air,
And, with the echo, cheered him to the sun!
Zippa.
I was the blind mole of her hateful story!
No, no! he never loved me! True, we ate,
And laughed, and danced together — but no love —
He never told his thought when he was sad!
His folly and his idleness were mine —
No more! The rest was locked up in his soul!
I feel my heart grow black!) Fair madam, thank you!
You've told me news! (She shall not have him neither,
If there's a plot in hate to keep him from her!
I must have room to think, and air to breathe —
I choke here!) Madam, the blind mole takes leave!
Isabella.
[Exit Zippa.
(Takes the vial from the table.)
I'll to my chamber with this drowsy poison,
And from my sleep I wake up Angelo's,
Or wake no more!
[Exit.
4. ACT IV.
SCENE I.
[A sumptuous Drawing-room in the Falcone Palace.
Guests assembled for the bridal. Lords and ladies
promenading, and a band of musicians in a gallery at
the side of the stage.]
1st Lord.
Affect this tardiness?
We're bid at twelve.
1st Lord.
'Tis now past one. At least we should have
music
To wile the time. (To the musicians.) Strike up, good
fellows!
2d Lord.
A man who's only drest on holydays
Makes a long toilet. Now, I'll warrant he
Has vexed his tailor since the break of day
Hoping to look a gentleman. D'ye know him?
1st Lord.
I've never had occasion!
2d Lord.
He'd give the best blood in his veins, I think,
To say as much!
1st Lord.
Among the instruments. Will they not play?
2d Lord.
To strike up when they hear Tortesa's horses
Prance thro' the gateway — not a note till then!
(Music plays.)
1st Lord.
He comes!
(Enter Tortesa, dressed over-richly.)
Tortesa.
Good day, my lords!
1st Lord.
Good day!
2d Lord.
Smiles on you, signor! 'Tis a happy omen
They say, to wed in sunshine.
Tortesa.
The sun is not displeased that I should wed.
1st Lord.
We're happy, sir, to have you one of us.
Tortesa.
Before I saw your faces! Where's the change?
Have I a tail since? Am I grown a monkey?
(Lords whisper together, and walk from him.)
And melt the mark of gentleman from clowns!
It puts me out of patience! Here's a fellow
That by much rubbing against better men,
Has, like a penny in a Jew's close pocket,
Stolen the color of a worthier coin,
And thinks he rings like sterling courtesy!
Yet look! he can not phrase you a good morrow,
Or say he's sad, or glad, at anything,
But close beneath it, rank as verdigris,
Lies an insulting rudeness! He was “happy”
That I should now be one of them. Now! Now!
As if, till now, I'd been a dunghill grub,
And was but just turned butterfly!
(A Lady advances.)
Lady.
I must take leave to say, were you my brother,
You've made the choice that would have pleased me best!
Your bride's as good as fair.
Tortesa.
To be your friend, she should be — good and fair!
(The Lady turns, and walks up the stage.)
Falls the apt word of woman! So! her “brother!”
Why, there could be no contumely there!
I might, for all I look, have been her brother,
Else her first thought had never coupled us.
I'll pluck some self-contentment out of that!
(Enter suddenly the count's secretary.)
I'm sent, sir, with unwelcome tidings.
Tortesa.
Deliver them the quicker!
Secretary.
Too sudden at the slowest.
Tortesa.
I'm not a girl! Out with your news at once!
Are my ships lost?
Secretary (hesitatingly).
The lady Isabella —
Tortesa.
What? run away!
Secretary.
Alas, good sir! she's dead!
Tortesa.
Can not a lady faint, but there must be
A trumpeter like thee to make a tale on't?
Secretary.
Pardon me, signor, but —
Tortesa.
Who sent you hither?
Secretary.
My lord the count.
Tortesa (turning quickly aside).
That if by any humor of my own,
Or accident that sprang not from himself,
Or from his daughter's will, the match were marred,
His tenure stood intact. If she were dead —
I don't believe she is — but if she were,
By one of those strange chances that do happen
If she were dead, I say, the silly fish
That swims with safety among hungry sharks
To run upon the pin-hook of a boy,
Might teach me wisdom!
(The secretary comes forward, narrating eagerly to the
company.)
