 | Two ways of dying for a husband. I. Dying to keep him, or Tortesa the usurer. II. Dying to lose him, or Bianca Visconti |  |
SCENE III.
[An Apartment in the Falcone Palace. Angelo discovered listening.]ANGELO.
Did I hear footsteps? (He listens.)
Fancy plays me tricks
In my impatience for this lovely wonder!
That window's to the north! The light falls cool.
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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.
“The duke would have your picture for the duchess
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.
You've come, sir,
To paint a dull face, trust me!
ANGELO,
(aside.)
(Beautiful,
Beyond all dreaming!)
ISABELLA.
I've no smiles to show you,
Not ev'n a mock one! Shall I sit?
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No, lady!
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.)
His voice
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.)
How like a swan,
Drooping his small head to a lily-cup,
She curves that neck of pliant ivory!
I'll paint her thus!
ISABELLA,
(aside.)
Forgetful where he is,
He thinks aloud. This is, perhaps, the rudeness
My father fear'd might anger me.
ANGELO.
What color
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 tint them, after?
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Still, he thinks not of me,
But murmurs to his picture. 'Twere sweet praise,
Were it a lover whispering it. I'll listen,
As I walk, still.
ANGELO.
They say, a cloudy veil
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.
There's flattery,
Would draw down angels!
ANGELO.
Now, what alchymy
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).
There's a mixture
Of white and red here, that defeats my skill.
If you'll forgive me, I'll observe an instant,
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Melt to each other!
ISABELLA,
(receding from him.)
You're too free, Sir!
ANGELO,
(with surprise.)
Madam!
ISABELLA,
(aside.)
And yet, I think not so. He must look on it,
To paint it well.
ANGELO.
Lady! the daylight's precious!
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 cannot, for the envious sleeve that hides it.
Please you, displace it!
(Raises his hand to the sleeve.)
ISABELLA.
Sir, you are too bold!
ANGELO.
Pardon me, lady! Nature's masterpiece
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 angels, it were all unclad!
You have no right to hide it!
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How? No right?
ANGELO.
'Tis the religion of our art, fair madam!
That, by oft looking on the type divine
In which we first were moulded, men remember
The heav'n 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,
(aside.)
Here is the wooing that should win a maid!
Bold, yet respectful—free yet full of honor!
I never saw a youth with gentler eyes;
I never heard a voice that pleas'd me more;
Let me look on him!
(Enter Tortesa, unperceived.)
ANGELO.
In a form like yours,
All parts are perfect, madam! yet, unseen,
Impossible to fancy. With your leave
I'll see your hand unglov'd.
ISABELLA,
(removing her glove)
I have no heart
To keep it from you, signor! There it is!
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(taking it in his own.)
Oh God! how beautiful thy works may be!
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.
Now have I heard enough! Why, what are you,
To palm the hand of my betrothed bride
With this licentious freedom?
(Angelo turns composedly to his work.)
And you, madam!
With a first troth scarce cold upon your lips—
Is this your chastity?
ISABELLA.
My father's roof
Is over me! I'm not your wife!
TORTESA.
Bought! paid for!
The wedding toward—have I no right in you?
Your father, at my wish, bade you be private;
Is this obedience?
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Count Falcone's will,
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 hallow'd honour 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.
There's a possession of some lordly acres
Sold to Falcone for that lily hand!
The deed's delivered, and the hand 's my own!
I'll see that no man looks on't.
ISABELLA.
Shall a lady
Bid you begone twice?
TORTESA.
Twenty times, if't please you!
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ISABELLA.
Does he not wear a sword? Is he a coward,
That he can hear this man heap insult on me,
And ne'er fall on him?
TORTESA.
Lady! to your chamber!
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.
Stand back!
Now, will he see this wretch lay hands on me,
And never speak? He cannot be a coward!
No, no, some other reason—not a coward!
I could not love a coward!
TORTESA.
If you will
Stay where you're better miss'd—'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.)
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Hold! What wouldst thou?
Fool! madman! dog! What wouldst thou with my picture?
Speak!—But thy life would not bring back a ray
Of precious daylight, and I cannot waste it!
Begone! begone!
(Throws Tortesa's sword from the window, and returns to his picture.)
I'll back to paradise!
'Twas this touch that he marr'd! So! fair again!
TORTESA,
(going out.)
I'll find you, sir, when I'm in cooler blood!
And, madam, you! or Count Falcone for you,
Shall rue this scorn!
[Exit.
ISABELLA,
(looking at Angelo.)
Lost in his work once more!
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!
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Twilight falls, fair lady!
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.)
| Two ways of dying for a husband. I. Dying to keep him, or Tortesa the usurer. II. Dying to lose him, or Bianca Visconti | |