Two ways of dying for a husband. I. Dying to keep him, or Tortesa the usurer. II. Dying to lose him, or Bianca Visconti

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.)

Would'st thou but paint the goldsmith a sign, now, in good fair letters!

ANGELO.
Have I no genius for the art think'st thou?

TOMASO.
Thou! ha! ha!

ANGELO.
By thy laughing, thou would'st 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 think'st thou never of my works, Tomaso?

TOMASO.

Thy works! Do I not grind thy paints? Do I not see thee take up thy pallette, 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 think'st thou would Donatello paint, if he were here?

TOMASO.

Donatello? I will endeavour to show thee! (Takes the pallette 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 accursed 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! 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.
Who calls so loudly? What! drawn swords at mid-day!
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.)
Why, here's
Matter worth stumbling on! By Jove, a picture
Of admirable work! Look here, Falcone!
Dids't think there was a hand unknown in Florence
Could lay on color with a skill like this?

TOMASO,
(aside to Angelo.)
Did'st thou hear that?

(Duke and Falcone admire the pictures in dumb show.)
ANGELO,
(aside to Tomaso.)
(The pallette's on thy thumb—
Swear 'tis thy work!)

TOMASO.
Mine, master?

ANGELO.
Seest thou not
The shadow of my fault will fall upon it
While I stand here a culprit? The Duke loves thee
As one whom he has chanc'd 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.)
We've fallen here
Upon a treasure!

FALCONE.
'Twas a lucky chance
That led you in, my lord!

DUKE.
I blush to think
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.
'Tis a duty
Your Grace is never slow to.

DUKE.
I've a thought—
If you'll consent to it?

FALCONE.
Before 'tis spoken,
My gracious liege!

DUKE.
You know how well my Duchess
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.
Nay, nay—
She is betroth'd now, and you needs must wed her!
My thought was, to surprise my grieving duchess
With a resemblance of your daughter, done
By this rare hand, here. 'Tis a thought well found,
You'll say it is?

FALCONE,
(hesitating.)
Your Grace is bound away
On a brief journey. Wer't not best put off
Till our return?

DUKE,
(laughing.)
I see you fear to let
The sun shine on your rose-bud '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,
(aside.)
(Now
Shall I go back or forwards? 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.
Thou hast grown old
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.
I shame I never saw them until now,
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 favour to you
Shall make up for the past.

TOMASO,
(as Angelo pulls his sleeve.)
Your Grace is kind!

DUKE.
For this rude youth, name you his punishment!
(Turns to Angelo.)
His sword was drawn upon an unarm'd man.
He shall be fined, or, as you please, imprisoned.
Speak!

TOMASO.
If your Grace would bid him pay—

DUKE.
What sum?

TOMASO.
Some twenty flasks of wine, my gracious liege,

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.
He's well let off!
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.
Come then!
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.
So I think,
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
22

looking at him a moment, Tomaso does the same with the bond for the twenty flasks.)
ANGELO.
Give the letter!
Oh, here is golden opportunity—
The ladder at my foot, the prize above,
And angels beckoning upwards. I will paint
A picture now, that in the eyes of men
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 thro' 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 damnable 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 cannot 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.)

University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.