University of Virginia Library

The Set of Turquoise.

THE SET OF TURQUOISE

A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

• Count of Lara, A poor nobleman.
• Beatrice, His wife.
• Florian, Her dressing-maid.
• Jacinta, Her dressing-maid.
• A Page, for the occasion.

The scene is laid in the vicinity of Mantua.

Scene I.

—Count of Lara's villa. A balcony overlooking the garden. Moonlight. Lara and Beatrice.
LARA.
The third moon of our marriage, Beatrice!
It hangs i' the heaven, ripe and ready to drop,
Like a great golden orange—

BEATRICE.
Excellent!
Breathe not the priceless simile abroad,
Or all the poetlings in Mantua
Will cut the rind of 't! Like an orange? yes,
But not so red, Count. Then it hath no stem,
And ripened out of nothing.

LARA.
Critical!
Make thou a neater poesy for the moon.

BEATRICE.
Now, as 't is hidden by those drifts of cloud,
With one thin edge just glimmering through the dark,
'Tis like some strange, rich jewel of the east,
I' the cleft side of a mountain.

LARA.
Not unlike!

BEATRICE.
And that reminds me—speaking of jewels—love,
There is a set of turquoise at Malan's,
Ear-drops and bracelets and a necklace—ah!
If they were mine!

LARA.
And so they should be, dear,
Were I Aladdin, and had slaves o' the lamp
To fetch me ingots. Why, then, Beatrice,
All Persia's turquoise-quarries should be yours,
Although your hand is heavy now with gems
That tear my lips when I would kiss its whiteness.
Oh! so you pout! Why make that full-blown rose
Into a bud again?

BEATRICE.
You love me not.

LARA.
A coquette's song.

BEATRICE.
I sing it.

LARA.
A poor song.

BEATRICE.
You love me not, or love me over-much,
Which makes you jealous of the gems I wear!
You do not deck me as becomes our state,
For fear my grandeur should besiege the eyes
Of Monte, Clari, Marcus, and the rest—
A precious set! You're jealous, Sir!

LARA.
Not I.
I love you.

BEATRICE.
Why, that is as easy said
As any three short words; takes no more breath
To say, ‘I hate you.’ What, Sir, have I lived
Three times four weeks your wedded loyal wife,
And do not know your follies? I will wager
(If I could trap my darling into this!)
[Aside.
The sweetest kisses I know how to give
Against the turquoise, that within a month
You'll grow so jealous—and without a cause,
Or with a reason thin as window-glass—
That you will ache to kill me!

LARA.
Will you so?
And I—let us clasp hands and kiss on it.

BEATRICE.
Clasp hands, Sir Trustful; but not kiss—nay, nay!
I will not pay my forfeit till I lose.

LARA.
And I'll not lose the forfeit.

BEATRICE.
We shall see.
BEATRICE enters the house singing.
There was an old earl and he wed a young wife,
Heigh ho, the bonny.
And he was as jealous as Death is of Life,
Heigh ho, the nonny!
Kings saw her, and sighed;
And wan lovers died,
But no one could win the bright honey
That lay on the lips of the bonny
Young bride,
Until Cupid, the rover, a-hearting would go,
Then—heigh ho!

[Exit.
LARA.
She hath as many fancies as the wind
Which now, like slumber, lies 'mong spicy isles,
Then suddenly blows white furrows in the sea!
Lovely and dangerous is my leopardess.
To-day, low-lying at my feet; to-morrow,
With great eyes flashing, threatening doleful death—
With strokes like velvet! She's no common clay,
But fire and dew and marble. I'll not throw
So rare a wonder in the lap o' the world!
Jealous? I am not jealous—though they say
Some sorts of love breed jealousy. And yet,
I would I had not wagered. It implies
Doubt. If I doubted? Pshaw! I'll walk awhile
And let the cool air fan me.
[Paces the balcony
'Twas not wise.
It's only Folly with its cap and bells
Can jest with sad things. She seemed earnest, too.
What if, to pique me, she should over-step
The pale of modesty, and give sweet eyes
(I could not bear that, nay, not even that!)
To Marc or Claudian? Why, such things have been
And no sin dreamed of. I will watch her close.
There, now, I wrong her. She is wild enough,
Playing the empress in her honeymoons:
But untamed falcons will not wear the hood
Nor sit on the wrist, at bidding. Yet if she,
To win the turquoise of me, if she should—
Oh! curséd jewels! would that they were hung
About the glistening neck of some mermaiden
A thousand fathoms underneath the sea!