Secretary.
She had refused to let her bridesmaids in —
Lady.
And died alone?
Secretary.
Was with her, and none else. She dropped away,
The girl said, in a kind of weary sleep.
1st Lord.
Was no one told of it?
Secretary.
And thought she slept still; till, the music sounding,
She shook her by the sleeve, but got no answer;
And so the truth broke on her!
Tortesa.
The plot is something shallow!)
2d Lord.
And see her as she lies!
Secretary.
Who should have married her, has checked all comers,
And staying for no shroud but bridal dress,
He bears her presently to lie in state
In the Falcone chapel.
Tortesa.
They take me for a fool!)
1st Lord.
But why such haste?
Secretary.
I know not.
All.
Let us to the chapel!
Tortesa.
(Drawing his sword, and stepping between them
and the door.)
Let no one try to pass!
1st Lord.
What mean you, sir!
Tortesa.
Pat to the tongue — the truth on't and no more!
Lady.
Have you a doubt the bride is dead, good
signor?
Tortesa.
When I am told a tradesman's daughter's dead,
I know the coffin holds an honest corse,
Sped in sad earnest, to eternity.
But were I stranger in the streets to-day,
And heard that an ambitious usurer,
With lands and money having bought a lady
High-born and fair, she died before the bridal,
I would lay odds with him that told me of it
She'd rise again — before the resurrection.
So stand back all! If I'm to fill to-day
The pricking ears of Florence with a lie,
The bridal guests shall tell the tale so truly,
And mournfully, from eyesight of the corse,
That even the shrewdest listener shall believe,
And I myself have no misgiving of it.
Look! where they come!
(Door opens to funereal music, and the body of Isabella is
borne in, preceded by a monk, and followed by Falcone and
mourners. Tortesa confronts the Monk.)
What's this you bear away?
Monk.Follow the funeral, but stay it not.
Tortesa.
I ask to see her face before she pass!
Monk.
Stand from the way, my son, it can not be!
Tortesa.
See what you do! I stand a bridegroom here.
A moment since the joyous music playing
Which promised me a fair and blushing bride.
And while my heart beats at the opening door,
And eagerly I look to see her come, —
There enters in her stead a covered corse!
And when I ask to look upon her face —
One look before my bride is gone for ever, —
You find it in your hearts to say me nay! —
Shame! Shame!
Falcone (fiercely).
Lead on!
Tortesa.
By contract writ and sealed — by value rendered —
By her own promise — nay, by all, save taking,
This body's mine! I'll have it set down here
And wait my pleasure! See it done, my lord,
Or I will, for you!
Monk (to the bearers).
Set the body down!
Tortesa (takes the veil from the face).
If o'er the azure temper of this blade
There come no mist, when laid upon her lips,
I'll do a penance for irreverence,
And fill your sack with penitential gold!
Look well!
(Puts his sword blade to Isabella's lips, and after watching
it with intense interest a moment, drops on his knees beside
the bier.)
[The procession starts again to funereal music, and Tortesa
follows last.)
SCENE II.
[A Street in Florence. The funereal music dying away
in the distance. Enter Zippa, straining her eyes to look
after it.]
Zippa.
Laying his forehead almost on her bier!
His heart goes with her to the grave! Oh Heaven!
Will not Tortesa pluck out of his hand
The tassel of that pall?
(She hears a footstep.)
Stay, stay, he's here!
(Enter Tortesa, musing. Zippa stands aside.)
Tortesa.
I've learned to-day that grief may kill a lady;
Which touches me the most I can not say,
For I could fight Falcone for my loss,
Or weep, with all my soul, for Isabella.
(Zippa touches him on the shoulder.)
Zippa.How is't the signor follows not his bride?
Tortesa.
I fell to musing, and so dropped behind —
But here's a sight I have not seen to-day!
(Takes her hand smilingly.)
Zippa.What's that?
Tortesa.
Art well? What errand brings thee forth?
Zippa.
But passing by the funeral, I stopped,
Wondering to see the bridegroom lag behind,
And give his sacred station next the corse
To an obtrusive stranger.
Tortesa.
Which is he?
Zippa (points after Angelo).
