 | The complete works of N.P. Willis |  |
1. ACT I.
SCENE I.
[Pasquali the poet's chamber. Fiametta mending his hose
while he writes.]
Fiametta.
Why dost thou never write verses upon me?
Pasquali.
Didst thou ever hear of a cauliflower struck
by lightning?
Fiametta.
If there were honesty in verses, thou wouldst
sooner write of me than of Minerva thou talkst of. Did
she ever mend thy hose for thee?
Pasquali.
There is good reason to doubt if Minerva
ever had hose on her leg.
Fiametta.
There now! She can be no honest woman!
I thought so when thou saidst she was most willing at
night.
Pasquali.
If thy ignorance were not endless, I would
instruct thee in the meanings of poetry. But thou'lt call
Jupiter a cow driver, till the thunderbolt thou takest for a
bunch of twigs, strike thee dead for profanity. This once
understand: Minerva is no woman, but wit; and when the
poet speaks of unwilling Minerva, he talks of sluggish wit
— that hath nothing to do with chastity.
Fiametta.
Are there two names for all things then,
Master Pasquali?
Pasquali.
Ay — nearly.
Fiametta.
What is the learned name for honest wife?
Pasquali.
Spouse.
Fiametta.
When shall I be thy spouse then?
Pasquali.
When thou canst make up thy mind to forego
all hope of living in poetry.
Fiametta.
Nay, if I am not to be put in verse, I may as
well have a plain man for a husband.
Pasquali.
If thou wouldst be put in verse, thou shalt
have no husband at all.
Fiametta.
Now, wilt thou tell me why — in good common
words, Master Pasquali.
Pasquali.
Thus: — dost thou think Petrarch had e'er
made Laura so famous if she had been honestly his wife?
Fiametta.
An' she were thrifty, I think he might.
Pasquali.
I tell thee no! His sonnets had then been
as dull as the praises of the just. No man would remember
them.
Fiametta.
Can no honest women be famous then?
Pasquali.
Virtue disqualifies. There is no hope for
her in poetry if she be not a sinner. Mention me the most
famous woman in history.
Fiametta.
Helen of Troy, in the ballad, I think.
Pasquali.
Wouldst thou be more virtuous than she?
Fiametta.
Nay, that were presumption.
Pasquali.
Knowest thou why she is sung in an Iliad?
I will tell thee: being the wife to Menelaus, she ran away
with the prince of Troy.
Fiametta.
Then is it a shame to remember her.
Pasquali.
So thou sayest in thy ignorance. Yet for
that sin she hath been remembered near three thousand
years. Look through all poetry, and thou'lt find it thrives
upon making sinners memorable. To be famous, thou
must sin. Wilt thou qualify?
[A rap at the door.]
Page.
Master Pasquali! Master Pasquali!
Fiametta.
Holy Virgin! it is my mistress's page. An'
I be found here now, I were as qualified as Helen of Troy.
[She conceals herself. Enter the page.]
Pasquali.
How now, Master Giulio! Thou'rt impatient.
Page.
Zounds, Pasquali! If thou hadst been a prince,
I had not been kept longer at the door.
Pasquali.
If thou wert of age to relish true philosophy,
I could prove to thee that the poet were the better waited
for of the two. But what is thy errand?
Page.
A song — I want a new song!
Pasquali.
To what tune?
Page.
To a new tune on the old theme. Could I tell
thee a secret without danger now! Hast thou ne'er a cat
that will mew it out?
Pasquali.
No! not even a wall that has ears. What
is thy news?
Page.
My mistress Bianca hath lost all taste for my
singing!
Pasquali.
A pin's head might pay for that news.
Page.
But, good Pasquali, wilt thou not write me a
new song?
Pasquali.
Upon what theme?
Page.
Sforza — still Sforza! But it must be melancholy.
Pasquali.
Why melancholy?
Page.
Did I not tell thee once in confidence that she
loved him?
Pasquali.
Ay — and I writ a song in his praise.
Page.
I now tell thee in confidence that she hath lost
him; for she is to marry Lionel of Ferrara!
Pasquali.
Here's news, indeed.
Page.
It's the duke's will, and my lady is grieved to
the degree I tell thee. She'll have none of my music.
Wilt thou write me the song?
Pasquali.
Must it be mournful, say you?