Scene II.

—A garden: the villa seen in the back-ground. Lara stretched on the grass with a copy of Boccaccio's ‘Decameron’ in his hand. Sunset.
LARA.
[Closing the book.]
A book for sunset—if for any time.
Right spicy tongues and pleasant wit had they,
The merry Ladies of Boccaccio!
What tales they told of love-in-idleness,
(Love old as earth, and yet forever new!)
Of monks who worshipped Venus—not in vain;
Of unsuspecting husbands, and gay dames
Who held their vows but lightly—by my faith,
Too much of the latter! 'T is a sweet, bad book.
I would not have my sister or my wife
Caught by its cunning. In its golden words
Sin is so draped with beauty, speaks so fair,
That naught seems wrong but virtue! Yet, for all,
It is a sprightly volume, and kills care.
I need such sweet physicians. I have grown
Sick in the mind—at swords' points with myself.
I am mine own worst enemy!
And wherefore? wherefore? Beatrice is kind,
Less fanciful, and loves me, I would swear,
Albeit she will not kiss me till the month
Which ends our foolish wager shall have passed.
An hundred years, and not a single kiss
To sweeten time with! What a freakish dame!
A Page crosses the garden.
That page again! 'T is twice within the week
That slender-waisted, pretty-ankled knave
Has crossed my garden at this self-same hour,
Trolling a canzonetta with an air
As if he owned the villa. Why the fop!
He might have doffed his bonnet as he passed.
I'll teach him better if he comes again.
What does he at the villa? Oh! perchance
He comes in the evening when his master's out,
To lisp soft romance in the ready ear
Of Beatrice's dressing-maid; but then
She has one lover. Now I think she's two:
This gaudy popinjay would make the third,
And that's too many for an honest girl!
If he's not Florian's, he's Jacinta's, then?
I'll ask the Countess—no, I'll not do that;
She'd laugh at me, and vow by the Madonna
This varlet was some noble in disguise,
Seeking her favor. Then I'd crack his skull—
That is, I would, were I a jealous man:
But then I'm not. So he may come and go
To Florian—or the devil! I'll not care.
I would not build around my lemon-trees,
Though every lemon were a sphere of gold,
A lattice-fence, for fear the very birds
Should sing, You're jealous, you are jealous, Sir!

Scene III.

—A wooded road near the villa. The garden-gate seen on the left. Lara leaning against a tree Evening.
LARA.
Sorrow itself is not so hard to bear
As the thought of sorrow coming. Airy ghosts,
That work no harm, do terrify us more
Than men in steel with bloody purposes.
Death is not dreadful; 't is the dread of death—
We die whene'er we think of it!
I'll not
Be cozened longer. When the page comes out
I'll stop him, question him, and know the truth.
I cannot sit in the garden of a night
But he glides by me in his jaunty dress,
Like a fantastic phantom!—never looks
To the right nor left, but passes gayly on,
As if I were a statue. Soft, he comes,
I'll make him speak, or kill him; then, forsooth,
It were unreasonable to ask it. Soh!
I'll speak him gently at the first, and then—
The Page enters by a gate in the villa-garden, and walks carelessly past the Count.
Ho! pretty page, who owns you?

PAGE.
No one now.
I was the Signor Juan's, but am no more.

LARA.
What, then, you stole from him?

PAGE.
Oh! no, Sir, no.
He had so many intrigues on his hands,
There was no sleep for me nor night nor day.
Such carrying of love-favors and pink notes!
He's gone abroad now, to break other hearts
And so I left him.

LARA.
A frank knave.

PAGE.
To-night
I've done his latest bidding—

LARA.
As you should—

PAGE.
A duty wed with pleasure—'t was to take
A message to a countess all forlorn,
In yonder villa.

LARA.
[Aside.]
Why, the devil! that's mine!
A message to a countess all forlorn?
[To the Page.]
In yonder villa?

PAGE.
Ay, Sir. You can see
The portico among the mulberries,
Just to the left, there.

LARA.
Ay, I see, I see.
A pretty villa. And the lady's name?

PAGE.
Ah! that's a secret which I cannot tell.

LARA.
[Catching him by the throat.
No? but you shall, though, or I'll strangle you!
In my strong hands your slender neck would snap
Like a brittle pipe-stem.

PAGE.
You are choking me!
Oh! loose your grasp, Sir!