Look there!
Tortesa.
Who is't?
Zippa.
That you have, to see through that mumming cloak
The shadow of it would speak out his name!
Tortesa.
What mean you?
Zippa.
To weep in public at her funeral?
Tortesa.
The painter?
Zippa.
Was't not enough to dare to love her living,
But he must fling the insult of his tears
Betwixt her corse and you? Are you not moved?
Will you not go and pluck him from your place?
Tortesa.
To grief than anger. I've in this half hour
Remembered much I should have thought on sooner, —
For, had I known her heart was capable
Of breaking for the love of one so low,
I would have done as much to make her his
As I have done, in hate, to make her mine.
She loved him, Zippa! (Walks back in thought.)
Zippa.
To pluck that fatal beauty from his eyes!
'Tis twilight, and the lamp is lit above her,
And Angelo will watch the night out there,
Gazing with passionate worship on her face.
But no! he shall not!)
Tortesa (advancing).
Vexes your brain now?
Zippa.
As other men's to see an insult, signor!
I had been spared the telling of my thought.
Tortesa.
You put it sharply!
Zippa.
That there should follow, in your place of mourner,
A youth, who, by the passion of his grief,
Shows to the world he's more bereaved than you!
Tortesa.
Humph! well!
Zippa.
And in the chapel where she lies to-night,
Her features bared to the funereal lamp,
He'll, like a mourning bridegroom, keep his vigil,
As if all Florence knew she was his own.
Tortesa.
The door is never locked upon the dead
Till bell and mass consign them to the tomb;
And custom gives the privilege to all
To enter in and pray — and so may he.
Zippa.
My lips the telling. Question me not how,
But I have chanced to learn, that Angelo,
To-night, will steal the body from its bier!
Tortesa.
If he's enamored of the corse, 'tis there —
And he may watch it till its shape decay,
And holy church will call it piety.
But he who steals from consecrated ground,
Dies, by the law of Florence. There's no end
To answer in't.
Zippa.
You think not with what wild, delirious passion
A painter thirsts to tear the veil from beauty.
He painted Isabella as a maid,
Coy as a lily turning from the sun.
Now she is dead, and, like a star that flew
Flashing and hiding thro' some fleecy rack,
But suddenly sits still in cloudless heavens,
She slumbers fearless in his steadfast gaze,
Peerless and unforbidding. O, to him
She is no more your bride! A statue fairer
Than ever rose enchanted from the stone,
Lies in that dim-lit chapel, clad like life.
Are you too slow to take my meaning yet?
He can not loose the silken boddice there!
He can not, there, upon the marble breast
Shower the dark locks from the golden comb!
Tortesa.
Hold!
Zippa.
In stealing her away from holy ground?
Will you not lock your bride up from his touch?
Tortesa.
Perchance it is not true. But twilight falls,
And I will home to doff this bridal gear,
And, after, set a guard upon the corse.
We'll walk together. Come!
Zippa.
(Aside
— He shall not see her!)
[Exeunt
SCENE III.
[A Street in front of the Falcone Palace. Night. Enter
Isabella in her white bridal dress. She falters to her
father's door, and drops exhausted.]
The night's cold, chilly cold. Would I could reach
The house of Angelo! Alas! I thought
He would have kept one night of vigil near me,
Thinking me dead. Bear up, good heart! Alas!
I faint! Where am I? (Looks around.)
'Tis my father's door.
My undirected feet have brought me home —
And I must in, or die! (Knocks with a painful effort.)
So ends my dream!
Falcone (from above).
Who's that would enter to a mourning house?
Isabella.
Your daughter!
Falcone.
Ha! what voice is that I hear?
Isabella.
Poor Isabella's.
Falcone.
That with unnatural heart I killed my daughter?
Just Heaven! thy retribution follows fast!
But oh, if holy and unnumbered masses
Can give thee rest, perturbed and restless spirit!
Haunt thou a weeping penitent no more!
Depart! I'll in, and pass the night in prayer!
So shalt thou rest! Depart!
(He closes the window, and Isabella drops with her forehead
to the marble stair.)
(Enter Tomaso, with a bottle in his hand.)
Tomaso.
