University of Virginia Library

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE I.

[A sumptuous Drawing-room in the Falcone Palace. Guests assembled for the bridal. Lords and ladies promenading, and a band of musicians in a gallery at the side of the stage.]
1st. LORD.
Are we before the hour? or does the bridegroom
Affect this tardiness?

2d. LORD.
We're bid at twelve.

1st. LORD.
'Tis now past one. At least we should have music
To wile the time. (To the musicians.)
Strike up, good fellows!

2d. LORD.
Why,
A man who's only drest on holidays
Makes a long toilet. Now, I'll warrant, he
Has vex'd his tailor since the break of day,
Hoping to look a gentleman. D'ye know him?

1st. LORD.
I've never had occasion!

2d. LORD.
Poor Falcone!
He'd give the best blood in his veins, I think,
To say as much!

1st. LORD.
How's this! I see no stir
Among the instruments. Will they not play?

2d. LORD.
Not they! I ask'd before you, and they're bid
To strike up when they hear Tortesa's horses
Prance thro' the gateway—not a note till then!

(Music plays.)
1st. LORD.
He comes!

(Enter Tortesa, dressed over-richly.)
TORTESA.
Good day, my lords!

1st. LORD.
Good day!

2d. LORD.
The sky
Smiles on you, Signor! 'Tis a happy omen
They say, to wed in sunshine.

TORTESA.
Why, I think
The sun is not displeased that I should wed.

1st. LORD.
We're happy, sir, to have you one of us.

TORTESA.
What have I been till now! I was a man
Before I saw your faces! Where's the change?
Have I a tail since? Am I grown a monkey?
(Lords whisper together, and walk from him.)
Oh for a mint to coin the world again
And melt the mark of gentleman from clowns!
It puts me out of patience! Here's a fellow
That, by much rubbing against better men,
Has, like a penny in a Jew's close pocket,
Stolen the color of a worthier coin,
And thinks he rings like sterling courtesy!
Yet look! he cannot phrase you a good morrow,
Or say he's sad, or glad, at any thing,
But close beneath it, rank as verdigrease,
Lies an insulting rudeness! He was “happy”
That I should now be one of them. Now! Now!
As if, till now, I'd been a dunghill grub,
And was but just turn'd butterfly!

(A Lady advances.)
LADY.
Fair sir,
I must take leave to say, were you my brother,
You've made the choice that would have pleased me best!
Your bride's as good as fair.

TORTESA.
I thank you, Madam!
To be your friend, she should be—good and fair!
(The Lady turns, and walks up the stage.)
How like a drop of oil upon the sea
Falls the apt word of woman! So! her “brother!”
Why, there could be no contumely there!
I might, for all I look have been her brother,
Else her first thought had never coupled us.
I'll pluck some self-contentment out of that!
(Enter suddenly the Count's Secretary.)
How now!

SECRETARY.
I'm sent, sir, with unwelcome tidings.

TORTESA.
Deliver them the quicker!

SECRETARY.
I shall be
Too sudden at the slowest.

TORTESA.
Pshaw! what is't?
I'm not a girl! Out with your news at once!
Are my ships lost?

SECRETARY,
(hesitatingly.)
The lady Isabella—

TORTESA.
What? run away!

SECRETARY.
Alas, good sir! she's dead!

TORTESA.
Bah! just as dead as I! Why, thou dull blockhead!
Cannot a lady faint, but there must be
A trumpeter like thee to make a tale on't?

SECRETARY.
Pardon me, Signor, but—

TORTESA.
Who sent you hither!

SECRETARY.
My lord the Count.

TORTESA,
(turning quickly aside.)
He put it in the bond,
That if by any humour of my own,
Or accident that sprang not from himself,
Or from his daughter's will, the match were marr'd,
His tenure stood intact. If she were dead—
I don't believe she is—but if she were,
By one of those strange chances that do happen—
If she were dead, I say, the silly fish
That swims with safety among hungry sharks
To run upon the pin-hook of a boy,
Might teach me wisdom!
(The Secretary comes forward, narrating eagerly to the company.)
Now, what says this jackdaw?

SECRETARY.
She had refused to let her bridesmaids in—

LADY.
And died alone?

SECRETARY.
A trusty serving maid
Was with her, and none else. She dropp'd away,
The girl said, in a kind of weary sleep.

FIRST LORD.
Was no one told of it?

SECRETARY.
The girl watch'd by her,
And thought she slept still; till, the music sounding,
She shook her by the sleeve, but got no answer;
And so the truth broke on her!

TORTESA,
(aside.)
(Oh indeed!
The plot is something shallow!)

SECOND LORD.
Might we go
And see her as she lies?

SECRETARY.
The holy father
Who should have married her, has check'd all comers,
And staying for no shroud but bridal dress,
He bears her presently to lie in state
In the Falcone chapel.

TORTESA,
(aside.)
(Worse and worse—
They take me for a fool!)

FIRST LORD.
But why such haste?

SECRETARY.
I know not.

ALL
Let us to the chapel!

TORTESA.
(Drawing his sword, and stepping between them and the door.)
Hold!
Let no one try to pass!