LARA.
Then the name! the name!

PAGE.
Countess of Lara.

LARA.
Not her dressing-maid?

PAGE.
Nay, nay, I said the mistress, not the maid.

LARA.
And then you lied. Oh! woful, woful Time!—
Tell me you lie, and I will make you rich,
I'll stuff your cap with ducats twice a year!

PAGE.
[Smiling.]
Well, then—I lie.

LARA.
Ay, now you lie, indeed!
I see it in the cunning of your eyes;
Night cannot hide the Satan leering there.
Only a little lingering fear of heaven
Holds me from dirking you between the ribs!
Wo! wo!

[Hides his face in his hands.]
PAGE.
[Aside.]
I would I were well out of this.

LARA.
[Abstractedly.]
Such thin divinity! So foul, so fair!

PAGE.
What would you have? I will say nothing, then.

LARA.
Say every thing, and end it! Here is gold.
You brought a billet to the Countess—well?
What said the billet?

PAGE.
Take away your hand,
And, by St. Mary, I will say it all.
There, now, I breathe. You will not harm me, Sir?
Stand six yards off, or I will not a word.
It seems the Countess promised Signor Juan
A set of turquoise—

LARA.
[Starting.]
Turquoise? Ha! that's well.

PAGE.
Just so—wherewith my master was to pay
Some gaming debts; but yester-night the cards
Tumbled a golden mountain at his feet;
And ere he sailed, this morning, Signor Juan
Gave me a perfumed, amber-tinted note,
For Countess Lara, which, with some adieus,
Craved her remembrance morning, noon, and night;
Her prayers while gone, her smiles when he returned;
Then told his sudden fortune with the cards,
And bade her keep the jewels. That is all.

LARA.
All? Is that all? 'T has only cracked my heart!
A heart, I know of little, little worth—
An ill-cut ruby, scarred and scratched before,
But now quite broken! I have no heart, then:
Men should not have, when they are wronged like this
Out of my sight, thou demon of bad news!
O sip thy wine complacently to-night,
Lie with thy mistress in a pleasant sleep,
For thou hast done thy master (that's the Devil!)
This day a goodly service: thou hast sown
The seeds of lightning that shall scathe and kill!

[Exit.
PAGE.
[Looking after him.]
I did not think 't would work on him like that.
How pale he grew! Alack! I fear some ill
Will come of this. I'll to the Countess quick,
And warn her of his madness. Faith, he foamed
I' the mouth like Guido whom they hung last week
(God rest him!) in the jail at Mantua,
For killing poor Battista. Crime for crime!
[Exit

Scene IV.

—Beatrice's chamber. A Venetian screen on the right. As the scene opens, Jacinta places lamps on a standish, and retires to the back of the stage. Beatrice sits on a fauteuil in the attitude of listening.
BEATRICE.
Hist! that's his step. Jacinta, place the lights
Farther away from me, and get thee gone.
[Exit Jacinta.
And Florian, child, keep you behind the screen,
Breathing no louder than a lily does;
For if you stir or laugh 't will ruin all.

FLORIAN.
[Behind the screen.]
Laugh! I am faint with terror.

BEATRICE.
Then be still.
Move not for worlds until I touch the bell,
Then do the thing I told you. Hush! his step
Sounds in the corridor, and I'm asleep!

Lara enters with his dress in disorder. He approaches within a few yards of Beatrice, pauses, and looks at her.
LARA.
Asleep!—and Guilt can slumber! Guilt can lie
Down-lidded and soft-breathed, like Innocence!
Hath dreams as sweet as childhood's—who can tell?—
And paradisal prophecies in sleep,
Its foul heart keeping measure, as it were,
To the silver music of a mandoline!
Were I an artist, and did wish to paint
A devil to perfection, I'd not limn
A hornéd monster, with a leprous skin,
Red-hot from Pandemonium—not I.
But with my delicatest tints, I'd paint
A Woman in the splendor of her youth,
All garmented with loveliness and mystery!
She should be sleeping in a room like this,
With Angelos and Titians on the walls,
The grand old masters staring grandly down,
Draped round with folds of damask; in the alcoves,
Statues of Bacchus and Endymion,
And Venus's blind love-child: a globed lamp
Gilding the heavy darkness, while the odors
Of myriad hyacinths should seem to break
Upon her ivory bosom as she slept;
And by her side, (as I by Beatrice,)
Her injured lord should stand and look at her!