It's like the day after the deluge. Few
stirring and nobody dry. I've been since twilight looking
for somebody that would drink. Not a beggar athirst in
all Florence! I thought that, with a bottle in my hand, I
should be scented like a wild boar. I expected drunkards
would have come up out of the ground — like worms in a
shower. When was I ever so difficult to find by a moist
friend? Two hundred ducats in good wine and no companion!
I'll look me up a dry dog. I'll teach him to tipple,
and give up the fellowship of mankind.
Isabella (faintly).
Signor!
Tomaso.
Hey! What!
Isabella.
Help, signor!
Tomaso.
A woman! Ehem! (Approaching her.) Would
you take something to drink by any chance? (Offers her
the bottle.) No? Perhaps you don't like to drink out of
the bottle.
Isabella.
I perish of cold!
Tomaso.
Stay! Here's a cloak! My master's out for
the night, and you shall home with me. Come! Perhaps
when you get warmer, you'd like to drink a little. The
wine's good! (Assists her in rising.) By St. Genevieve,
a soft hand! Come! I'll bring you where there's fire and
a clean flagon.
Isabella.
To any shelter, signor!
Tomaso.
Shelter! nay, a good house, and two hundred
ducats in ripe wine. Steady now! (This shall pass for a
good action! If my master smell a rat, I'll face him out
the woman's honest!) This way, now! Softly! That's
well stepped! Come!
(Goes out, assisting her to walk.)
5. ACT V.
SCENE I.
[Angelo's Studio. A full-length picture, in a large frame,
stands on the floor against an easel, placed nearly in the
centre of the room. Two curtains, so arranged as to cover
the picture when drawn together. Angelo stands in an
imploring attitude near the picture, his pencil and palette
in his hands, appealing to Isabella, who is partly turned
from him in an attitude of refusal. The back wall of the
room such as to form a natural ground for a picture.]
Angelo.
Hear me, sweet!
Isabella.
And waste the hours in love and idleness.
You shall not paint to-day, dear Angelo!
Angelo.
But listen!
Isabella.
For all you give to that is stolen from me.
I like not half a look that turns away
Without an answer from the eyes it met!
I care not you should see my lips' bright color
Yet wait not for the breath that floats between!
Angelo.
Wilt listen?
Isabella.
But there's a pencil in those restless fingers,
Which you've a trick of touching to your lips —
And while you talk, my hand would do as well!
And if it's the same tale you told before
Of certain vigils you forgot to keep,
Look deep into my eyes till it is done —
For, like the children's Lady-in-the-well,
I only hark because you're looking in!
Will you talk thus to me?
Angelo.
But close upon thy voice, sweet Isabella!
A boding whisper sinks into mine ear
Which tells of sudden parting! If 'tis false, —
We shall have still a lifetime for our love,
But if 'tis true, oh think that, in my picture,
Will lie the footprint of an angel gone!
Let me but make it clearer!
Isabella.
I think thou lov'st the picture, and not me!
So different am I, that, did I think
To lose thee presently, by death or parting,
For thy least word, or look, or slightest motion —
Nay, for so little breath as makes a sigh
I would not take, to have it pass untreasured.
The empire of a star!
(While she was uttering this reproach. Angelo has looked
at her with delight, and touched his portrait with a few
rapid strokes.)
Angelo.
(Throws his pencil to the ground.)
On earth, again, do miracle so fair!
Oh Isabella! as the dusky ore
Waits for the lightning's flash to turn to gold —
As the dull vapor waits for Hesperus,
Then falls in dew-drops, and reflects a star —
So waited I that fire upon thy lips,
To make my masterpiece complete in beauty!
Isabella.
The fancy flattering where the heart should murmur.
I think you have no heart!
Angelo.
The heart is ever lowly with the fortunes,
Tho' the proud mind sits level with a king!
I gave you long ago both heart and soul,
But only one has dared to speak to you!
Yet, if astonishment will cure the dumb,
Give it a kiss —
Isabella (smiling).
(A loud knock is heard.)
(He flies to the window, and looks out.)
Angelo.Alas! that warning voice! They've traced thee hither!
Lost! Lost!
Isabella.
No! no! defend thy picture only,
And all is well yet!