FIRST LORD.
What mean you, sir!

TORTESA.
To keep you here till you have got your story
Pat to the tongue—the truth on't, and no more!

LADY.
Have you a doubt the bride is dead, good Signor?

TORTESA.
A palace, see you, has a tricky air!
When I am told a tradesman's daughter's dead,
I know the coffin holds an honest corse,
Sped, in sad earnest, to eternity.
But were I stranger in the streets to-day,
And heard that an ambitious usurer,
With lands and money having bought a lady
High-born and fair, she died before the bridal,
I would lay odds with him that told me of it
She'd rise again—before the resurrection.
So stand back all! If I'm to fill to-day
The pricking ears of Florence with a lie,
The bridal guests shall tell the tale so truly,
And mournfully, from eyesight of the corse,
That ev'n the shrewdest listener shall believe,
And I myself have no misgiving of it.
Look! where they come!
(Door opens to funereal music, and the body of Isabella is borne in, preceded by a Monk, and followed by Falcone and mourners. Tortesa confronts the Monk.)
What's this you bear away?

MONK.
Follow the funeral, but stay it not.

TORTESA.
If thereon lie the lady Isabella,
I ask to see her face before she pass!

MONK.
Stand from the way, my son, it cannot be!

TORTESA.
What right have you to take me for a stone?
See what you do! I stand a bridegroom here.
A moment since the joyous music playing
Which promised me a fair and blushing bride.
The flowers are fragrant, and the guests made welcome;
And while my heart beats at the opening door,
And eagerly I look to see her come,—
There enters in her stead a covered corse!
And when I ask to look upon her face—
One look, before my bride is gone for ever,—
You find it in your hearts to say me nay!—
Shame! Shame!

FALCONE,
(fiercely.)
Lead on!

TORTESA.
My lord, by covenant—
By contract writ and seal'd—by value rendered—
By her own promise—nay, by all, save taking,
This body's mine! I'll have it set down here
And wait my pleasure! See it done, my lord,
Or I will, for you!

MONK,
(to the bearers.)
Set the body down!

TORTESA,
(takes the veil from the face.)
Come hither all! Nay, father, look not black!
If o'er the azure temper of this blade
There come no mist, when laid upon her lips,
I'll do a penance for irreverence,
And fill your sack with penitential gold!
Look well!
(Puts his sword blade to Isabella's lips, and after watching it with intense interest a moment, drops on his knees beside the bier.)
She's dead indeed! Lead on!

(The procession starts again to funereal music, and Tortesa follows last.)

SCENE II.

[A Street in Florence. The funereal music dying away in the distance. Enter Zippa, straining her eyes to look after it.]
ZIPPA.
'Tis Angelo that follows close behind,
Laying his forehead almost on her bier!
His heart goes with her to the grave! Oh Heaven!
Will not Tortesa pluck out of his hand
The tassel of that pall?
(She hears a footstep.)
Stay, stay, he's here!

(Enter Tortesa, musing. Zippa stands aside.)
TORTESA.
I've learned to-day a lord may be a Jew,
I've learned to-day that grief may kill a lady;
Which touches me the most I cannot say,
For I could fight Falcone for my loss,
Or weep, with all my soul, for Isabella.

(Zippa touches him on the shoulder.)
ZIPPA.
How is't the Signor follows not his bride?

TORTESA.
I did—but with their melancholy step
I fell to musing, and so dropp'd behind—
But here's a sight I have not seen to-day!

(Takes her hand smilingly.)
ZIPPA.
What's that?

TORTESA.
A friendly face, my honest Zippa!
Art well? What errand brings thee forth?

ZIPPA.
None, Signor!
But passing by the funeral, I stopped,
Wondering to see the bridegroom lag behind,
And give his sacred station next the corse
To an obtrusive stranger.

TORTESA.
Which is he?

ZIPPA,
(points after Angelo.)
Look there!

TORTESA.
His face is buried in his cloak.
Who is't?

ZIPPA.
Not know him? Had I half the cause
That you have, to see through that mumming cloak,
The shadow of it would speak out his name!

TORTESA.
What mean you?

ZIPPA.
Angelo! What right has he
To weep in public at her funeral?

TORTESA.
The painter?

ZIPPA.
Ay—the peasant Angelo!
Was't not enough to dare to love her living,
But he must fling the insult of his tears
Betwixt her corse and you? Are you not mov'd?
Will you not go and pluck him from your place?

TORTESA.
No, Zippa! for my spirits are more apt
To grief than anger. I've in this half hour
Remember'd much I should have thought on sooner,—
For, had I known her heart was capable
Of breaking for the love of one so low,
I would have done as much to make her his
As I have done, in hate, to make her mine.
She lov'd him, Zippa! (Walks back in thought.)


ZIPPA,
(aside.)
Oh to find a way
To pluck that fatal beauty from his eyes!
'Tis twilight, and the lamp is lit above her,
And Angelo will watch the night out there,
Gazing with passionate worship on her face.
But no! he shall not!

TORTESA,
(advancing.)
Come! what busy thought
Vexes your brain now?