Page.
Ay — as the jug-jug of her nightingale. She's
full of tears. Wilt thou write it now? Shall I hold the
ink while thou writest it?
Pasquali.
Bless the boy's wits! Dost thou think songs
are made like pancakes, by turning the hand over?
Page.
Why, is't not in thy head?
Pasquali.
Ay — it is.
Page.
And how long will it take thee to write eight
lines upon parchment?
Pasquali.
Not long — if Minerva were willing.
Shall I have it by vespers then?
Pasquali.
Ay — if thou wilt leave me presently.
Page.
Farewell then! Let it be melancholy, good
Pasquali.
[Exit.
[Fiametta comes out.]
Fiametta.
Now must I hurry to my mistress, ere that
monkey-page gets to the palace.
Pasquali.
Stands he well with her!
Fiametta.
If he were her born child, she could not love
him more. She fancies the puppy-dog has an eye of her
color. Good day, Master Pasquali.
Pasquali.
Stay! will she marry this Lionel, think you?
Fiametta.
Can you know anything by tears?
Pasquali.
Not so much by a woman's — but doth your
lady weep?
Fiametta.
Ay — like an aqueduct!
Pasquali.
Then it's more like she loves than hates him!
Fiametta.
Now, enlighten me that!
Pasquali.
Thus: — a woman, if she be a lady (for
clowns like thee, are of a constitution more dull and
reasonable); — a lady, I say, hath usually in her composition,
two spirits — one angelical, the other diabolical. Now,
if you stir me up the devil, he will frown — but if you touch
me the angel, he will weep! If your lady weep, therefore,
it is more like this match hath waked the angel than stirred
the devil — for I never saw woman yet, who, if her heart
were crossed, would not play the devil ere she knocked
under!
Fiametta.
How canst thou think such brave thoughts
on what does not concern thee!
Pasquali.
Does it concern me if I shall live for ever?
Fiametta.
Surely it doth!
Pasquali.
By what shall I live then?
Fiametta.
By faith in the catechism, I think!
Pasquali.
By poetry, I tell thee! And now digest
this paradox! Though poetry be full of lies, it is unworthy
to be called poetry if it be not true as prophecy.
Fiametta.
But how can that be true which is false?
Pasquali.
I will show thee! Thy lady's page would
have a song, now, full of lamentation for Sforza. In it, I
should say, the heavens wept — (which would be a lie) —
that the winds whispered mournfully his name (which
would be a lie), and that life without him were but music
out of tune (which would be a consumed lie)! Yet if she
loved Sforza, see you not that my verses, which are nothing
but lies, have a poetic truth. When if she love him not —
they are poetically false!
Fiametta.
'Tis like thy flatteries then! When thou
sayest my cheek is like a peach, it is true, because it hath
down upon it, and so hath a peach — yet it is false — because
my cheek hath no stone in it!
Pasquali.
Let me taste the savor of that peach. Thou
art wiser than I thought thee.
Fiametta.
I must go now.
Pasquali.
Find me out if she love him! I would fain
write no more verses on Sforza — whom I hate that he hath
only a brute courage, and no taste for poesy. Now,
Lionel's father was Petrarch's friend, and thy lady loving
my verses, it were more convenient if she loved Lionel,
who would love them too. Go thy ways now.
Fiametta.
Farewell, Master Pasquali!
Pasquali.
Stay — there be rude men in this poor quarter,
I will come with thee to the piazza. Come along,
mistress!
SCENE II.
[The Camp before Milan. The tent of Sforza at the side
and watchfires in the distance. Enter Sforza and
Brunorio.]
Sforza.
Is the guard set?
Brunorio.
All set, my lord!
Sforza.
The watch-fires where I ordered?
Brunorio.
Hold you your purpose, sir?
Sforza.
I will set on! This fickle Duke of Milan
Has changed for the last time. Brunorio!
Brunorio.
You seem disturbed, sir.
Sforza.
The best blood up that ever rose for Sforza.
Are your spears resolute?
Brunorio.
As yourself, my lord!
Sforza.
Why I have waited on the changing pleasure
Of this old duke so long.
Brunorio.
He promised you his daughter.
Sforza.
And every year he has renewed and broken
This promise of alliance.
Brunorio.
Milan against the Florentine, my lord?