Angelo.
(Draws his sword, and stands before the curtain in an attitude
of defiance. Enter Tortesa with officers and guard.)
Tortesa.
For, by your drawn sword and defying air,
Your conscious thought foretells it.
Angelo.
(You took one, signor, when you last were here —
If you've forgot it, well!) — but, commonly,
The giver of a blow needs have his sword
Promptly in hand. You'll pardon me!
Tortesa.
For, if my fears are just, good signor painter!
You've not a life to spare upon a quarrel!
In brief, the corse of a most noble lady
Was stolen last night from holy sanctuary.
And, should the body not be found therein,
I'm bid to see the picture of the lady —
Whereon (pray, mark me!) if I find a trace
Of charms fresh copied, more than may beseem
The modest beauty of a living maid,
I may arrest you on such evidence
For instant trial!
Angelo.
But, for my picture, though a moment's glance
Upon its pure and hallowed loveliness
Would give the lie to your foul thought of me,
It is the unseen virgin of my brain!
And as th' inviolate person of a maid
Is sacred ev'n in presence of the law,
My picture is my own — to bare or cover!
Look on it at your peril!
Tortesa (to the guard).
Take his sword.
(The guards attack and disarm him.)
Angelo.
Coward and villain!
(Tortesa parts the curtains with his sword, and Angelo
starts amazed to see Isabella, with her hands crossed on
her breast, and her eyes fixed on the ground, standing
motionless in the frame which had contained his picture.
The tableau deceives Tortesa, who steps back to contemplate
what he supposes to be the portrait of his bride.)
Tortesa.
'Tis Isabella's self! Why, this is wondrous!
The brow, the lip, the countenance — how true!
I would have sworn that gloss upon the hair,
That shadow from the lash, were nature's own —
Impossible to copy! (Looks at it a moment in silence.)
Yet methinks
The color on the cheek is something faint!
Angelo
(hurriedly).
Step this way farther!
Tortesa
(changing his position).
The hand is not as white as Isabella's —
But painted to the life! If there's a feature
That I would touch again, the lip, to me,
Seems wanting in a certain scornfulness
Native to her! It scarcely marred her beauty.
Perhaps 'tis well slurred over in a picture!
Yet stay! I see it, now I look again!
How excellently well!
(Guards return from searching the house.)
Soldier (holding up Isabella's veil).
This bridal veil — no more.
Angelo
(despairingly).
Oh! luckless star!
Tortesa.
With all my soul! This veil, I know it well —
Was o'er the face of that unhappy lady
When laid in sanctuary. You are silent!
Perhaps you scorn to satisfy me here!
I trust you can — in your extremity!
But I must bring you to the duke! Lead on!
Angelo.
An instant!
Tortesa
(courteously).
At your pleasure!
Angelo
(to Isabella, as he passes close to her).
By all our love, stir not!
Isabella
(still motionless).
Farewell!
(Tortesa motions for Angelo to precede him with the guard,
looks once more at the picture, and with a gesture expressive
of admiration, follows. As the door closes, Isabella
steps from the frame.)
Isabella.
Close on thy steps, beloved Angelo!
And find a way to bring thee home again!
My heart is light, and hope speaks cheerily!
And lo! bright augury! — a friar's hood
For my disguise! Was ever omen fairer!
Thanks! my propitious star!
(Envelops herself in the hood, and goes out hastily.)
SCENE II.
[A Street. Enter Tomaso, with his hat crushed and pulled
sulkily over his eyes, his clothes dirty on one side, and
other marks of having slept in the street. Enter Zippa
from the other side, meeting him.]
Zippa.
Tomaso! Is't thou? Where's Angelo?
Tomaso.
It is I, and I don't know!
Zippa.
Did he come home last night?
Tomaso.
“Did he come home!” Look there! (Pulls
off his hat and shows his dirty side.)
Zippa.
Then thou hast slept in the street!
Tomaso.
Ay!
Zippa.
And what has that to do with the coming home
of Angelo?
Tomaso.
What had thy father to do with thy having
such a nose as his!
(Zippa holds up a ducat to him.)
What! gave thy mother a ducat? — cheap as dirt!
Zippa.
