 | 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 I.
[Angelo discovered in his studio, painting upon the picture of Isabella.]ANGELO.
My soul is drunk with gazing on this face.
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 tints fade. Good night,
Fair image of the fairest thing on earth,
Bright Isabella!
[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 hat. The rim turns to the crown with
an intelligence.
(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 shamed 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!
(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 nought 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.)
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, think'st 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 thine as mine.
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?
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 eve, good Signor Painter.
ANGELO.
You struck me yesterday.
TORTESA.
I harmed your picture—
For which I'm truly sorry—but not you!
ANGELO.
Myself! myself! My picture is myself!
What are my bones that rot? Is this my hand?—
Is this my eye?
I think so.
ANGELO.
No, I say!
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.
Nay, strike me not!
I'll call the guard, and cry out like a woman.
(turning from him contemptuously.)
What scent of dog's meat brought me such a cur!
It is a whip I want, and not a sword.
TORTESA
(folding his arms.)
I have a use for life so far above
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.
I am what you will,
So I'm alive to marry on the morrow!
'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 honour 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!”
Mouthing braggart!
TORTESA.
I came to see my bride, my Isabella!
Show me her picture! (Advances to look for it.)
ANGELO.
Do but look upon't,
By heaven's fair light, I'll kill you!
[Draws.
TORTESA.
Soft, she's mine!
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.)
Out! Out! thou shameless liar!
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.
Liar! she hates thee!
(Beats him off the stage and returns, closing the door violently.)
So! once more alone!
(Takes Isabella's picture from the easel, and replaces it with Zippa's.)
Back to the wall, deceitful loveliness!
And come forth, Zippa, fair in honest truth!
(Takes his pencil and palette to paint.)
[A knock is heard]
Who knocks! come in!
[Enter Isabella, disguised as a monk.]
ISABELLA.
Good morrow, signor!
ANGELO,
(turning sharply to the monk.)
There's a face, old 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 cannot see like you.
Where is't?
ISABELLA,
(aside.)
(A picture of the Glover's daughter!
What does he, painting her?) Is't for its beauty
You paint that face, sir?
ANGELO.
Yes—th'immortal beauty!
Look here! What see you in that face? The skin—
ISABELLA.
Brown as a vintage-girl's!
ANGELO.
The mouth—
ISABELLA.
A good one
To eat and drink withal!
The eye is—
ISABELLA.
Grey!
You'll buy a hundred like it for a penny!
ANGELO.
A hundred eyes?
ISABELLA.
No. Hazel-nuts!
ANGELO.
The forehead—
How find you that?
ISABELLA.
Why, made to match the rest!
I'll cut as good a face out of an apple—
For all that's fair in it!
ANGELO.
Oh, heaven, how dim
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
In glimpses of the glory streaming through!
ISABELLA,
(mournfully.)
Is Zippa's face so radiant?
ANGELO.
Look upon it!
You see thro' all the countenance she's true!
ISABELLA.
True to you, signor!
ANGELO.
To herself, old man!
Yet once, to me too! (dejectedly)
ISABELLA,
(aside.)
(Once to him! Can Zippa
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.
Ay—the best!
A loving sister were not half so kind!
I never supp'd without her company.
Yet she was modest as an unsunn'd lily,
And bounteous as the constant perfume of it.
ISABELLA,
(aside.)
'Twas he indeed! Oh! what a fair outside
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 cannot 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.
A lie!—nay—pardon me!
I spoke in haste. Methought 'twas like a lady
I'd somewhere seen!—a lady—Isabella!
But she was true!
ANGELO.
Then 'tis not she I've drawn.
For that's a likeness of as false a face
As ever devil did his mischief under.
ISABELLA.
And yet methinks 'tis done most lovingly!
You must have thought it fair to dwell so on it.
ANGELO.
Your convent has the picture of a saint
Tempted, while praying, by the shape of woman.
The painter knew that woman was the devil,
Yet drew her like an angel!
(aside.)
(It is true
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
The God of Nature never writ a lie.
ANGELO.
'Tis likely true!
ISABELLA.
That howso'er the features
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.
Nay—here's a face
Will show at once if it be true or no.
At the first glance 'tis fair!
ANGELO.
Most heavenly fair!
ISABELLA.
Yet, in the lip, methinks, there lurks a shadow—
Something—I know not what—but in it lies
The devil you spoke of!
ANGELO.
Ay—but 'tis not there!
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.
How falls the light?
About the eye. Maybe the light falls wrong—
ANGELO,
(drawing her to another position.)
Stand here! D'ye see it now?
ISABELLA.
'Tis just so here!
ANGELO,
(sweeps the air with his brush.)
There's some curst cobweb hanging from the wall
That blurs your sight. Now, look again!
ISABELLA.
I see it
Just as before.
ANGELO.
What! still? You've turn'd an eyelash
Under the lid. Try how it feels with winking.
Is't clear?
ISABELLA.
'Twas never clearer!
ANGELO.
Then, old man!
You'd best betake you to your prayers apace!
For you've a failing sight, death's sure forerunner—
And cannot 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—
ISABELLA,
(smiling aside.)
Stay—'tis gone!
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 mork infallible
Of a false heart beneath it.
ANGELO.
Show it to me!
ISABELLA.
Between the eyebrows there!
ANGELO.
I see a tablet
Whereon the Saviour'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.
The nostril's small—
Is't not?
ANGELO.
No!
Then the cheek's awry so near it,
It makes it seem so!
ANGELO.
Out! thou cavilling fool!
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 recognize Heav'n's imprest seal,
Set on that glorious beauty!
ISABELLA,
(aside).
(Oh, he loves me!
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 me 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.
Good day, old man
And if thou com'st again, bring new eyes with thee,
Or thou wilt find scant welcome.
ISABELLA.
You shall like
[Exit.
ANGELO.
A crabbed monk! (Turns the picture to the wall again.)
I'll hide this fatal picture
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!
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 should'st 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 enamoured of it—wilt tell me truly?
ANGELO,
(smiling.)
'Tis a fair face;
ZIPPA.
Oh, unkind 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.)
ZIPPA.
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 embarass'd silence.)Dost thou stand there for a picture of Silence?
Alas! dear Angelo! When I said I forgave and lov'd 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 anger'd 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!
Well—jealous of this unknown lady, I vow'd, if it broke my heart, to wed Tortesa. He had told me Isabella scorn'd 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? She “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 knowst 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!
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 looks at several pictures turned to the wall, and last of all, Isabella's. Glances at it an instant, and exclaims)Isabella!
(She drops on her knees, overcome with grief, and the scene closes.)
| Two ways of dying for a husband. I. Dying to keep him, or Tortesa the usurer. II. Dying to lose him, or Bianca Visconti | |