'Tis said the fair Bianca is betrothed
To their ally Ferrara! They will join
Naples against you, and cry out “usurper!”
Sforza.
The first hewed wood! There lies enough to bar me,
Were I another Cæsar, from authority!
'Tis by this whip I have been driven so long —
'Tis by the bait of this old man's alliance
I have for ten years fought the wars of Milan.
They've fooled me year by year, and still found means
With their cursed policy, to put me off —
And, by the saints, they've reason. Could I point
The world to such a thread twixt me and Milan
As weaves a spider through the summer air,
I'd hang a crown upon it. Once possessed
Of a fair seat in Lombardy, my spears
Would glisten in St. Mark's!
Brunorio.
And thence to Naples!
Sforza.
You echo my own thought!
[Enter a sentinel.]
Sentinel.
By torch-light comes from Milan.
[Enter Sarpellione, in haste.]
Sarpellione.
I've rudely used my privilege to seek you!
Sforza.
By right of office you are ever welcome.
Sarpellione.
In haste and privacy?
Sforza.
Brunorio, leave us!
Sarpellione.
With terms of peace. The duke would give his daughter
To save his capital.
Sforza.
The duke does well!
Sarpellione.
You'll wed her then!
Sforza.
Free of all other terms save peace between us,
I'll wed her freely.
Sarpellione.
You're not the Sforza that should be the son
Of him who made the name!
Sforza.
But you are politic, and speak advisedly.
What bars my marriage with Duke Philip's daughter?
Sarpellione.
Bianca was not born in wedlock!
Sforza.
Well!
Sarpellione.
She's been betrothed to other suitors —
Sforza.
Well!
Sarpellione.
The ducal crown? Is't well to have a wife
Who has made up her mind to other husbands —
Who has been sold to every paltry prince
Twixt Sicily and Venice?
Sforza.
Is that all?
Sarpellione.
By the same mother to the Duke of Milan.
Sforza (seizing him by the arm).
Said you a son?
Sarpellione.
A son! — and — had I time —
Sforza.
To grant me but a moment.
[Turning to Sarpellione.]
Sarpellione.
Who'll make it good.
Sforza.
For what you say?
Sarpellione.
Will prove this story true. His mother fled,
As the world knows — in peril of her life —
To Naples.
Sforza.
I well remember.
Sarpellione.
From young Alfonso, newly king, she died;
But in her throes brought prematurely forth
A son; whom, fearing for his life, she hid,
And reared him, ever like a prince, till now,
Sforza.
Some fourteen years.
Sarpellione.
And feels his blood already.
Sforza.
What make you out of it to change my purpose?
Sarpellione.
Which Milan's allies will pluck back from you
To put the prince upon his father's seat —
My royal master wishes you forewarned.
Sforza.
He's kind — if that is all!
Sarpellione.
Of the best sword in Italy.
Sforza.
Lies under this?
Sarpellione.
Your star stoops to the south. Alfonso's army
Gathers at Capua to war on Florence!
(More earnestly.) He'll add Ravenna to your marquisate
For but a thousand spears!
Sforza.
Without his leave! Admit the herald there!
No, count! your policy has overshot!
The King Alfonso needs no spears of mine —
But he would have them farther off from Milan —
A blind mole would see that!
Sarpellione.
My lord! My lord!
Sforza.
Too long the sport of your fine policy!
With promises of power and fair alliance
I've fought for every prince in Italy —
And against all, in turn; now leagued with Venice
To beat back Florence from the Brenta; now
With Florence against Milan; then with Milan
To drive the Tuscan home again, and all
For my own glory, by some politic reason.
I'll have a place, or I'll be in the track on't —
Where the poor honor that my hand may pluck
Shall be well garnered. By Visconti's daughter
I set my foot in Milan. My poor laurels,
Such as they are, shall root there! — and, by Heaven,
I'll find a way to make their branches flourish!
Call in the herald, there!
Sarpellione.
Prince of Ferrara, whom Bianca loves —
Sforza.
And will suffice me still. If it should chance
Bianca loves another, 'tis an evil
To wed with me, which I will recompense
With chainless freedom after. In my glory
She'll find a bright veil that will hide all errors,
Save from the heart that pardons her.
Sarpellione.
You'll hear o' the young prince soon!
Sforza.