Blockhead, no! I'll give thee the ducat if thou
wilt tell me, straight on, what thou know'st of Angelo!
Tomaso.
I will — and thou shalt see how charity is
rewarded.
Zippa.
Begin! — begin!
Tomaso.
Last night, having prayed later than usual at
vespers —
Zippa.
Ehem!
Tomaso.
I was coming home in a pious frame of mind —
Zippa.
— And a bottle in thy pocket.
Tomaso.
No! — in my hand. What should I stumble
over —
Zippa.
— But a stone.
Tomaso.
A woman!
Zippa.
Fie! what's this you're going to tell me?
Tomaso.
She was dying with cold. Full of Christian
charity —
Zippa.
— And new wine.
Tomaso.
Old wine, Zippa! The wine was old!
Zippa.
Well!
Tomaso.
I took her home.
Zippa.
Shame! — at thy years?
Tomaso.
And Angelo being out for the night —
Zippa.
There! there! you may skip the particulars.
Tomaso.
I say my own bed being in the garret —
Zippa.
Well, well!
Tomaso.
I put her into Angelo's.
Zippa.
Oh, unspeakable impudence! Didst thou do that?
Tomaso.
I had just left her to make a wine posset
(for she was well nigh dead), when in popped my master,
— finds her there — asks no questions, — kicks me into the
street, and locks the door! There's the reward of virtue!
Zippa.
Did he not turn out the woman, too?
Tomaso.
Not as I remember.
Zippa.
Oh worse and worse! And thou hast not seen
him since?
Tomaso.
I found me a soft stone, said my prayers, and
went to sleep.
Zippa.
And hast thou not scen him to-day?
Tomaso.
Partly, I have!
Zippa.
Where? Tell me quickly!
Tomaso.
Give me the ducat.
Zippa
(gives it to him).
Quick! say on!
Tomaso.
I have a loose recollection, that, lying on that
stone Angelo called me by name. Looking up, I saw two
Angelos, and two Tortesas, and soldiers with two spears
each. (He figures in the air with his finger as if trying to
remember.)
Zippa.
(Aside
— Ha! he is apprehended for the murder
of Isabella! Say that my evidence might save his life!
Not unless he love me!) What way went he, Tomaso?
(Tomaso points.)
This way? (Then has he gone to be tried before the
duke.) Come with me, Tomaso! Come.
Tomaso.
Where?
Zippa.
To the duke's palace! Come! (Takes his arm.)
Tomaso.
To the duke's palace? There'll be kicking of
heels in the anti-chamber! — Dry work! I'll spend thy ducat
as we go along. Shall it be old wine, or new? [Exeunt.
SCENE III.
[Hall of judgment in the ducal palace. The duke upon a
raised throne on the left. Falcone near his chair, and
Angelo on the opposite side of the stage with a guard.
Isabella behind the guard, disguised as a monk. Tortesa
stands near the centre of the stage, and Zippa and Tomaso
in the left corner, listening eagerly. Counsellors at a table,
and crowd of spectators at the sides and rear.]
Are there more witnesses?
Counsellor.
No more, my liege!
Duke.
None for the prisoner?
Counsellor.
Beyond a firm denial.
Falcone.
Another proof, my liege, that he is guilty?
Duke.
(To the counsellor.) Sum up the evidence.
(He reads.)
Counsellor.
That for no honest or sufficient end,
The pris'ner practised on your noble grace
And Count Falcone a contrived deceit,
Whereby he gained admittance to the lady.
(Tomaso exhibits signs of alarm.)
Duke.
Most true!
Counsellor.
He had continual access to the palace;
And, having grown enamored of the bride,
Essayed by plots that never were matured,
And quarrels often forced on her betrothed,
To stay the bridal. That, against the will
Of her most noble father and the duke,
The bride was resolute to keep her troth;
And so, preparing for the ceremony,
Upon her bridal morning was found dead.
'Tis proved again — that, while she lay in state,
The guard, at several periods of the night,
Did force the pris'ner from the chapel door;
And when the corse was stolen from sanctuary
All search was vain, till, in the pris'ner's hands
Was found the veil that shrouded her. To these
And lighter proofs of sacrilege and murder
The prisoner has opposed his firm denial —
No more!