ZIPPA.
Were your pride as quick
As other men's to see an insult, Signor!
I had been spared the telling of my thought.

TORTESA.
You put it sharply!

ZIPPA.
Listen! you are willing
That there should follow, in your place of mourner,
A youth, who, by the passion of his grief
Shews to the world he's more bereaved than you!

TORTESA.
Humph! well!

ZIPPA.
Still follows he without rebuke;
And in the chapel where she lies to-night,
Her features bared to the funereal lamp,
He'll, like a mourning bridegroom, keep his vigil,
As if all Florence knew she was his own.

TORTESA.
Nay, nay! he may keep vigil if he will!
The door is never lock'd upon the dead
Till bell and mass consign them to the tomb;
And custom gives the privilege to all
To enter in and pray—and so may he.

ZIPPA.
Then learn a secret which I fain had spared
My lips the telling. Question me not how,
But I have chanced to learn, that Angelo,
To-night, will steal the body from its bier!

TORTESA.
To-night! What! Angelo! Nay, nay, good Zippa!
If he's enamoured of the corse, 'tis there—
And he may watch it till its shape decay,
And holy church will call it piety.
But he who steals from consecrated ground,
Dies, by the law of Florence. There's no end
To answer in't.

ZIPPA.
You know not Angelo!
You think not with what wild, delirious passion
A painter thirsts to tear the veil from beauty.
He painted Isabella as a maid,
Coy as a lily turning from the sun.
Now she is dead, and, like a star that flew
Flashing and hiding thro' some fleecy rack,
But suddenly sits still in cloudless heavens,
She slumbers fearless in his steadfast gaze,
Peerless and unforbidding. O, to him
She is no more your bride! A statue fairer
Than ever rose enchanted from the stone,
Lies in that dim-lit chapel, clad like life.
Are you too slow to take my meaning yet?
He cannot loose the silken boddice there!
He cannot, there, upon the marble breast
Shower the dark locks from the golden comb!

TORTESA.
Hold!

ZIPPA.
Are you mov'd? Has he no end to compass
In stealing her away from holy ground?
Will you not lock your bride up from his touch?

TORTESA.
No more! no more! I thought not of all this!
Perchance it is not true. But twilight falls,
And I will home to doff this bridal gear,
And, after, set a guard upon the corse.
We'll walk together. Come!

ZIPPA,
(aside.)
(He shall not see her!)

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

[A Street in front of the Falcone Palace. Night. Enter Isabella in her white bridal dress. She falters to her father's door, and drops exhausted.]
ISABELLA.
My brain swims round! I'll rest a little here!
The night's cold, chilly cold. Would I could reach
The house of Angelo! Alas! I thought
He would have kept one night of vigil near me,
Thinking me dead. Bear up, good heart! Alas!
I faint! Where am I? (Looks around.)

'Tis my father's door.
My undirected feet have brought me home—
And I must in, or die! (Knocks with a painful effort.)

So ends my dream!

FALCONE,
(from above.)
Who's that would enter to a mourning house?

ISABELLA.
Your daughter!

FALCONE.
Ha! what voice is that I hear?

ISABELLA.
Poor Isabella's.

FALCONE.
Art thou come to tell me,
That with unnatural heart I killed my daughter?
Just Heaven! thy retribution follows fast!
But oh, if holy and unnumbered masses
Can give thee rest, perturb'd and restless spirit!
Haunt thou a weeping penitent no more!
Depart! I'll in, and pass the night in prayer!
So shalt thou rest! Depart!

(He closes the window, and Isabella drops with her forehead to the marble stair.)
(Enter Tomaso, with a bottle in his hand.)
TOMASO.

It's like the day after the deluge. Few stirring and nobody dry. I've been since twilight looking for somebody that would drink. Not a beggar athirst in all Florence! I thought that, with a bottle in my hand, I should be scented like a wild boar. I expected drunkards would have come up out of the ground—like worms in a shower. When was I ever

so difficult to find by a moist friend? Two hundred ducats in good wine, and no companion! I'll look me up a dry dog. I'll teach him to tipple, and give up the fellowship of mankind.

ISABELLA,
(faintly.)

Signor!

TOMASO.

Hey! What!

ISABELLA.

Help, Signor!

TOMASO.

A woman! Ehem! (approaching her.)
Would you take something to drink by any chance? (Offers her the bottle.)
No? Perhaps you don't like to drink out of the bottle.

ISABELLA.

I perish of cold!

TOMASO.

Stay Here's a cloak! My master's out for the night, and you shall home with me. Come! Perhaps when you get warmer, you'd like to drink a little. The wine's good! (Assists her in rising,)
By St. Genevieve, a soft hand! Come! I'll bring you where there's fire and a clean flagon.

ISABELLA.

To any shelter, Signor.

TOMASO.

Shelter! nay, a good house, and two hundred ducats in ripe wine. Steady now! (This shall pass for a good action! If my master smell a rat, I'll face him out the woman's honest!) This way, now! Softly! That's well stepp'd! Come!

(Goes out, assisting her to walk.)