If there be one! — Our stars will rise together!
There's room enough!
[Exit Sarpellione and enter Rossano.]
I know your news.
Rossano.
The duke sends greeting to you —
Sforza.
And offers me his daughter — is't not so?
Rossano.
I marvel you anticipate so well!
Sforza.
Came by a serpent. How's the spear-wound now,
You took for me at Pisa? Brave Rossano!
We'll break a lance once more in company.
It warms my blood to find myself again
O' the same side. Come out in the open air!
We'll talk more freely, as we used to do,
Over a watch-fire. Come out, old comrade!
[Exeunt Sforza and Rossano.
SCENE III.
[The apartment of Bianca. Fiametta embroidering, and
the page thrumming his guitar.]
Page.
I'd give my greyhound now — gold collar and
silken leash — to know why the duke sent for my lady.
Fiametta.
Would you, Master Curiosity?
Page.
Mistress Pert, I would — and thy acquaintance
into the bargain.
Fiametta.
I would you knew as well how your mistress came by you.
Page.
I came to her from heaven — like her taste for
my music. (Hums a tune.)
Fiametta.
Did you! do they make sacks in heaven?
Page.
There's a waiting woman's question for you!
Why sacks?
Fiametta.
Because I think you came in one, like a
present of a puppy-dog.
Page.
Silence, dull pin-woman! here comes my mistress!
[Takes off his cap as Bianca enters. She walks across the
stage without heeding her attendants.]
Bianca.
My dream come true! my long, long cherished dream!
The star come out of heaven that I had worshipped!
The paradise I built with soaring fancy
And filled with rapture like a honey-bee
Dropped from the clouds at last! Am I awake? —
Am I awake, dear Giulio?
Page (half advancing to her).
Noble mistress!
Bianca.
It was this hand my father took to tell me —
It was with these lips that I tried to speak —
It was this heart that beat its giddy prison
As if the exulting joy new-sprung within it
Would out and fill the world!.....
................. Wed him to-morrow!
So suddenly a wife! Will it seem modest,
With but twelve hours of giddy preparation
To come a bride to church! Will he remember
I was ten years ago affianced to him?
I have had time to think on't! Oh, I'll tell him —
When I dare speak, I'll tell him — how I've loved him!
And day and night dreamed of him, and through all
The changing wars treasured the solemn troth
Broke by my father! If he listens kindly,
I'll tell him how I fed my eyes upon him
In Venice at his triumph — when he walked
Like a descended god beside the doge,
Who thanked him for his victories, and the people,
From every roof and balcony, by thousands
Shouted out “Sforza! Live the gallant Sforza!”
I was a child then — but I felt my heart
Grow, in one hour, to woman!
Page.
To hear my new song, lady?
Bianca.
My spirits are too troubled now for music.
Get thee to bed! Yet stay! hast heard the news?
Page.
Is't from the camp?
Bianca.
Ay — Sforza's taken prisoner!
Page.
I'm vexed for that.
Bianca.
Why vexed?
Page.
I shall bear sword and lance. There'll be no Sforza
To kill when I'm a man! Who took him, lady?
Bianca.
And gave him, bound, to me! In brief, dear Giulio!
The wars are done, and Sforza weds to-morrow
Your happy mistress!
Page.
A bonefire then!
Bianca.
Ay — twenty!
Page.
Here in the palace, and have masks and gambols
The year round, will you not?
Bianca.
You know not yet what love is! Love's a miser,
That plucks his treasure from the prying world
And grudges e'en the eye of daylight on it!
Another's look is theft — another's touch
Robs it of all its value. Love conceives
No paradise but such as Eden was
With two hearts beating in it.
[Leaves the Page and walks thoughtfully away.]
A home upon some green and flowery isle
In the lone lakes, where we will use our empire
Only to keep away the gazing world.
The purple mountains and the glassy waters
Shall make a hushed pavilion with the sky,
And we two in the midst will live alone,
Counting the hours by stars and waking birds,
And jealous but of sleep! To bed, dear Giulio!
And wake betimes.
Page.
Good night, my dearest lady!
Bianca.
That needs will keep me waking.
Fiametta.
Good night, lady.
Bianca.
For moods like mine. I'll forth upon the terrace,
And watch her while my heart beats warm and fast.
| The complete works of N.P. Willis | |