Duke.
Does no one speak in his behalf?
Tortesa.
Upon the prisoner's quarrels with myself,
I'm free to say that they had such occasion
As any day may rise 'twixt men of honor.
As one of those aggrieved by his offences,
You'll wonder I'm a suiter for his pardon —
But so I am! Besides that there is room
To hope him innocent, your grace's realm
Holds not so wondrous and so rare a painter!
If he has killed the lady Isabella,
'Tis some amends that in his glorious picture
She's made immortal! If he stole her corse,
He can return, for that disfigured dust,
An Isabella fresh in changeless beauty!
Were it not well to pardon him, my lord?
Isabella.
(Aside.
— Oh, brave Tortesa!)
Duke.
And eloquently, signor! but the law
Can recognise no gift as plea for pardon.
For his rare picture he will have his fame;
But if the Isabella he has painted
Find not a voice to tell his innocence,
He dies at sunset!
Isabella
(despairingly).
Yet he shall live!
(She drops the cowl from her shoulders, and with her arms
folded, walks slowly to the feet of the duke.)
Falcone
(rushing forward).
My daughter!
Angelo
(with a gesture of agony).
Lost!
Tortesa.
Alive!
Zippa
(energetically).
Tortesa 'll have her!
(Isabella retires to the back of the stage with her father, and
kneels to him, imploring in dumb show; the duke and
others watching.)
Tortesa.
Now for my lands, or Isabella? — Stay!
'Tis a brave girl, by Heaven!
(Reflects a moment.)
And so to Angelo! Her love for me
A counterfeit to take suspicion off!
It was well done! I feel my heart warm to her!
(Reflects again.)
(Looks round at Isabella.)
Herself — and not a picture! Now, by Heaven,
A girl like that should be the wife of Cæsar!
(Presses his hand upon his heart.)
(Falcone comes forward, followed by Isabella with gestures
of supplication.)
Falcone.
My liege, I pray you keep the prisoner
In durance till my daughters fairly wed.
He has contrived against our peace and honor,
And howsoe'er this marvel be made clear,
She stands betrothed, if he is in the mind,
To the brave signor, yonder!
Duke.
What says Tortesa?
Tortesa.
I will address my answer to this lady.
(Turns to Isabella.)
Fair Isabella! I became your suiter.
My motives were unworthy you and me —
Yet I was true — I never said I loved you!
Your father sold you me for lands and money —
(Pardon me, duke! And you, fair Isabella!
You will — ere I am done!) I pushed my suit!
The bridal day came on, and closed in mourning;
For the fair bride it dawned upon was dead.
I had my shame and losses to remember —
But in my heart sat sorrow uppermost,
And pity — for I thought your heart was broken.
(Isabella begins to discover interest in his story, and Angelo
watches her with jealous cagerness.)
Your father holds me to my bargain for you!
The lights are burning on the nuptial altar —
The bridal chamber and the feast, all ready!
What stays the marriage now? — my new-born love!
That nuptial feast were fruit from Paradise —
I can not touch it till you bid me welcome!
That nuptial chamber were the lap of Heaven —
I can not enter till you call me in!
(Takes a ring from his bosom.)
Tell me to give it to my rival there —
I'll break my heart to do so! (Holds it toward Angelo.)
Isabella
(looking at her father).
Would I might!
Tortesa.
You shall, if't please you!
Falcone.
My liege, permit me to take home my daughter!
And, signor, you — if you would keep your troth —
To-morrow come, and end this halting bridal!
Home! Isabella! (Takes his daughter's hand.)
Tortesa
(taking it from him).
My gracious liege, there is a law in Florence,
That if a father, for no guilt or shame,
Disown, and shut his door upon his daughter,
She is the child of him who succors her;
Who, by the shelter of a single night,
Becomes endowed with the authority
Lost by the other. Is't not so?
Duke.
The law of Florence, and I see your drift —
For, look, my lord (to Falcone), if that dread apparition
You saw last night, was this your living daughter,
You stand within the peril of that law.
Falcone.
My liege!
Isabella
(looking admiringly at Tortesa).
Oh noble signor!