[Pauses.
[Beatrice sighs.
[Unsheathes a dagger
BEATRICE.
[Springing up.]
So, you are come—your dagger in your hand?
Your lips compressed and blanchéd, and your hair
Tumbled wildly all about your eyes,
Like a river-god's? Oh! love, you frighten me!
And you are trembling. Tell me what this means.

LARA.
Oh! nothing, nothing—I did think to write
A note to Juan, to Signor Juan, my friend,
(Your cousin and my honorable friend;)
But finding neither ink nor paper here,
Methought to scratch it with my dagger's point
Upon your bosom, Madam! That is all.

BEATRICE.
You've lost your senses!

LARA.
Madam, no: I've found 'em!

BEATRICE.
Then lose them quickly, and be what you were.

LARA.
I was a fool, a dupe—a happy dupe.
You should have kept me in my ignorance;
For wisdom makes us wretched, king and clown.
Countess of Lara, you are false to me!

BEATRICE.
Now, by the Saints—

LARA.
Now, by the Saints, you are!

BEATRICE.
Upon my honor—

LARA.
On your honor? fye!
Swear by the ocean's feathery froth, for that
Is not so light a substance.

BEATRICE.
Hear me, love!

LARA.
Lie to that marble Io! I am sick
To the heart with lying.

BEATRICE.
You've the ear-ache, Sir,
Got with too much believing.

LARA.
Beatrice,
I came to kill you.

BEATRICE.
Kiss me, Count, you mean!

LARA.
[Approaching her.]
If killing you be kissing you, why yes.

BEATRICE.
Ho! come not near me with such threatening looks,
Or I'll call Florian and Jacinta, Sir,
And rouse the villa: 't were a pretty play
To act before our servants!

LARA.
Call your maids!
I'll kill them, too, and claim from Royalty
A golden medal and a new escutcheon,
For slaying three she-dragons—but you first!

BEATRICE.
Stand back there, if you love me, or have loved!

As Lara advances, Beatrice retreats to the table and rings a small hand-bell. Florian, in the dress of a page, enters from behind the screen, and steps between them.
FLORIAN.
What would my master, Signor Juan, say—

LARA.
[Starting back.]
The Page? now, curse him!—What? no! Florian?
Hold! 't was at twilight, in the villa-garden,
At dusk, too, on the road to Mantua;
But here the light falls on you, man or maid!
Stop now; my brain 's bewildered. Stand you there,
And let me touch you with incredulous hands!
Wait till I come, nor vanish like a ghost!
If this be Juan's page, why, where is Florian?
If this be Florian, where 's—by all the Saints,
I have been tricked!

FLORIAN.
[Laughing.]
By two Saints, with your leave!

LARA.
The happiest fool in Italy, for my age!
And all the damning tales you fed me with,
You Sprite of Twilight, Imp of the old Moon!—

FLORIAN.
[Bowing.]
Were arrant lies as ever woman told;
And though not mine, I claim the price for them—
This cap stuffed full of ducats twice a year!

LARA.
A trap! a trap that only caught a fool!
So thin a plot, I might have seen through it.
I've lost my reason!

FLORIAN.
And your ducats!

BEATRICE.
And
A certain set of turquoise at Malan's!

LARA.
[Catching Beatrice in his arms
I care not, love, so that I have not lost
The love I held so jealously. And you—
You do forgive me? Say it with your eyes.
Right sweetly said! Now, mark me, Beatrice:
If ever man or woman, ghoul or fairy,
Breathes aught against your chastity—although
The very angels from the clouds drop down
To sign the charge of perfidy—I swear,
Upon my honor—

BEATRICE.
Nay, be careful there!
Swear by the ocean's feathery froth—

LARA.
I swear,
By heaven and all the Seraphim—

BEATRICE.
[Placing her hand on his mouth.
I pray you!

LARA.
I swear—if ever I catch Florian
In pointed doublet and silk hose again,
I'll—

BEATRICE.
What?

LARA.
Make love to her, by all that's true!

BEATRICE.
O wisdom, wisdom! just two hours too late!
You should have thought of that before, my love.

LARA.
It 's not too late!

BEATRICE.
[To Florian.]
To bed, you dangerous page!
The Count shall pay the ducats.

[Exit Florian.]
LARA.
And to-morrow
I'll clasp a manacle of blue and gold
On those white wrists. Now, Beatrice, come here,
And let me kiss both eyes for you!