Tortesa
(to Isabella).
Shall I give Angelo the ring?
(As she is about to take it from him, Tomaso steps in behind,
and pulls Isabella by the sleeve.)
Tomaso.
What wilt thou do for dowry? I'm thy father?
But — save some flasks of wine —
Isabella
(sorrowfully).
For thy sake, Angelo!
(Tortesa looks at her an instant, and then steps to the table
and writes.)
Angelo
(coming forward with an effort).
I stand between thee and a life of sunshine.
Thou wert both rich and honored, but for me!
That thou couldst wed me, beggar as I am,
Is bliss to think on — but see how I rob thee!
I have a loving heart — but am a beggar!
There is a loving heart —
(Points to Tortesa.)
(Tortesa steps between them, and hands a paper to Angelo.)
Tortesa
(to Isabella).
Say thou wilt wed the poorer?
Isabella
(offers her hand to Angelo).
So I will!
Tortesa.
Yet, in his genius, has one jewel more!
Isabella.
(Angelo reads earnestly.)
Tortesa.
'Tis thought ill-luck to have the better sword;
For the good angels, who look sorrowing on,
In heavenly pity take the weaker side!
Isabella.
What is it, Angelo?
Angelo.
Of the Falcone palaces and lands,
And all the moneys forfeit by your father! —
By Heaven, I'll not be mocked!
Tortesa.
What mockery in that?
Isabella
(tenderly to Tortesa).
To make refusal of your love a pain!
Tortesa.
So should the blood plead for me at your heart!
Shall I give up the ring? (offers it.)
Isabella
(hesitatingly).
Let me look on it!
Tortesa
(withdrawing it).
Oh is it fair that Angelo had days,
To tell his love, and I have not one hour?
How know you that I can not love as well?
Isabella.
'Tis possible!
Tortesa.
Ah! thanks!
Isabella.
My heart to him!
Tortesa.
If, of these two gifts you must take back one,
Rob not the poorer! Shall I keep the ring?
(Isabella looks down.)
Angelo.(Tears the deed in two.)
Isabella
(advancing a step with clasped hands).
You'll kill me, Angelo! Come back!
Tortesa
(seizing him by the hand as he hesitates, and flinging
him back with a strong effort).
He shall!
Angelo.
Some other weapon than a glozing tongue,
Follow me forth where we may find the room!
Tortesa.
You shall not go.
Angelo
(draws).
Have at thee then!
(Attacks Tortesa, who disarms him, and holds his sword-point
to his breast. Duke and others come forward.)
Tortesa.
'Twixt me and heaven, boy! is the life I hold
Now at my mercy! Take it, Isabella!
And with it the poor gift he threw away!
I'll write a new deed ere you've time to marry,
So take your troth back with your bridal ring,
And thus I join you!
(Takes Isabella's hand, but Angelo refuses his.)
Angelo
(proudly).
The hand you hold were joyfully your own!
Shall I receive a life and fortune from you,
Yet stand 'twixt you and that!
Isabella
(turning from Angelo).
Thou dost not love me!
Tortesa.
I'll brush this new-spun cobweb from his eyes.
(Crosses to Zippa.)
Few wed the one they could have loved the best,
And fewer still wed well for happiness!
We each have lost to-day what best we love.
But as the drops that mingled in the sky,
Are torn apart in the tempestuous sea,
Yet with a new drop tremble into one,
We two, if you're content, may swim together!
What say you?
Zippa
(giving her hand).
When I believed you cold and treacherous.
Tis easy when I know you kind and noble.
Tortesa.
(To Angelo.)
(Turns to the duke.)
Duke.
And if you'll join your marriage feast together
I'll play my part, and give the brides away!
Tortesa.
To give her to him has been all I could;
For I have sought her with the dearest pulses
That quicken in my heart, my love and scorn.
She's taught me that the high-born may be true.
I thank her for it — but, too close on that
Followed the love, whose lightning flash of honor
Brightens, but straight is dark again! My liege,
The poor who leap up to the stars for duty
Must drop to earth again! and here, if't please you,
I take my feet for ever from your palace,
And, matched as best beseems me, say farewell.
(Takes Zippa's hand, and the curtain drops.)
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